Tower Lord (Raven's Shadow 2)

Davoka gave a shout and kicked her pony into motion, soon becoming lost in the swirl of combat, Lyrna catching brief glimpses of her spear whirling and stabbing amongst the confusion.

Three Sentar emerged from the melee to charge at them, war cries high and shrill. The brothers’ arrows plucked two from their saddles in quick succession and Smolen rode out to confront the third, ducking under the warrior’s spear and hacking his pony from under him with a slash to the flank. Ivern finished the rider with an arrow as he rolled on the ground.

The battle seemed to end as quickly as it had begun, the surviving riders coming to a halt, Grey Hawk warriors dismounting to finish the wounded. Alturk trotted towards them, a bloody hatchet in his belt and a gore-encrusted war club in his hand. The young man who had stood at his shoulder at their last meeting rode at his side.

“Queen,” Alturk greeted her with a nod. “You are hurt?”

She shook her head. “It seems I am in your debt once more, Tahlessa. Though it might have been polite if you had shared your plan before we set off.”

Alturk’s only expression was a slight curl of his lip. She couldn’t tell if he was amused or disdainful. “A trap is not a trap without bait.”

There was a shout of fury from behind him and Lyrna looked to see Davoka leading a captive from the corpse-strewn aftermath of the battle. She had bound the girl’s hands and dragged her along with a rope lashed around her neck.

“You take her to the Mountain?” Alturk asked as Davoka sent her sister sprawling with a jerk of the rope. Lyrna was surprised by the note she detected in the Tahlessa’s voice: concern, albeit reluctant.

“She will be judged by the Mahlessa,” Davoka replied.

“I saw her kill five of my men.” Alturk’s gaze remained fixed on the scarred girl. “I claim her by right of blood—”

“A claim made far too late,” Davoka cut in, glancing towards the young man at Alturk’s side, then back at the clan chief. “And you have judgement of your own to make.”

Alturk’s face clouded and he gave a sombre nod. “True enough.”

The young man frowned. “Father . . . ?”

Alturk’s war club caught him on the side of the head, sending him senseless to the ground. The clan chief beckoned two of his warriors closer. “Bind this varnish. We judge him tonight.”

? ? ?

Davoka had earned a deep cut on her shoulder which Sollis cleaned and stitched with practised hands, the Lonak woman sipping redflower and gritting her teeth against the pain as he worked. They were encamped on the plain amongst the Grey Hawk war-band. They seemed subdued in the shadow of victory, their fires untouched by song or noises of celebration. The reason was no mystery; he knelt, arms bound and head bowed before Alturk’s fire, a son awaiting his father’s judgement. He had raged for hours, as the sun waxed and the shadows grew, screaming scorn and insults at his former clansmen. “You betray the Lonakhim . . . you will make us slaves to the Merim Her . . . throw our borders wide so they can take all we have fought to defend . . . they will defile us . . . make us weak . . . make us like them . . . The Mahlessa is false, her word is not the word of the gods . . .”

There was no attempt to silence him, no punishment meted out for his blasphemy. They let him rant himself to exhaustion, refusing to acknowledge any sound he made. Varnish, Lyrna thought.

“How did you know he had betrayed us?” she asked Davoka when Sollis had finished tending to her wound.

“Same way his father did. No other ears to hear of our route.” She glanced at their own captive, secured with strong rope to an iron stake thrust deep into the ground, the chin-to-brow scar Lyrna had given her red and angry in the fire’s glow. She had said nothing since her capture, slumping onto whatever patch of ground she was led to, her expression one of vague annoyance, untroubled by fear.

When the moon rose high Alturk stood up, war club in hand, and walked to his son’s side. The Grey Hawks gathered round as he raised his arms. “I call you, my brothers in war, to witness judgement,” the clan chief said. “This wretched thing that was once my son kneels in disgrace. He has shunned the word of the Mountain, he has spoken false words. These are not the actions of the Lonakhim. And so he will be judged.”

There was a murmur of assent from the gathered warriors, a tense expectation stealing over them as Alturk moved closer to his son. But instead of striking the man down he tossed his war club aside and knelt beside him. “But as he is judged, so must you judge me, for it is my weakness that has led us to this. My weakness that made me beg for this wretch’s life years ago when he lay defeated by the worst of the Merim Her. My weakness that made me return to our clan with no word of his transgression or the shame that shrouded my heart. I begged like the weakest of men for his life and this is my reward, the only reward such weakness deserves. I, Alturk, Tahlessa of the Grey Hawks, ask for your judgement.”

For a moment Lyrna suspected this was merely pantomime, a show of contrite humility by a noble leader, but the rising murmur of confusion and anger from the band told her there was no theatre here; Alturk’s words were sincere. He wanted judgement.

A man emerged from the ranks of the war-band, a veteran warrior judging by his age, whip thin and short of stature but commanding enough respect to still the rising babble with a raised war club. He regarded the kneeling clan chief with an expression of sombre regret. “Our Tahlessa asks for judgement,” he said. “And by the truth of his own his words, judgement is warranted. I, Mastek, have been this man’s brother in war since he was old enough to climb onto his pony. Never have I seen him flinch from battle. Never have I seen him turn his sight from a hard choice or a hard road. Never have I seen him weak . . . until now.” The old warrior closed his eyes for a second, swallowing, forcing his next words out: “I judge him weak. I judge him no longer fit to be our Tahlessa. I judge that he should share the same fate as the varnish that kneels at his side.” He surveyed the band. “Are there any who would speak against this?”

There was no response. Lyrna could see no anger on their faces, just grim acceptance. She understood what was happening now, these men were as bound by their customs as any Realm subject was bound by law. This was no vengeful mob, it was a court, and judgement had been passed.

A harsh peal of laughter cut through the silence, loud enough to echo across the plains. Kiral’s gaze was bright with glee as she regarded the doomed clan chief, teeth bared as she laughed, shaking with amusement. Davoka rose, rushing over to slap the girl to silence. It did no good, the laughter raging on and on, seeming to increase with every slap. Finally Davoka jammed a gag in her sister’s mouth, tying it off tight at the base of the skull. It muted the laughter but failed to stop it completely, Kiral rolling on the ground, tears of mirth streaming from her eyes. She caught sight of Lyrna, eyes gleaming in the firelight, and winked.

Lyrna turned back to the war-band, seeing Mastek step towards his former Tahlessa, war club ready in a two-handed grip. “I offer you the knife, Alturk,” he said. “In remembrance of the battles we have fought together.”

Alturk shook his head. “Kill me but don’t insult me, Mastek.”

The warrior gave a nod, raising the club.

“WAIT!” Lyrna was on her feet, striding through the knot of warriors, stepping between Alturk and the advancing Mastek.

The old warrior stared at her, eyes wide in astonished fury. “You have no voice here,” he breathed.

“I am Queen of the Merim Her,” she told him, voice raised so they could all hear. “Called to parley by the Mahlessa herself, granted safe passage and all respect due my rank.”

Davoka appeared at her side, eyes scanning the crowd with considerable anxiety. “This is unwise, Queen,” she murmured to Lyrna in Realm Tongue. “This is not your realm.”

Lyrna ignored her, fixing Mastek with a harsh glare. “The Grey Hawks have spilled blood and lost warriors in my defence, they have honoured the word from the Mountain.” She pointed at the kneeling Alturk. “All at this man’s order. This places me in his debt. Amongst my people an unbalanced debt is the greatest dishonour. If you kill him without a reckoning, you dishonour me, and you dishonour the Mahlessa’s word.”

“I need no words from you, woman,” Alturk grated, head bowed, his large hands gouging into the earth. “Is the well of my shame not deep enough?”

“He is varnish,” Lyrna told Mastek. “Judged as such by his own war-band. His words no longer have meaning for the Lonakhim.”

Mastek slowly lowered his war club, fury still shining in his eyes but the slump of his shoulders told of something more—relief. “What would you have us do?”

“Give him to me,” she said. “I will present him to the Mahlessa. Only she can balance the debt I owe him.”

“And this one?” Mastek pointed his club at Alturk’s son.

Lyrna looked down at the young man, at the hatred in his face. He spat at her, wrestling against his bonds and trying to rise before swiftly being forced back to his knees by the surrounding warriors. “Weak!” he snarled at them. “This Merim Her bitch makes you her dogs!”