It took a good hour’s worth of sloshing through the sewers before they came to the pipe jutting out from the harbour wall. As they moved the sounds of Varinshold’s fall echoed down through the drains, screams of torment and terror, roaring fires and the thunder of collapsing walls. Here and there they heard the unmistakable song of combat, clashing steel and rage . . . followed by the screams of the defeated.
“Faith!” Ratter breathed, gazing up at blood dripping from a drain in the tunnel ceiling. “Never thought I’d feel sorry for the City Guard.”
Frentis peered through the pipe at the harbour, seeing Volarian ships clustered around the quays, more offshore still disgorging troops into their boats. He judged the distance to the nearest ship at little over a hundred paces, well within bowshot and there was a fair chance of being seen, but he was hoping most of the archers were employed elsewhere. In any case there was no other option.
“Mind if I go first, brother?” Ratter volunteered. “Clear the way like?”
“Fuck that,” Draker replied. “Why should you be first?”
“Because whoever’s last is most likely to get an arrow in the back,” Frentis said. He beckoned Arendil closer. “There’s a ten-foot drop onto the rocks below the pipe,” he told the boy. “The tide’s on the turn so we won’t have to swim. Keep to the rocks and head north. That’ll bring you round the headland. When the ships are out of sight, wait for us.” He nodded to Davoka. “You next. Then you two,” he added as Ratter started to speak again.
Arendil took a deep breath then climbed into the pipe, shuffling along then dropping from sight. Davoka paused before following. “If you die?”
“The Order House is twelve miles west. Find the north road and follow it.”
She nodded then followed Arendil through the pipe. Frentis turned to find Ratter and Draker tossing a coin. Ratter lost, much to Draker’s delight. “Enjoy your arrow, y’little bastard,” he said, squirming into the pipe with difficulty.
“Fat sod’s going to block the bloody thing,” Ratter grumbled as Draker seemed to take an age to haul his bulk along. Finally, after much squirming, his great shadow disappeared from the pipe, heralded by a shout as he landed on the rocks below.
Ratter needed no urging to follow, scrambling into the pipe and dropping from view in a scant few seconds. Frentis crawled after, drinking in the sudden rush of fresh sea air as his head emerged from the pipe. He levered himself free and dropped to the rocks, his feet sliding on the wet stone but managing to remain upright. He saw Draker shambling his way towards the headland, already overtaken by Ratter. Frentis glanced back at the ships in the harbour, seeing plenty of activity but no sign they had been seen.
He moved off, leaping from rock to rock. As a child he often came here at low tide, sometimes there would be something worth finding amongst the flotsam washing up onto the rocks, but mostly he just liked to jump from one to the other. It was good practice for the rooftops he hoped to graduate to one day, when he was old enough to do some proper stealing.
“Don’t leave me, brother,” Draker huffed as he overtook him.
“Then hurry up.” Frentis paused at a harsh clanking sound behind them, turned and leapt, catching Draker by the legs and bearing him to the rocks. Something made a loud ding as it rebounded from the stone, spinning away into the gloom.
“What was that?” Draker gasped.
“Ballista bolt,” Frentis said. “Seems we’ve been seen.”
“Oh Faith!” Draker was on the verge of weeping. “Oh Faith what now?”
“You were a lot more impressive when I was a boy.” Frentis raised his head, finding a lantern glowing on the prow of the nearest ship, dim shapes moving about the spiderlike silhouette of the ballista, working the windlass with leisurely ease. Bored and practising on some strays, Frentis decided. Free Swords, not slaves. “We’re in luck,” he told Draker, standing up and raising his arms.
The large man gaped at him. “What are you doing?”
“Keep going,” Frentis ordered, waving his arms.
“What?”
“Run!” The ballista clattered as one of the crew hit the release. Frentis stood stock still, counted off two heartbeats, then dropped to his knees. The bolt sailed overhead and skittered away amongst the rocks. He heard Draker babbling a constant stream of curses as he fled.
From the ship came the sound of voices raised in consternation, a few laughs of appreciation at the welcome distraction. Frentis turned and walked slowly towards the headland, not glancing back. A ballista was a fearsome weapon, but it wasn’t a bow, and these men could never be as skilled as a well-drilled team of slaves.
He was obliged to duck three more bolts before reaching the headland, by which time Draker had disappeared from view. He paused to wave at the ship before rounding the final outcrop, provoking a chorus of disappointment. Most of the crew now seemed to have gathered on the prow to watch the entertainment. Frentis cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted back in Volarian, as loud as his lungs would allow: “LAUGH ON! YOU’RE ALL GOING TO DIE HERE!”
PART III
Students may be forgiven for believing the figure of the Holy Reader to be ancient and original to the Cumbraelin form of god worship, a sacred trust embodying the will and authority of the World Father in a human vessel at the prophets’ behest. However, mention of such a figure can be found nowhere in the Ten Books and the organisational template for the church as it currently stands is hard to discern amongst their varied and often contradictory contents.
The earliest recorded investiture of a Holy Reader dates back only some three centuries, and even then this role seems to have been conceived as little more than an honorary title bestowed on particularly devout clerics. The ascendancy of a man holding absolute and unquestioned leadership of the church did not become an established institution until two hundred years after its arrival in the land now known as Cumbrael, and not without considerable opposition.
VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT
The general’s wife released me as dawn was starting to break over the smoking city. The sounds of battle had abated a little earlier, but so far no messenger had appeared with word of victory, and the steady stream of Volarian wounded stumbling through the breach told of a battle far from won. The wounded were all Free Swords. The slave soldiers, naturally, were left to expire where they fell.
The general had remained below with his pleasure slave as I related what I knew of Al Sorna to his wife, leaving nothing out and taking hours over the telling, Alltor continuing to smoke before us. Her curiosity was keen, and she asked many questions, though it seemed to me she had contrived to form a fanciful picture of the Hope Killer’s abilities.
“So you never saw him exhibit these great powers your people speak of?” she asked when I had related a few of the myriad tales told about Al Sorna in the empire.
“He is just a man, Mistress,” I replied. “Greatly skilled and cunning, it is true. With the kind of keen insight that many might mistake for some form of magic. But I saw no real evidence he could read minds or commune with beasts, or the souls of the dead for that matter.”
“When he comes to face my beloved husband, will he display this cunning, do you think? Some clever design to save this city from destruction.”
There was a sardonic lilt to her voice confirming my sense of a deep fatalism to this woman, an impression that there was no novelty to what she witnessed here, the outcome preordained, inevitable and not entirely relished. “I expect so, Mistress,” I replied.