Veliss took her arm and led her a short distance away. “Do not trust this man,” she stated in a low voice. “He is not who he claims to be.”
Reva frowned. “He comes in answer to his Fief Lord’s call, in accordance with a solemn promise. Those do not seem the actions of an untrustworthy man.”
“Just have a care around him, love.” Veliss’s voice lost much of its smoothed vowels as she reached out to clasp Reva’s hand. “You know much, but not enough. Not by half.”
The intensity in her gaze and voice provoked an unwelcome doubling of Reva’s heartbeat. “I know this man comes to fight for the people of this fief,” she said, disentangling her hand from the lady’s grip. “Him and thousands more. No sacks of gold or swift horses for them.”
“You know why I said that.”
“I know we have little time to indulge your suspicions. What place do you have for them?”
Veliss sighed and produced a letter from the bundle she carried, folded and sealed. “It seems your uncle anticipated the captain’s dutiful return. He’s to be made Lord Commander of Archers. He’ll choose his own place.”
“Lord Antesh,” the archer mused as Reva walked the walls with him. “My wife will be pleased, at least. Perhaps I’ll buy that pasture she’s been on about.”
“Your wife is not with you?” Reva asked.
“I sent her and the children to Nilsael. They’ll make their way to Frostport and, if this city should fall, on to the Northern Reaches where I have reason to believe they will be made welcome.”
“The Tower Lord owes you a debt, I know.”
“The Tower Lord will make them welcome because they are in need of shelter, for such is his nature. Any debt between us ended with the war.”
“My uncle is certain he’ll come to our aid.”
The archer gave a soft laugh. “Then I pity any Volarians left to face him.” He moved to the chest-high wall between the crenellations, eyes dark with calculation as he looked out at the causeway leading away from the main gate. “Easy to see why this place has never fallen. Only one very narrow line of march and all year round the surrounding waters remain too deep to ford.”
“Lord Commander Arentes is sure the issue will be decided at the walls.”
“You don’t sound convinced, my lady.”
“By all accounts, Varinshold fell in a single night. The greatest city in the Realm taken, the King slain and his host defeated in a few days. I know little of armies and wars, but such feats must require preparation, plans months or years in the making.”
There was some surprise in the look he gave her, but also a measure of relief. “Glad to see the Fief Lord has exercised sound judgement in choosing his heir, my lady. You reason the Volarians must have similarly-long-laid plans for us?”
“It’s not widely known, but an attempt was made on my uncle’s life the very night you came to petition him. Had the assassins succeeded, the fief would now be in turmoil and there would be no-one to organise the defence.”
“Must’ve been a clumsy bunch, these assassins, to have failed so.”
“Indeed they were.”
“If my lady is correct, then the Volarians’ plan has failed and they have little option but to lay siege.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps we’ve yet to see the whole of their design. Tell me, what do you know of the Sons of the Trueblade?”
His gaze clouded and he turned to the river. “Fanatical followers of your late father, or so I hear. They found little purchase in the southern counties, people are more pragmatic in their devotions there. You think they have a hand in this?”
“I know it.” She paused, watching him as he scanned the river from bank to bank, his archer’s eyes no doubt calculating ranges. “Why does Lady Veliss greet you with such suspicion?” she asked him.
“Not for any allegiance to the Sons, I assure you.” He glanced back at her, his eyebrows raising as he noticed the wych-elm bow she carried. “Father’s sight, my lady. Where did you find that?”
She hefted the bow and shrugged. “I bought it from a drunken shepherd.”
Antesh reached out a tentative hand. “May I?”
She handed the bow to him, frowning as his eyes roamed the stave, fingers playing over the carvings, a smile coming to his lips as he thrummed the string. “I thought them all lost.”
“You know this bow?” she asked.
“Only by reputation. I had occasion to draw one of its sisters as a child. Straightest shaft I ever loosed.” He shook his head and handed it back to her. “You really don’t know what this is?”
She could only shake her head. “The shepherd had some tall tale about an old war. I wasn’t really listening.”
“Well, there may have been some truth to the tale, for the five bows of Arren were all lost in war, the war that brought this fief into the Realm in fact. My lady, what you hold is a veritable legend of Cumbrael.”
Reva looked at the bow. She had often marvelled at the artistry of the carvings, and knew it as a weapon of considerable power, but a legend? She began to suspect she was the foil for some archer’s joke, a veteran’s prank on an impressionable recruit. “Really?” she said with a raised eyebrow.
Antesh, however betrayed no sign of humour in his reply, “Really.” A frown creased his brow and he straightened from the wall, his gaze more intense now, tracking her from head to toe. “Blood of the Mustors carrying a bow of Arren,” he said in a soft tone.
After a moment he blinked, abruptly turning away and hefting his own bow. “I should be about my lordly duties, my lady.”
“I should like to hear more,” she called after him as he strode away. “Who is this Arren?”
He just held up a hand in a polite wave and strode on.
The scouts returned the following day, two exhausted riders relating their tale to the Fief Lord and assembled captains in the Lord’s chamber. “The border lands are burning, my lord,” the older of the two said. “Everywhere people flock southwards, tales of slaughter and cruelty told by every soul we questioned. Rumours were wild and many, but it seems clear that the King is truly dead and Varinshold fallen along with most if not all Asrael.”
“Any news of Princess Lyrna?” the Fief Lord asked. “I had heard she was on some mad peace mission to the Lonak.”
The soldier shook his head. “It seems she returned the very day the Volarian fleet descended, my lord. They say the palace burned taking every Al Nieren with it.”
“Did you see any Realm Guard at all?” Lady Veliss asked.
“A few stragglers only, my lady. Wasted wild-eyed men, shorn of armour and weapons, fleeing south as fast as they could. We did find a motley company yesterday seemed to have some fight left in them, only a hundred men or so. We told them to make their way here.”
“The Volarians?” the Fief Lord asked. “You saw them?”
The man nodded. “The vanguard only, my lord. I reckon maybe ten miles south of the border as of six days ago. I estimate over three thousand horse and twice as many light infantry, moving south at a fair lick.”
“We now number some thirteen thousand, my lord,” Lord Arentes pointed out. “Giving us a temporary advantage.”
“Our trained men number no more than half that,” Antesh said. “And we’ve only a few hundred horse. We couldn’t hope to match them in open field.”
“And we shan’t,” Uncle Sentes stated firmly as Lord Arentes drew breath to speak again. “Thank you, good soldiers,” he said to the two scouts. “Get y’selves something to eat in the kitchens. Tell the cook I said to give you the red from the Malten Vale.”
“The vanguard,” Lady Veliss said after the soldiers had gone. “Perhaps a fifth of their army?”
“More like a tenth,” Antesh said. “Even if only half the tales from Asrael are true, the force needed to subdue the entire fief must be massive.”
“And they’ve no need to secure their northern flank thanks to Lord Darnel’s treachery,” Uncle Sentes said. “They’ll have to garrison the towns they’ve taken, allocate troops to mop up the countryside. But we shouldn’t delude ourselves. The force that comes will outnumber us greatly.” He turned to Antesh. “Which begs the question, do we have arrows for all of them?”
The archer gave a regretful grimace. “I estimate we need at least four times the number already stockpiled, my lord.”
“The fletchers are working to exhaustion as it is,” Lady Veliss said. “I’ve also drafted in every carpenter and woodworker in the city.”
“Draft more,” the Fief Lord said. “Every pair of idle hands not crafting arrows from now on will receive no rations until they do. Lord Arentes, send half your men to the forest and bring back every tree and sapling they can cut in the time that remains to us.”
“Not just wood, my lord,” Antesh said. “We need iron for the heads.”
“This city is awash in iron,” Uncle Sentes said. “I see it in every window, every railing and weather vane. Scour this manor and take all the pots, pans and ornaments you need, then scour the city.” He paused to draw breath, his cheeks suddenly pale.