Tower Lord
Page 35Fornella said something in a soft voice, a quotation, one of my own, from the Third Canto of Gold and Dust: Meditations on the Nature of Politics. “‘Judge a nation best by its allies.’”
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The assault began at midday, hundreds of boats carrying thousands of Varitai and Free Swords across the river to land under the walls of Alltor, greeted by swarms of arrows from the defenders. Some boats never made it to land, so saturated with arrows their oars went limp and they drifted away on the current. More fell as they leapt from the boats and tried to form ranks. The general opined he had been wise in issuing shields to his men, something he was keen for me to record.
“A few planks of wood nailed together and held aloft by two or three men,” he said. “A simple antidote to these supposedly fearsome longbows of theirs.”
Despite his antidote, however, I still counted over two hundred dead under the walls by the time the first battalion made it to the nearest breach. The ballista ships had been moved closer, their projectiles now consisting of great bundles of oil-soaked rags, lit with a torch just before being launched over the walls. From the rising smoke it seemed several fires were already raging in the city. “Fire is the bold commander’s greatest ally,” the general quipped, making me wonder how many of these he had prepared in advance. From his wife’s rolling eyes, I suspected quite a few.
The battle raged in the breaches for near an hour, Volarian soldiery thrashing in an arrow-lashed knot that seemed to be making little forward progress. Having judged the time right, the general had his flag-men signal the Kuritai to begin their assault. The single battalion advanced across the causeway at the run, scaling ladders held aloft. Although the general had been correct in deducing most of the Cumbraelin defenders would be concentrated at the breaches, the Kuritai were still subjected to a fierce arrow storm, over two dozen falling before they reached the walls, the ladders swinging up to rest on the battlements. It seemed to me they lost at least half their number as they attempted to climb the ladders, one tumbling to the ground every second or so. Eventually though, a solid knot of them managed to claw their way onto the battlements, a small cluster of black amidst the grey-green throng of Cumbraelins seeking to throw them back. The general watched the scene through a spyglass for a moment then barked a command to his flag-men. “Send the reserve!”
Two battalions of ladder-bearing Free Swords advanced across the causeway. They lost fewer men to the Cumbraelin archers as the Kuritai kept the defenders on the wall occupied. The Free Swords scaled the wall in two places, drawing more defenders away from the Kuritai, who were now hacking their way inwards. There was a sudden convulsion in the Cumbraelin ranks and they drew back, disappearing from the walls in the space of a few moments. At one of the breaches there came a great shout of triumph as the throng of Volarian attackers finally broke through.
“And so it ends,” the general mused with a studied lack of outward triumph. He handed the spyglass to a nearby slave then went to sit down, stroking his chin in a display of careful reflection. “The greatest siege in Volarian history, concluded thanks to nothing more than sound planning and a few hours’ work.” He glanced at me to be sure my pen was still busy.
“Perhaps the Council will let you name the city,” Fornella said. “Tokrevia?”
The general flushed and made a show of ignoring her.
“Though Burning Ruin would appear to be more appropriate,” she went on, gazing at the numerous columns of smoke rising from the city.
There was no triumph on her face as she gazed at the city, just a faint melancholic repulsion. “If your soldiers leave us any slaves to do the work.”
Another two hours passed as the general waited for confirmation that the city had fallen, growing more impatient by the minute, pacing the deck and ordering the overseers to hand out beatings for minor offences committed by the slave-sailors. Finally a boat approached from the shore, bearing a man in the all-black armour of a Division Commander. The man climbed onto the deck with fatigue etched into his face, features blackened with smoke and a bandaged cut on his upper arm. He saluted the general and bowed to his wife.
“Well?” Tokrev demanded.
“The walls are ours, Honoured General,” the officer reported. “However it seems the Cumbraelins never intended to hold them. They have constructed barricades within the city, houses demolished to bar the roads and create a killing ground, archers thick on the rooftops. We’ve lost more men in the streets than we did in the breaches.”
“Barricades!” Tokrev spat. “You come before me and whine about barricades. Tear them down, man!”
“We broke through the first an hour ago, Honoured General. But found another a hundred yards beyond. And all hands in the city are raised against us, men and women, old and young. We have to fight for every house, and their witch seems to be everywhere.”
The general’s voice became very quiet. “Say one more word about the witch and I’ll have you flayed as an example to your men.”
He walked to the prow of the ship, staring at the city.
“Perhaps an order to rest and reorganise might be appropriate,” Fornella said. There was an edge to her voice that told me she wasn’t making a suggestion. “Consolidate our gains.”
Tokrev stiffened and I saw his fists clench behind his back. He turned to the Division Commander. “Halt the advance and reorder your ranks, and gather all the lamp oil you can. We attack again when it gets dark, and when we do we won’t fight for every house, we’ll burn them. Understood?”
That night the city of Alltor had gained a great orange crown, the glow reaching up to obscure the stars. The general had ordered me to remain on deck and record the spectacle, retreating to his own cabin with a pleasure slave he had brought from the shore, a girl of no more than fifteen years. Fornella lingered on deck, her shawl wrapped tight about her shoulders. If the sounds emanating from below caused her any concern, she gave no sign, joining me at the prow to regard the city with the same sombre expression.
“How old is this place?” she asked me.
“Almost as old as the Fief of Cumbrael, Mistress,” I replied. “At least four centuries.”
“Those twin spires are a temple to their god, are they not?”
“The Cathedral of the World Father, Mistress. Their holiest site, I believe.”
“Do you think that’s what inspires them to such feats of resistance? A holy mission to defend the home of their god?”
“I couldn’t say, Mistress.” Or perhaps they realise that all you can offer is slavery and torment, so they prefer to die fighting.
“That man today,” she said. “The stinking fellow. Don’t you want to know who he was?”
“It is not my place to ask, Mistress.”
She turned to me with a smile. “So convincing in your role, and yet a slave for just a few weeks. You must want to live very badly.” She turned her back on the city, resting against the prow with her arms crossed. “Would it surprise you to know that he wasn’t a man at all? Merely a shell filled with the ghost of something fouler than his stench.”
“No, you wouldn’t. It’s a well-kept secret, known only to the Council and a few, like me, too important not to be told. Our filthy, shameful secret.” There was a distance in her eyes as she spoke, a spectre of unwelcome memory.
She blinked, shaking her head slightly. “Tell me about this Al Sorna,” she said. “Who exactly is he?”
CHAPTER ONE
Vaelin
“I miss her too.”
Alornis glanced up from her wood carving, dark eyes hard, as they had been for the past four weeks. Compelling her on this journey had done little to endear him to her, and Reva’s disappearance had only made things worse. “You didn’t even look for her,” she said.
Despite the accusation in her tone he was encouraged by the fact that this was the most she had said to him since the morning she woke to find Reva gone. The long journey through Nilsael, and their time on this ship as they voyaged to the Northern Reaches, had been marked by a refusal to engage him in anything more than the most basic conversation.
“What choice did I have?” Vaelin asked her. “Tie her up and bind her to a horse?”
“She’s alone,” Alornis said, returning to her carving, the short curved knife whittling away at the figure. She had started it when they first boarded the ship, a distraction from the sea-sickness that had her heaving over the rail for the first few days out from Frostport. Her stomach had settled in the week since, but her anger hadn’t, the knife chiselling at the wood in quick, tense flicks of her wrist. “She had no-one,” she added softly. “No-one but us.”
Vaelin sighed and turned his eyes to the sea. These northern waters were much more fractious than the Erinean, the waves rising steep and the unceasing wind possessed of a cutting chill. The ship was named the Lyrna in honour of the King’s sister, a narrow-hulled, two-masted warship of some eighty hands, augmented by Vaelin’s company of Mounted Guard who had been ordered to stay with him for the next year. The guard captain, a well-built young noble named Orven Al Melna, was punctilious in affording Vaelin every measure of respect his lordly status required, acting as if he were in fact under his command rather than the more truthful role of gaoler; the King’s insurance against any changes of heart.