Tower Lord

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?”

? ? ?

“You are mad, woman!” Sollis barked at Davoka. “This is your safe path?”

The mountain loomed ahead of them, slopes of black ash broken by huge boulders ascending to a summit wreathed in roiling smoke, lit by the occasional burst of orange fire accompanied by a vast rumbling that made the earth tremble beneath their feet.

“No other way,” Davoka insisted. She was busy divesting her pony of tack, throwing the saddle down the slope and freeing its head of the bridle. She gave the animal an affectionate scratch on the nose then slapped a hand against its rump, sending it trotting back along the ridge-top trail they had followed for the five days it had taken to get here. “Can’t take horses,” the Lonak woman said. “Slope too steep and they don’t like fire.”

“I don’t like fire,” Lyrna told her.

“No other way, Queen.” Davoka hefted her spear, shouldered her leather satchel and began to ascend without another word or a backward glance.

“Highness,” Sollis said, “Forgive me but I must advise . . .”

“I know, brother. I know.” She waved him to silence, watching Davoka ascending the ash slope with her long-legged strides. “Does it have a name? This mountain.”

It was Brother Ivern who answered. A much younger man than Sollis or the fallen Hervil, he had nevertheless acquired an impressive knowledge of the Lonak and their lands. “They call it the Mouth of Nishak, Highness,” he said. “Nishak being their god of fire.”

Lyrna took hold of her skirt, lifting it clear of the ash and starting forward. “Well, let’s hope he’s sleeping. Loose the horses, good sirs.”

But Nishak, it seemed, wasn’t sleeping today. Several times Lyrna found herself stumbling to her knees as the mountain shook, feeling a rush of heat as the summit belched fire into the sky. The air stank of sulphur and the ash made her cough to the point of retching, but she kept on, endeavouring to keep Davoka’s striding form in sight. Finally the Lonak woman paused to rest, sheltering on the cooler side of a boulder, taking a sip from her water flask as Lyrna collapsed beside her.

“This.” Davoka slapped a hand on Lyrna’s riding gown. “Too heavy, take it off.”

“I don’t have anything else,” Lyrna gasped and gulped water from her own flask.

Davoka opened her satchel and extracted a jerkin and trews of soft leather. “I have. Long for you, but I make them fit.” She laid out the trews for tailoring and drew her knife. “You strip.”

Lyrna glanced at the three men standing nearby, all studiously looking elsewhere. “If any of you turn, I’ll see you in the Black Hold,” she warned them.

Sollis said nothing, Smolen coughed and Ivern suppressed a chuckle.

Standing naked on the slopes of a volcano whilst a Lonak woman dressed her was one of the more bizarre experiences Lyrna could recall, made somewhat more awkward by Davoka’s frank words of appraisal. “Firm thighs, hips not too narrow. Good. Strong children you’ll bear, Queen.”

Brother Ivern snickered, earning a harsh rebuke from Sollis.

It was done within the hour. Princess Lyrna Al Nieren stood in Lonak clothing, ash staining her face and her unwashed hair hanging in a long greasy mass. Davoka had offered to shear it for her but she refused, tying it back with a leather thong which at least kept it out of her eyes. “How do I look, Lord Marshal?” she asked Smolen, knowing he was the most likely to lie.

“Glorious as ever, Highness,” he assured her with impressive sincerity.

“Brother!” Ivern called to Sollis, pointing down the slope.

Sollis shielded his eyes to take in the view. “I see them. About fifty, I’d say.”

“Closer to sixty,” Ivern said. “We have perhaps five miles on them.”

Lyrna followed their gaze, seeing a line of ponies making their way along the ridge. Sentar.

“Good,” Davoka commented, resuming her climb.

“Good?” Lyrna said. “How can this be good? We were supposed to lose them by coming here.”