Arentes gave an indulgent chuckle as they strode along the battlements where his men were busy stacking weapons. “Not like these, I assure you. A castle may fall to siege engines, given enough time, but the walls of Alltor have stood against the greatest such devices Asraelin cunning could devise. No, the battle will be won here.” He slapped a hand on one of the crenellations forming the battlements. “To take this city they’ll have to climb these walls, and when they do . . .” He sniffed, narrowing his gaze. “Well, they’ll find they’re not facing Asraelins now.”
“I’m Asraelin,” Arken said. “And I believe there are about two hundred others who make their home here.”
“Then, young man, I fervently hope they fight for it better than the Realm Guard fought for their fief.”
Arken drew breath for a retort but Reva motioned him to silence. “The Volarian army is said to be huge,” she said. “But we have barely a thousand men.”
“Yes,” Arentes admitted with a sigh. “I would ask that your Lord uncle call every man of fighting age to assist in the defence. Plus all those we can gather from the wider fief whilst time allows.”
“What of their families? Do we bring them here too?”
“Hardly. Sieges are not just won with battle, but also hunger. The fewer mouths to feed within these walls the better.”
“So we just leave them out there to face slavery and death, whilst their men fight for us?”
“This is war, Lady Reva. And Cumbraelins know well how to bear the cost of war.”
“You won’t be bearing it,” Arken pointed out. “You’ll be safe behind these unbreachable walls of yours.”
Arentes stiffened. “My lady, I doubt His Lordship permits you to keep this Asraelin commoner at your side so he can offer insults to his betters.”
This man is a pompous fool, Reva decided. She inclined her head, smiling. “My apologies, my lord. Shall we complete the tour?”
By nightfall Lady Veliss had added over three thousand men to the rolls, about half possessing longbows or sundry weaponry. Messengers were sent to all corners of the fief commanding men of fighting age to report to Alltor within three weeks. At Reva’s urging a paragraph had been added to the message offering sanctuary within the city walls for any who sought it. Veliss had protested, echoing the objections of Lord Arentes, but the Fief Lord overruled her. “If we can’t offer protection to our own people, what worth will they see in us?” he enquired, although Reva detected a certain calculation in his gaze as he spoke, making her wonder if her influence served a deeper purpose.
Every day parties of woodsmen brought freshly cut ash and willow back from the surrounding forests to be fashioned into arrows, the smiths working hard to churn out the thousands of arrowheads needed. Food was stockpiled and the warehouses in the merchants’ quarter were soon so full of grain the grounds of the manor were given over as extra storage space. A note from the Fief Lord to the Reader requesting use of the cathedral vaults for the same purpose received a terse response: “The Father’s House is not a shed.”
In fact the impending siege seemed to have had little effect on the Reader’s schedule. He and his bishops still made the daily procession through the square, though not so many were inclined to kneel, busied as they were by the myriad tasks allotted by Lady Veliss. The Reader’s services also continued uninterrupted, often to mostly empty pews, though some reported his sermons were more impassioned and compelling than usual.
“Doesn’t mention the war at all,” a House Guard told Reva as she and Arken helped him carry bushels of arrows up to the battlements. “Seems most fond of the Sixth Book these days.”
The Book of Sacrifice. “Any particular passage?” she asked.
“Oh, what was it last time?” The guard hefted a bushel onto the growing pile above the main gate. “The one about how Alltor’s children refused to leave him when the mob came for him.”
“‘The blades of the unloved shone bright beneath the moon,’” Reva quoted. “‘The blood of the martyred brighter still.’”
“That’s the one. Can’t claim to be that fussed about it all, but the wife insists we go. The last Reader though, now there was a man you could listen to all day. He really made the books sing.”
New recruits began arriving in large numbers towards the end of the first week. About a hundred a day at first, swelling to over four hundred within ten days, many with families in tow. Most of the older men carried longbows whilst the younger often bore swords or pole-axes handed down by their fathers, though many had no more than bill-hooks or any farm implement with an edged blade. A few brought no weapon at all and Uncle Sentes was obliged to empty the manse’s sword room to meet the need.
“This one I’ll keep, I think” he said, holding up his grandfather’s sword as the others were carried through the gates to be handed out. “Bag me a few Volarians with it, eh?” He made a few clumsy swings with the sword as Reva looked on.
“I’m sure I’ll bag enough for both of us, Uncle,” she said.
“Oh no.” His tone was emphatic. “You will stay by me and Lady Veliss for the duration of this siege.”
Reva gaped at him. “I will not . . .”
“You will, Reva!” It was the first time he had raised his voice to her and she found herself taking a backward step from the anger in his face. Seeing her alarm his expression softened. “I’m sorry.”
“I fight,” she said. “It’s what I do. It’s all I can do. All I can offer you and these people.”
“No. You offer more than that. You offer hope, hope that this fief will survive what comes to tear it down. And that hope cannot die. I have seen battle, Reva. It knows no favourites, it claims the strong and the weak, the skilful and the clumsy.” He extended a hand and she took it. “The old and the young. I need your word. You will stay by me and Lady Veliss.”
His grip was gentle, but insistent. “As you wish, Uncle.”
He squeezed her hand and turned back to the manor.
“The Lord of Blades,” she said. “You’re so sure he’ll come?”
“Aren’t you? You know him better than I.”
“The Reaches are many miles away, and who knows what lies between him and us. And all the people of this fief have ever offered him is fear and hatred. Why would he come?”
He put a hand around her shoulders as they walked through the gardens, rows of grain sacks ascending on both sides, the topiary animals all cut down days ago. “When the High Keep fell I found Al Sorna crouched over your father’s body, reciting one of their catechisms. For some reason he seemed genuinely upset. He also ordered the bodies of your father’s men given a proper burial under the Father’s gaze. Whatever hatred our people may level at him, I don’t think he returns it. He’ll come, I have no doubt of it. We’ll just have to ensure there’s something here for him to save when he does.”
She took to sparring with the House Guards most afternoons, two or three at a time assailing her with practice swords as she danced her dance, deflecting every blow and landing her own. None seemed to be affronted by defeat at the hands of a teenage girl, if anything they seemed heartened by her skill, a few even seeing something of the divine in it.
“The Father guides your sword, my lady,” the senior sergeant said after she had sent two more of his men stumbling into each other. His name was Laklin, a stocky veteran of battles against various outlaws and rebels, and a survivor of Greenwater Ford. He was also the first Cumbraelin she had met, besides the Reader, who came close to matching her knowledge of the ten books. “‘The Loved need not fear the tides of war or the swords of evil men, for the Father will allow them no defeat.’”
Nor suffer them to bring war to the Unloved, Reva completed the quotation, thinking it best left unsaid.
Her gaze was drawn to the edge of the parade ground where a new company of recruits were giving their names to a harassed-looking Lady Veliss. She was an oft-seen presence throughout the city, two assistants in tow burdened with numerous scrolls and ledgers as she signed permissions on behalf of the Fief Lord and kept records of men and supplies, all meticulously transcribed into a single leather-bound volume come the evening. More than once Reva had found her slumped across it in the library, snoring faintly. Reva noted the suspicion on her face as she took down the name of the man before her, an archer heading a company of some thirty men. Bren Antesh, Reva recalled. True to his word.
She bowed to the sergeant and excused herself, walking over to Veliss, finding her giving Antesh a hard stare. “No other names to give?” she asked with pointed deliberation.
Antesh seemed puzzled as he shook his head. “What other name would I have, my lady?”
“A few come to mind,” Veliss replied.
“Captain Antesh, is it not?” Reva said. “My uncle will be glad to see you kept your promise.”
The archer gave her a brief look of appraisal before offering a deep bow. “You must be Lady Reva.”
“I am. If Lady Veliss is done with you, I’ll show you to your place on the walls.”