“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.