Tower Lord
Page 110“Excellent!” the general applauded, lifting his wine cup in appreciation. “More!”
“A hero comes with sword laid bare, his steel shines bright and true . . .”
He waved me to silence as a messenger approached from the shore, climbing aboard and handing over a scroll. “A breakthrough, eh?” he said to the messenger. “About time.”
“Yes, Honoured General. My commander advises that with sufficient reinforcement the city will be ours by nightfall.”
“No. The reserve must be husbanded to secure the rest of this rain-sodden dung pile. Tell him to hold off the attacks in other sectors and concentrate on the breakthrough. And tell him if this city isn’t mine by nightfall, I’ll expect him to have secured a sufficiently heroic death, because he’ll get none from me.”
He waved the messenger away and turned back to me. “Do you know, slave, I believe I’ve forgotten where we left off. Let’s start from the beginning shall we?”
? ? ?
He had me recite it all three times over, every dreadful line penned by that talentless Volarian dullard. Even now, so many years later, I can still recite Draken at will. Not quite the worst of my scars, but still a painful reminder.
I was released come the afternoon, sent below to my cabin whilst he occupied himself with another pleasure slave until word of victory came. I sank onto my bunk, shaking with exhaustion and fear, and would have vomited if my stomach had anything to give. However, even this mean respite was to be cut short. The door opened and one of the mistress’s slaves beckoned to me. “You’re wanted.”
She was in her own cabin, a cavernous space of silk drapery and cushioned comfort in comparison to my narrow prison. She wore a white gown with a neckline plunging to the soft curve of her belly, the skirts transparent and revealing as she walked towards me, a little unsteady on her feet and a wine cup raised to her lips. “You’ve heard, no doubt?” she asked in slow deliberate tones. “The great siege is almost over? My honoured husband’s triumph nearly complete?”
“I have, Mistress. A great day.”
Fifty years? She saw my confusion and laughed again, just a small giggle, like a little girl with a secret. “Older than I look, my lord. How much older do you think?” She moved closer, making me fight the urge to step away. “Honestly now, how old would you say I am?” She pushed an insistent finger into my chest. “And I command you to speak the truth!”
I took a breath, wondering how a man could feel so much fear and still keep his mind. “I cannot believe my mistress is more than thirty years old.”
“Thirty?” She stepped back, pretending offence. “I’ll have you know I was no more than twenty-eight when I made my bargain, and that was over three hundred years ago.”
She stood regarding me in silence, drinking more wine, eyes narrowed and causing me to consider if she was as drunk as she appeared. “Nothing to say?” she asked after a moment.
“Forgive me, Mistress, but that is impossible.”
“Yes,” she murmured, moving closer again, pressing herself against me, her head resting on my chest. “And yet here I stand, with so many memories. And I am still beautiful am I not? Do you not desire me, my lord? Or is your mind still so full of your dead poetess?”
The anger returned and I forced it down, knowing it to be a traitor. “My mistress is very beautiful.”
“I am. But you do not desire me, I feel it. And I know why.” She raised her gaze, searching my face. “You see it don’t you? You feel it?”
“Mistress?”
“The weariness. Who would have thought that I should grow so tired? So utterly weary. You would not believe how many have been drained to give me so many years, so much life wasted to keep a tired old woman on this earth, cursed to marry a murderous fool and witness his slaughters. That was the bargain we made, you see? Power for years, though only for those who wear the red of course, and even then only a select few. It made us the true power, the Council a convenient fiction. We, the endlessly young, and ever more weary, are the real power, for now they clamour for our favour. All those red-clad idiots, begging for a chance at the same bargain. We think we are slave owners, we are fools. We are the slaves. The great gift we bargained for was the greatest of chains.”
“I will happily kiss my mistress’s foot,” I said, words softly spoken for the knife blade was pressed hard into my flesh and I felt a single drop of blood trickle down my neck.
“But you don’t want to. You want your Alpiran bitch back. Maybe I’ll send you to meet her. Would you like that?”
I never understood why, and I have tried very hard for many years to comprehend it, but at that moment all the fear fled and I felt what she felt, a great and terrible weariness. I do recall that I knew my death was now unavoidable. Her husband’s anger or the overseer’s whip would see me dead tomorrow or, if I was extremely fortunate, the day after.
I stepped back from her, opening my arms as the blood seeped from the shallow cut she had given me. “There was no poetess,” I said. “No woman. But I did love, and the man I loved died, killed by the man who I hope with all my heart comes here now to kill you and that vile wretch you call your husband. You offer me a gift, Mistress. I welcome it, for it means I will no longer have to stomach the thought of sharing the same air as you.”
She stared at me for a long moment as I marvelled at the steady beat of my heart. Is this courage? I wondered. Is this what the Hope Killer feels when he rides to battle? This strange calm.
“I often look for distraction amongst the slaves,” she said. “I find it dispels the weariness, for a time. And you are so very talented.” She tossed the knife away, sending it clattering across the floor. “Go and write some more flattering nonsense,” she said, slumping onto the cushions with a tired wave of her hand. “It’ll probably buy you a few more days.”
? ? ?
I was summoned back to the upper deck barely two hours later, by which time my newly discovered calm had evaporated. Fornella sat next to her husband, apparently sober now, and dressed more appropriately in an elegant gown of red-and-black chiffon. She gave me the barest glance and turned back to the general. “The overseers are properly educated, I assume?”
The general seemed pensive, his time with the pleasure slave having done little to ease his temper. “Leave the practicalities to me, true-heart,” he muttered. “Your family will get its share of any we find, as it always does.” His gaze fixed on me and the scroll in my hand. “Your latest account, scribbling slave?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Has the witch been captured?” he asked the messenger, looking off into the middle distance and speaking in an almost wistful tone. “Or did she die fighting? I expect she did. Strange that I should find room in my heart to admire such a creature . . .”
“Forgive me, Honoured General!” the messenger blurted. He wore the armour of an officer in the Free Cavalry, his face tense and slicked with sweat. “I come with graver tidings. A rider was found by one of our scout troops this morning, the only survivor of the Twelfth Free Sword Battalion. It seems he was captured and then set free. He brings word of an army marching towards us with great haste.”
The general stared at him. “An army? What army?”
“Their number is estimated at over fifty thousand.” The officer took a folded piece of parchment from his belt and held it out to the general. “The man was also given a message for you, Honoured General.”
The general flicked a hand at me. “Read it. I don’t speak their babble.”
I took the parchment from the officer and unfolded it. “The message is in Volarian, Master,” I said.
“Just read it.”
I briefly scanned the contents and felt my already speeding heart increase the pitch of its hammering. I cast a furtive glance at the scroll I had given him earlier, wondering if I could contrive to retrieve it in the confusion that would doubtless follow my reading of this message.
“To the commander of Volarian forces currently besieging the city of Alltor,” I began, hoping he hadn’t noticed the slight hesitation. “You are hereby ordered to disarm, surrender all captives and stand ready to receive justice for your many crimes. If you comply with this order, your men will be spared. You will not. Signed under the King’s Word, Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches, Vaelin Al Sorna.”