Queen of Fire (Raven's Shadow 3)

“So it’s said.” Al Hestian didn’t look up from the map. “Restored to life, and apparently beauty by Dark means. If it’s really her. I’d not put it past Al Sorna to find a double somewhere and make her a figurehead.”

Vaelin too? And if he comes, then so too does Alornis. “What of Tokrev? Alltor?”

“Killed and saved. A messenger arrived from Warnsclave this morning. It seems every man in Tokrev’s army lies slaughtered and a great army marches north at the word of a Dark-blessed queen. My son, it seems you are shortly to be provided an ending to your poem.”

Alucius took a breath, turning from the map to look at the Free Swords labouring in the ditch. “Aren’t ditches normally dug outside the walls?”

“They are,” his father replied. “And if time allows, I’ll dig one there too, for the sake of appearances. The real defence is here.” He tapped the map with the barbed spike protruding from his right sleeve and Alucius saw an intricate web of black lines tracing through the maze of streets, streets that no longer existed. “A series of barriers, choke points, fire traps and so on. Al Sorna’s cunning enough, but he can’t work miracles. This city will be his army’s grave.”

“My lord,” Alucius spoke softly, moving to his father’s side. “I beg you . . .”

“We have spoken on this matter already.” His father’s tone was absolute, implacable. “I lost one son, I’ll not lose another.”

Alucius recalled the night the city fell, the screams and the flames waking him from drunken slumber, stumbling downstairs to find his father in the main hall, surrounded by Kuritai, slashing madly with his sword as they circled, one already dead but they made no move to kill him. Alucius had stood frozen in shock as a meaty arm closed over his neck and the short sword pressed into his temple. A Free Sword officer shouted to his father, pointing to Alucius. The expression on his face as he straightened from the fight was hard to forget, not shame, not despair, just honest and desperate fear for a loved son.

“Thirty days,” Alucius said softly, moving away, hugging himself tight. “Winterfall Eve is in thirty days, is it not?”

“Yes,” Al Hestian said after a moment’s thought. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Alucius felt his father’s eyes on him, knowing they were heavy with concern. “Do you need anything, Alucius?”

“Some more food,” he said. “Aspect Dendrish threatens to hang himself if we don’t feed him more. Though I doubt the bedsheets will hold him.”

“I’ll see to it.”

Alucius turned back, his smile bright, heartbeat steady now the weight of indecision had lifted. “Thank you, my lord.”

He was walking away when a commotion rose at the gate, the Varitai guards parting to allow entry to a lone rider. Alucius judged him as one of Darnel’s hunters, in truth a bunch of rogues and cutthroats recruited from the dregs of Renfael to hunt down the Red Brother. The man sagged in his saddle as he rode towards Alucius’s father, foam on his horse’s flanks and mouth. He nearly collapsed on dismounting, sketching a bow and speaking words too faint for Alucius to hear, though from the way his father straightened on hearing them, clearly of some import. Al Hestian strode off, barking orders, his two Kuritai guards in tow, Alucius hearing the word “cavalry” before he disappeared from view.

“First a risen queen and now a need for cavalry,” Alucius mused aloud to Twenty-Seven. “I believe it’s time to say good-bye to an old friend.”

• • •

Blue Feather delivered a painful nip at his thumb as he lifted her clear of the coop, the message dangling from her leg. So much weight on such a fragile thing, Alucius thought, eyeing the thin wire clasp.

“Do you want to say good-bye to her?” he asked Twenty-Seven who, as ever, said nothing.

“Oh, ignore him,” he told Blue Feather. “I’m going to miss you.” He held her up and opened his hands. She sat there for a moment, seemingly uncertain, then leapt free, her wings a blur as she ascended, then flattened out to catch the wind and fly away south.

Winterfall Eve, Alucius thought as he lost sight of the bird. When it’s said all grievances are forgiven, for who wants to bear a grudge through the hardships of winter?

CHAPTER EIGHT

Frentis

A stiff autumn wind played over the remnants of the Urlish, raising swirling columns of ash to sting eyes and choke throats. It stretched away on either side of them, a dirty grey blanket covering the earth, broken only by the occasional black spike of a once-mighty tree.

“Would’ve thought some of it might have survived,” Ermund said, hawking and spitting before tying a scarf about his face.

“Darnel was certainly thorough,” Banders said. “Marching across this will not be pleasant.”

“We could skirt it,” Arendil suggested. “Head to the coast.”

“The coast road is too narrow,” Sollis said. “Too many choke points, and Al Hestian is bound to know them all.”

“And if we maintain this course,” Banders replied, “the dust trail we raise will give him ample signal of our approach. Not to mention filling our lungs with this stuff.”

“The country to the west is more open,” Sollis admitted. “But will add another week to our march.”

Frentis stifled a groan at the prospect of more days spent dreading dream-filled nights. Varinshold had become a focus for his desire for an ending, an ever-growing hope that whatever the outcome of their assault he would at least be assured release from her.

“Can’t be helped, brother.” Banders turned his horse about, nodding to Ermund. “Spread the word, we turn west until we clear the ash.”

• • •

“It was there again,” Illian said at breakfast, smiling thanks at Thirty-Four as he handed her a bowl of his honey-sweetened porridge.

“What was there?” Arendil asked.

“The wolf. I’ve seen it every day for a week now.”

“Throw stones,” Davoka suggested. “Wolf will run from stones.”

“Not this one. He’s so big I doubt he’d feel them. Anyway, he’s not scary. Doesn’t chase after me, or growl or anything. Just sits and watches.”

Frentis saw discomfort in Davoka’s expression as she watched the girl eat her porridge. “I come with you today,” she said. “See if he watches me.”

Illian scowled, speaking a laboured but precise Lonak phrase he knew translated as, “The coddled cub never hunts.”

Davoka gave a soft laugh and returned to her own meal, though Frentis saw her lingering disquiet. “I’ll come too,” he said, keen to seek out any distraction from the persistent stain of last night’s dream. It had been stranger than usual, a confused jumble of images, mostly violent, often full of pain and sorrow, but not always. She whimpers as she lies abed, staring at her bedroom door . . . She laughs as she strangles a woman beneath a desert sky . . . She shudders in pleasure as he moves in her, heart swelling with feelings she had thought long dead . . .

On waking, sweating and striving to quell a torrent of sensation, he realised he had not seen her waking hours, but her dreams. I dream her dreams. What does she dream of me?

• • •

They rode west until midday, finding nothing save empty fields and the occasional cluster of slaughtered cattle or sheep, mostly older animals, the younger ones no doubt having been herded off to Varinshold. Another mile’s ride brought them to an empty farmhouse, the roof gone and walls blackened by fire, no sign of any life within. “Why do they destroy so much?” Illian asked. “They take slaves, which is evil but at least comprehensible. But to tear down everything whilst doing so. It’s beyond reason.”

“They think they’re cleansing the land,” Frentis told her. “Wiping it clean so their own people can start anew. Build another province to the empire in its image.”

Illian pulled her horse to a halt an hour later, turning to Davoka and pointing to a nearby rise, her smile bright. “There. Isn’t he beautiful?”

Frentis found it quickly, a shadowed outline on the skyline, taller than any wolf he had seen before. It sat regarding them with impassive scrutiny as they trotted closer, Davoka resting her spear on her shoulder for a quick throw. They stopped some thirty yards short of the beast, close enough for Frentis to see its eyes, blinking as it looked at each of them in turn, fur ruffling in the wind. He saw the plain truth in Illian’s words; it was beautiful.

The wolf rose and turned, moving off towards the north at a brisk trot for a hundred paces or so then stopping once more, sitting and watching as they exchanged glances.

“It didn’t do this before,” Illian said after a moment.

Davoka muttered something in her own language, face dark with foreboding, but Frentis noticed she had lowered her spear. He turned back to the wolf, seeing how its gaze was fixed entirely on him. He kicked his horse forward and the wolf rose again to follow its northward course. After a second he heard Illian and Davoka spurring to follow.

The wolf started to run after a half mile or so, its long, loping stride covering the distance with deceptive speed. Frentis lost sight of it several times as they galloped after, tracking it over low hills of long grass. Finally they reined in as it came to a halt on one of the taller hills and a familiar scent came to Frentis’s nostrils. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Davoka who nodded and climbed down from the saddle. Frentis joined her and they handed their reins to Illian. She pouted in annoyance as he pointed an emphatic finger at the ground to fix her in place.