Tower Lord

“I saw no sign of them, my lord. Clearly the City Guard made a stand in several places, to no avail.”

“The King? Princess Lyrna?”

“I lingered over the palace as long I could, seeing only corpses and blackened ruin.”

Vaelin nodded and she sat down, Brother Kehlan grasping her hand as her head slumped in sorrow and fatigue. “Captain,” Vaelin said. “What is our strength?”

“Over two thousand have answered the muster so far, my lord. The remainder should arrive within seven days. The North Guard on hand numbers three thousand and will be at full complement when the outlying companies report in. That may take over two weeks, given the distances involved.”

“It’s not enough,” Dahrena said. “The army I saw must number five or six times our strength, even if the Seordah and the Eorhil answer our call.”

“Expand the muster,” Vaelin told Adal. “All men of fighting age, including the miners and fishing folk.”

Adal gave a slow nod. “I shall, my lord.” He gritted his teeth in hesitation.

“Problem, Captain?” Vaelin asked him.

“There’s been some grumbling already, my lord. Amongst the men.”

“Grumbling?”

“They don’t want to go,” Brother Kehlan said when Adal hesitated further. “Half of them were born here and have never seen the Realm. The other half will be well pleased if they never see it again. They ask, not without justification, why they should fight for a land that sent no aid when we faced the Horde. It’s not their war.”

“It will be when the Volarians get here,” Dahrena said before Vaelin could give vent to his anger. “I saw their souls, they burn with greed and lust. They won’t stop at Varinshold, or Cumbrael or Nilsael. They will come here and take all we have, and any they don’t kill will be made slaves.”

Vaelin took a breath to calm his temper. “Perhaps if you spoke to the men, my lady,” he said. “I feel your word will carry great weight.”

She nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

Vaelin turned to the captain. “And any further grumbling must be stamped on, hard. I rule here by the King’s Word, not by their consent. Their war is what I say it is.”

“The question of numbers is still pertinent, my lord,” Brother Hollun said. He had scribbled some figures on a piece of parchment and placed them under Vaelin’s gaze.

“Just tell me,” Vaelin ordered the rotund brother.

“With an expanded muster, I calculate we will have perhaps twenty thousand men under arms, a figure at least doubled by the Eorhil and Seordah. We have one warship in harbour and the merchant fleet numbers a little over sixty ships, half of which are currently at sea. To transport so many men and horses to the Realm, with weapons and supplies, will take at least four round-trips.”

“Assuming we are spared storms,” Captain Adal added.

“A moot point,” Vaelin said. “We won’t sail, we’ll march.”

Dahrena’s head came up slowly. “There is only one land route to the Realm from the Reaches.”

It had happened as he surveyed the map earlier, a clear note of confirmation from the blood-song when his eye tracked over the dense mass of symbols comprising the Great Northern Forest. The note had summoned a memory, a blind woman in a clearing on a distant summer day. “I know.”

? ? ?

They established a camp outside the town for the growing army, the mustered men falling into their assigned companies with well-practised ease. Tower Lord Al Myrna had insisted on four musters a year to ensure their discipline didn’t slacken. The new recruits were a mixed bunch of artisans, miners and labourers, many openly resentful at the interruption to their lives, although Captain Adal had been quick to crush any signs of mutiny and Dahrena’s repeated speeches to each batch of new arrivals did much to assuage any doubts over the need to muster. “Many of you ask, ‘What would Tower Lord Al Myrna have done?’” she would say. “I tell you as his daughter his course would have been the same. We must fight!”

Adal set the North Guard to work training the recruits and picked out those he knew had distinguished themselves in the battle against the Horde, making them sergeants or captains. The lack of equipment was a worry, although every smith, tailor and cobbler in North Tower was working to exhaustion to produce the weapons, armour and boots needed by an army. Vaelin knew every day spent in building their strength was precious, but the need to begin the march was a constant nag. Varinshold fallen in a day. Where do they strike next? Dahrena had offered to revisit the Realm every day if need be, but the depth of fatigue that had gripped her after her first foray convinced him it would be best if she saved her strength. “When we get through the forest,” he said. “Then you’ll fly again.”

“You’re so sure they’ll grant us passage?” she asked as they toured the camp, Vaelin keen to be seen by as many of the men as possible. “My father was the only Realm subject allowed to walk there, and even then he was permitted no weapon or escort.”

He just nodded and moved on, his gaze drawn to the sight of two men sparring with wooden swords amidst a circle of onlookers. The taller of the two batted his opponent’s stave aside and swept his legs from under him in a smoothly executed combination of strokes. The tall man helped the defeated recruit to his feet, spreading his arms wide with a broad grin. He was a well-built fellow with long hair, tied back and reaching down to the middle of his bare back, his skin slick with sweat, toned muscle shining. “Number four! Who’s next?”

Despite his evident skill he was young, barely twenty by Vaelin’s reckoning, with the confident swagger of youth. “Cowards!” he berated the audience with a laugh when none stepped forward. “Come on! Three silvers for the man who can best me!” He laughed again then sobered as he caught sight of Vaelin in the crowd. His grin flickered for just an instant, his gaze narrowing as the blood-song told Vaelin an unwelcome truth.

“How about you, my lord?” the young man called, holding up his wooden stave in a salute. “Care to honour a simple shipwright with some gentle sparring?”

“Another time,” Vaelin said, turning away.

“Come come, my lord,” the young man called again, a slight edge to his voice. “You wouldn’t want these good men to think you afraid. Many already wonder why you wear no sword.”

One of the North Guard in the crowd stepped forward to rebuke the man but Vaelin waved him back. “What’s your name, sir?” he asked the young man, stepping into the circle and taking off his cloak.

“Davern, my lord,” the man replied with a bow.

“Shipwright eh?” Vaelin handed his cloak to Dahrena and stooped to retrieve the wooden sword from the earth. “Skills like yours don’t come from swinging an adze.”

“All men should have interests beyond their work, don’t you think?”

“Indeed.” Vaelin stood before him, meeting his eyes. Davern hid it well, but Vaelin saw it—deep, festering hatred.

Davern blinked and Vaelin’s stave came up, feinted towards his head, avoided the parry, sweeping under his guard to place a single hard jab in the centre of his chest. Davern back-pedalled, arms windmilling as he sought to retain his balance before collapsing heavily onto his rump, much to the amusement of the crowd. There was a jingle of coin amongst the laughter as men settled bets.

“Don’t look at a man’s eyes,” Vaelin told Davern, offering his hand. “The first lesson my master taught me.”

Davern ignored the hand, scrambling to his feet, all sign of joviality vanished from his face. “Let’s go again. Perhaps I’ll teach you one.”

“I don’t think so.” Vaelin tossed the stave to the North Guard. “Make this man a sergeant. Have him teach the sword to his brothers.”

“The offer is always open, my lord!” Davern called after him as he retrieved his cloak from Dahrena and walked on.

“Have a care around that one,” she cautioned. “I think he means you harm.”

“Not without cause,” Vaelin replied in a murmur.

? ? ?

He found Alornis outside his tent on returning from his daily tour. He had chosen to live amongst the men, setting up a tent on the fringes of the encampment. His sister’s brush was busy on the canvas propped on her easel. She had made it herself with tools borrowed from the tower’s carpenter, an ingenious contrivance of three hinged legs, easily folded into a single block less than a yard in length. She had become a common sight about the camp, bag of brushes over her shoulder and easel under her arm as she moved about, stopping to paint when something caught her eye. Her latest was a rendering of the whole camp, each tent and paddock depicted with the precision Vaelin still found unnerving. “How do you do it?” he wondered, looking over her shoulder.

“The same way you do what you do.” As he sank onto a nearby stool, she turned, dipping a cloth into some spirit and cleaning her brush. “When do we march?”

We? He raised his eyebrows at her but chose to ignore the word. They had argued enough over this already. “Another week. Maybe longer.”