The villa grounds were a confusion of running guards and swirling smoke. Frentis ran to the rear of the house, seeking the stables, hoping he didn’t catch sight of Emeren and the boy, knowing what the binding would force him to do. The stables were full of guards and servants trying to save the horses from the inferno now engulfing the main house. Frentis picked out a large stallion, rearing in alarm as a stable boy attempted to lead him away. He felled the boy with a blow to the back of the head and caught hold of the reins, hoisting the woman onto the stallion’s back then vaulting up behind her. The horse ran without need of encouragement, desperate to be away from this place of fire and terror.
They were free of the smoke in a few heartbeats, galloping hard to the west as the villa burned and tumbled to ruin in their wake.
PART II
The exact origins of the people comprising the mass migration into the Northern Reaches, now known as the onslaught of the Ice Horde, remain a mystery. Their language and customs were uniquely unfamiliar to both Realm subjects and the Eorhil and Seordah warriors who confronted their invasion. The vast majority of the Horde died in the carnage following their rout on the plains, only a pitiful remnant fleeing back to the ice. Consequently, opportunities for the scholar to gain a full picture of their society are limited to the experience of Realm-born witnesses, an inevitably skewed interpretation full of prejudice and fanciful tales of Dark skills and unfeasibly monstrous war-beasts. What is clear from the available evidence is the merciless ferocity of the Horde towards any man, woman or child not of their tribe and the unusual level of control they exerted over their animals, large numbers of which were employed in the line of battle.
VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT
I cowered against the ship’s rail, shrinking from the fierce inquisition of the foul-smelling man.
“I do not know,” I said.
The man drew a knife from somewhere. It must have been hidden in his clothing for I had seen no weapon on him when he boarded the ship. The blade was at my throat quicker than I would have thought possible, his free hand coming up to grab my hair, pulling my head back, his reeking breath washing over me. “Where is he, scribe?”
“Th-the Northern Reaches,” I babbled. “King Malcius sent him there when he returned to the Realm.”
“I know that.” The knife blade burned as he pushed it deeper into my skin. “Where is he now? What did the Battle Lord tell you of him? What messages were sent to him?”
“N-none! I swear. He was hardly mentioned. The Battle Lord seemed to have a hatred for him.”
The foul-smelling man leaned closer, eyes searching my face, no doubt looking for signs of deceit.
“I trust you’ll compensate me for any loss,” the general said. “I had intended making considerable use of this one.”
The foul-smelling man grunted and released me, stepping away. I sagged against the rail, fighting to keep upright. Collapsing to the deck would have been deemed an insult to my master. The general’s wife came closer and handed me a silk kerchief. I held it to the shallow cut on my neck, blood staining the finely embroidered material.
“You have been interrogating the captives, as ordered?” the man demanded of the general. He stood by the table, helping himself to wine, downing a cup in a few short gulps, red liquid spilling down his chin and staining his already besmirched clothing.
“Yes.” The general’s eyes were narrow as he regarded the dirty man before him, his tone hard with reluctant compliance. “Plenty of tall tales about this Darkblade they seem to hate so much. No actual information. They find the idea that he would come to their aid ridiculous.”
“Really?” The man turned his gaze on me once more. “Come here, scribe.”
I walked to the table on unsteady legs, avoiding his gaze.
“You travelled with him to the Isles,” the man said. “Do you think it ridiculous that he’d come to save those who hate him?”
I recalled the tale Al Sorna had told me during the voyage, all the trials and battles that had coloured his life. But the clearest memory was the day of the challenge, the Shield lying senseless, Al Sorna walking away and sheathing his sword. I had reasons of my own to hate him, I still thought of Seliesen every day, but it was a hatred that had dimmed that day, never quite dying, but no longer burning with the same passion. “Forgive me, Master,” I said to the general. “But he will come to fight you, if he can. Here or anywhere else.”
“Of course he will.” The man drained another cup of wine and tossed it away, the dregs spilling on the exquisite map. He stalked from the table, walking back to his boat.
“You have no intelligence to offer?” the general called after him.
The man glanced over his shoulder. “Yes, don’t expect it to be easy.” He vaulted the rail with considerably more athleticism than a man of his years should have been capable, landing in the boat and barking an order at the slaves on the oars. The boat pulled away and made its way back to the shore, the man standing immobile in the prow. I felt I could still smell him even at this distance.
Fornella 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.’”
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!”