Tower Lord by Anthony Ryan
“The Northern Reaches?”
“Quite so. Tower Lord Al Myrna passed away last winter. His adopted daughter’s been running things since then, but since she’s a Lonak foundling of no breeding whatsoever, I can hardly allow such a state of affairs to continue.” The King straightened, speaking in formal tones. “Vaelin Al Sorna, I hereby name you Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches.”
He could refuse, state his unwillingness and walk from the palace without a hand raised against him. Malcius was effectively barred from acting against him for fear of raising rebellion the length of the Realm. But the notion evaporated when the blood-song gave a sudden and unexpected crescendo of assent. The music faded quickly but the meaning was clear enough: The path to Frentis lies in the Northern Reaches.
He bowed low to the King, replying in formal tones. “An honour I gladly accept, Highness.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lyrna
Why hasn’t she killed me?
Davoka’s eyes flared in warning, her hand firm on Lyrna’s mouth, it smelt of woodsmoke. Lyrna swallowed, did her best to stem the harsh torrent of her breathing and raised a questioning eyebrow. Davoka’s eyes flicked to her right. Lyrna strained to see but could only discern the dim greyness of the tent wall, still thumping in the mountain wind. She looked back at Davoka, both eyebrows raised now. The Lonak woman’s eyes were elsewhere, gaze tracking along the tent wall, the bare muscle of her arms tensed in readiness.
It was only the smallest sound, a faint whisper of parting cloth. Lyrna’s eyes picked out a pinprick of gleaming metal in the tent wall, growing into a knife point then a blade at least ten inches long. The whisper grew into a shout of ripping canvas as the knife slashed downward, the tent wall parting to reveal the face of a man, a Lonak warrior if Lyrna was any judge, shaven-headed and tattooed across the forehead, teeth bared in a killing snarl.
Davoka lunged, her knife taking the Lonak under the chin, his head jerking up and back as she forced it deeper, finding the brain. She pulled the knife free and threw her head back, her scream vast and savage. From outside came an instant clamour of alarm, shouted orders and the cacophony of men in combat.
Davoka hefted her spear, pushing her gore-covered knife into Lyrna’s hand. “Stay here, Queen.” Then she was gone, diving through the gash in the canvas into the blackness beyond.
Lyrna lay on her back, the bloody knife sitting in her open hand, wondering if a person’s heart could truly burst with overuse.
“HIGHNESS!” A rasping shout from outside. Brother Sollis.
“Here,” she croaked through a sand-dry throat, coughed and tried again. “I’m here! What is happening?”
“We are betrayed! Stay insi—” He broke off and there came a harsh clang of colliding steel followed by a grunt of pain. More shouts, voices raised in cries of challenge or shock. She could hear many Lonak voices amongst the riot of sound.
A sharp thwack jerked her gaze to the roof of the tent where a steel-tipped arrow dangled from the canvas, caught by its fletching.
GET UP! her mind screamed.
Another thwack, another arrow, lower this time, coming straight through the fabric to thump into the fur an inch from her leg, the shaft quivering.
Get up! If you stay here, you will die!
The knife sat ungripped in her open palm, a bead of blood dripping from the hilt and onto her skin. The heat of it was enough to shock her into motion. She gripped the knife, gore seeping between her fingers, and forced herself to her feet and out into the night.
The campfire surged as Sollis threw another log on the flames, bloodied sword in his other hand, ducking as an arrow buzzed overhead. The two other brothers, Hervil and Ivern, were positioned in front and rear of her tent, strongbows ready with notched arrows. Out in the darkness beyond the fire battle raged unseen, the tumult of combat revealing no sign of victory or defeat.
“Stay down, Highness!” Sollis commanded and Brother Hervil reached up to grasp her forearm, pulling her to her knees.
“My apologies, Highness,” Hervil said with a grin. He was a veteran brother, his craggy features painted red in the fire.
“How many are there?” she asked him.
“Hard to say. We’ve killed at least ten already. That Lonak bitch has fucked us.” He grinned again. “Pardon my low-born tongue, Highness.”
“The Lonak bitch just saved my life,” she told him. “She’s not to be harmed, do you hear?”
A harsh yell drew her gaze to the south of the camp where three Lonak warriors came screaming into the light, war clubs and hatchets raised. Brother Hervil loosed two arrows, so fast his hands blurred, two Lonak falling. Sollis dispatched the third with a single sword-stroke, combining a parry with a riposte in the same fluid arc of steel. The Lonak staggered back, throat agape, and Hervil put a shaft in his chest for good measure.
“Thirteen,” he chuckled. “Haven’t had such a fruitful night for years.”
Something thrummed in the darkness off to the left and Hervil threw himself onto Lyrna, bearing her to the ground with a suffocating weight, jerking as something made a hard smacking sound. She squirmed beneath him, fighting to draw enough breath to voice a protest, then felt a warm torrent staining her shift. Hervil’s face was inches from hers, features slack, half-lidded eyes dim. She touched a hand to his craggy face, feeling the warmth drain away. Thank you, brother.
“Highness!” Sollis hauled the body off, pulling her upright, eyes widening at the blood making the shift cling to her breasts and belly. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “Where is the Lord Marshal?”
“Fighting I assume.” He turned back to the darkness, eyes searching, sword point held low. The song of battle was fading, the shouts and thuds of combat lessening until the only sound was the ceaseless northern wind.
“Have they gone?” Lyrna asked in a whisper. “Did we win?”
Something leapt out of the black void beyond the fire, something pale and quick and lithe, dodging under Sollis’s sword, side-stepping Brother Ivern’s arrow, launching itself at Lyrna, hatchet raised. Lyrna’s shock was such that time slowed as the figure descended towards her, her eyes drinking in every detail of the assailant. It was a girl, no more than sixteen years in age, chest encased in a wolf skin, finely muscled arms bringing her hatchet down, and her face . . . There was no snarl here, no screaming fury, this was a face of serene joy and doll-like beauty.
Lyrna lurched backwards, the knife in her hand coming up in a slash born of pure instinct. It jarred on something, coming loose and tumbling off into the dark. The Lonak girl reeled away, spinning to the ground. Her gaze flashed at Lyrna, a red line running from her chin to her brow. Her eyes are very blue, Lyrna noted.
Sollis charged the Lonak girl, sword arcing down with enough force to cleave her to the ribs, meeting only hard ground as she leapt clear, pivoting to face him, hatchet ready.
“Kiral!” Davoka came running out of the blackness, leaping the fire, bloodied spear levelled.
The Lonak girl’s gaze flashed at Lyrna, blue eyes bright and joyous, blood streaming from her new scar, teeth bared in a fierce smile. Then she simply wasn’t there, vanished into the night like a snuffed candle.
“Kiral!” Davoka screamed after her, halting at the edge of the firelight. “Ubeh vehla, akora!” Please, sister, come back.
◆ ◆ ◆
Nersa was dead, pierced by half a dozen arrows a few yards from her tent. Lyrna assumed the Lonak had mistaken them in the darkness. If so, the lady may well have saved her life by drawing so many arrows. She watched a guard sergeant wrap the body in a cloak to be taken to the base of the hill where a large pyre was under construction.
“A moment please,” she said as he lifted the body. There should be no guilt, she thought, knowing it to be a lie, her hand tracing through the lady’s hair, finding something amongst the tresses, a tor
“Thank you,” she told the sergeant, taking the comb and stepping back.
They counted over a hundred Lonak bodies, mostly boys and men but also a dozen or so women and girls. Lord Marshal Al Smolen, sporting a bandaged hand and a spectacular multi-coloured bruise on his jawline, reported the loss of twenty-three guardsmen plus six more wounded. Over half the horses had been lost, scattered or slaughtered, Sable amongst the dead. Lyrna had only a small affection for the animal but still felt the loss. The remaining mounts were all bred for war and unlikely to offer so comfortable a ride.
Davoka sat by the smouldering remains of the fire, spear resting on her shoulder. She had said nothing since the battle, offering neither argument nor contrition despite several calls for her immediate execution, all of which Lyrna had refused.
“She led us into this, Highness,” Smolen insisted. “Half my men are dead thanks to this wolf bitch.”
“My word is given, Lord Marshal,” Lyrna told him. “Do not make me give it again.”
She went to sit opposite Davoka, seeing the sadness that shrouded her face. “It’s time for truth between us,” she said in Lonak.
The Lonak woman’s head rose, a faint glimmer of amused surprise in her eyes. “So I see.”
“The Mahlessa’s rule is not complete, is it?”
“She commands peace with the Merim Her, the greatest and most vile enemy in our history. There was . . . disagreement amongst the clans. Voices were raised in dissent. We killed those who questioned her, of course, but there were always more, too many to kill. The Mahlessa named them as varnish, to be driven from their clans, and so they formed a clan of their own. The Lonakhim Sentar.”
“Sentar? I do not know this word.”
“It’s rarely spoken now, a tale from the days before your people came across the sea to steal our lands. The Sentar were a war-band composed of the greatest Lonakhim warriors, chosen for outstanding skill and courage, the Mahlessa’s own shining spear. The Sentar won our greatest victory over the Seordah, and would have led us to dominion over all this land but for the arrival of the Merim Her. They were all killed in the Great Travail, when our people fled to the mountains, holding the pass long enough to allow the remnants of the Lonakhim to secure a new home here. Now they are reborn, a twisted perversion of past glory.”
“The girl who tried to kill me, she is your sister?”
Davoka closed her eyes and nodded. “Kiral. We were born to the same mother. The gods were kind to take her before she could see what she has become.”
“And what is that?”
“Something vile, something that kills without reason and speaks poison. She is their leader, called the true Mahlessa by those varnish who follow her.” She opened her eyes, meeting Lyrna’s gaze. “It was not always this way with her, something . . . changed her.”
“What something?”
Davoka fidgeted in discomfort. “That which is known only to the Mahlessa.”
Lyrna nodded, knowing she would reveal nothing more on this subject. “Will she come for us again?”
“When she sent me to the pass the Mahlessa dispatched three war-bands to hunt down the Sentar. It was hoped this would force them to fight instead of coming for you. It seems my sister managed to evade them.” She glanced over her shoulder at the base of the hill where Smolen’s guardsmen were piling up the Lonak bodies. “The Sentar are strong in number, and they will not stop.”
“Then we shouldn’t linger.” It was Brother Sollis, speaking in Realm Tongue. Behind him a pyre was burning, Brother Hervil’s body wreathed in flame. The Order was never slow in seeing to its dead. “If we push hard, we can be back at the pass before nightfall. I’ll find you a suitable horse, Highness.” He turned to go.
“Brother Sollis,” Lyrna said, making him pause. “This expedition is under my command and I have given no instruction to end it.”
Sollis’s gaze flicked to Davoka then back to Lyrna. “You heard what she said, Highness. There can be no chance of success now. We cannot survive another attack on this scale.”
“He’s right,” Davoka said, switching back to Realm Tongue. “Too many men, too many wounded. We leave a trail my sister can follow eyes closed.”
“Is there another way?” Lyrna asked. “A path for a smaller party, harder to track?”
“Highness . . .” Sollis began.
“Brother,” Lyrna cut in. “The Order does not answer to the Crown, it is true. Therefore, you have my leave to depart without risk of disfavour and my thanks for your service.” She turned back to Davoka. “Is there another way?”
The Lonak woman gave a slow nod. “Yes. But great risk, and there can only be . . .” She grimaced, then held out a hand, fingers splayed. “This many. No more.”
Five, including me. Meaning only four swords against the Departed know how many more of these Sentar. She knew Sollis spoke wisdom, the correct course was a speedy return to the pass and on to the much-missed comforts of the palace. But Davoka’s words had added fuel to her burning need for evidence. That which is known only to the Mahlessa . . . There was evidence here, she knew it, and more to be had at the Mountain of the High Priestess.
She got to her feet and beckoned Smolen over. “Choose your three best men,” she told him. “They will accompany me north. Brother Sollis will guide you back to the pass.”
“I prefer to stay, Highness,” Sollis said. She could tell he was fighting to keep the anger from his voice. “With your permission, Brother Ivern and I will go with you.”
“And I am my best man, Highness,” Smolen informed her. “And even if I wasn’t, you must know I would never leave your side.”
“My thanks to you both.” She pulled her fur about her shoulders, glancing up at the forbidding peaks ahead, the tops shrouded in cloud, hearing a distant note of thunder. Let’s see what you can tell me.
◆ ◆ ◆
Her new horse was named Verka, a Lonak word which meant North Star in honour of the single blaze of white on his chest. He had been Brother Hervil’s mount and was, Sollis assured her, the most placid horse in the Order’s stables. From the way Verka reared and tossed his head as she hauled herself into the saddle she suspected the dutiful brother was merely attempting to salve her trepidation. However, despite her initial misgivings, the warhorse proved an obedient mount, responding to her touch willingly enough as they followed Davoka’s swift-trotting pony.
She led them south for several hours, setting a punishing pace, the journey unbroken by any rest stops. Sollis rode in front of Lyrna with Ivern behind and Smolen bringing up the rear, their eyes constantly scanning horizon and hilltop. Lyrna had been similarly vigilant when the journey began but lost her enthusiasm as the strain took its toll. Why couldn’t I have been more interested in physical pursuits? she grumbled, feeling every step of Verka’s hooves on the rough ground. One hour away from my books wouldn’t have killed me. But this bloody horse might.
They turned north again before twilight, spending an uncomfortable and fireless night in the lee of a great boulder, the others taking turns on watch whilst Lyrna huddled in her furs, exhaustion for once ensuring sleep, albeit fitful. Her dreams were different this night, instead of the dying King, Nersa came to stand before her, back in Lyrna’s private garden at the palace. The lady smiled and laughed, as she often had, bent to smell the flowers and run a hand through the cherry blossoms, and all the time blood flowed from the arrows jutting from her chest and neck, leaving a red trail wherever she walked . . .
Despite the many aches and pains that greeted Lyrna’s waking, she was thankful when morning came.
◆ ◆ ◆
Lyrna met the ape that afternoon. For hours they had pressed on through a succession of gully and canyon, laboured up a score of hills, always climbing, the air growing ever more chill and the trail ever more narrow.
Davoka called a welcome halt when they had climbed an especially rock-strewn path to a summit of sun-bathed boulders. Their onward course was obvious; an ever-more-narrow and winding trail atop a ridge snaking away towards two great mountains, the largest they had seen so far. The ridge seemed to disappear into a gap between the peaks. Eyeing the constricted and winding path, Lyrna could appreciate why Davoka had insisted on keeping their party small. Guiding a full company of guards along this path would have taken days if not weeks.
She slid from Verka’s back with the now-customary groan and found a large boulder behind which to evacuate the royal bladder. She was rising from the crouch when she saw it, no more than a dozen paces away. An ape. A very large ape.
It sat regarding her with black eyes above a doglike snout, a sprig of half-chewed gorse in its leathery paw. Seated, it was at least five feet tall and covered from brow to rump in thick grey fur, ruffling in the wind.
“Don’t look at its eyes, Queen.” Davoka stood atop the boulder behind her. “Pack leader. He’ll take it as a challenge.”
Lyrna duly averted her eyes from the ape’s face, keeping it in sight with furtive glances as it rose to stand on all fours, a wide yawn revealing a set of vicious fangs. It raised its head to utter a short coughing hoot and five more apes appeared out of the surrounding rocks. They were marginally smaller but no less threatening in appearance.
“No moving, Queen,” Davoka said softly. Lyrna noted she grasped her spear with a reverse grip, ready for throwing.
The pack leader gave another hoot and bounded away, leaping from one rock to another with soundless precision, the five others following with similar expertise. Within seconds they had vanished.
“Don’t like our smell,” Davoka said.
Lyrna walked back to their temporary camp on weak legs, her heart hammering, slumping down next to Smolen with an explosive sigh.
He frowned at her. “Is something wrong, Highness?”