He put an arm around her shoulders as she wept, searching inside himself and knowing what he would find. It’s gone. The song is gone.
PART V
My father has never been a man to indulge in deep reflection or wise pronouncements. His few writings and typically terse correspondence make dry reading indeed, riven as they are with the mundane inanities of military life. But there was one occasion that has stayed at the forefront of my memory, something he said the night Marbellis fell. We stood on a hilltop watching the flames rise above the walls, hearing the screams of the townsfolk as the Realm Guard gave vent to bestial vengeance, and I felt the need to ask him why his mood was so sombre, had he not just secured a victory worthy of glorious celebration for all the ages? I was, you may understand, quite drunk.
My father’s gaze never lifted from the tormented city and I heard him say, “All victory is an illusion.”
—ALUCIUS AL HESTIAN, COLLECTED WRITINGS, GREAT LIBRARY OF THE UNIFIED REALM
VERNIERS’ ACCOUNT
“Set sail!” the general was shouting at the ship’s captain, voice pitched just below a scream. “Set sail I said! Get this hulk moving!”
I went to the rail as the slave-sailors rushed in answer to the captain’s orders. The remnants of the army were being herded towards the river now, Varitai fighting to the end in dumb obedience, Free Swords taking to the water in panic. A half mile to the south the Free Cavalry seemed to be making a stand against the men in green cloaks, whoever had command of them rallying his men with admirable coolness as they attempted to break out. It proved a vain ambition however, as a great host of horsemen appeared to their rear, launching a cloud of arrows from the saddle before driving their charge home. Within seconds all vestige of organised resistance had vanished from the Volarian army, leaving only a terrorised mob with no chance of escape.
I turned my gaze from the ugly spectacle and saw a lone rider galloping along the causeway, followed by what seemed to be thousands of men and women with clubs and bows, not a scrap of armour amongst them. The distance was too great to make out the face of the rider but I had no doubt as to his identity.
“Faster!” the general was shouting amidst the racket of the anchor’s chain. “If this ship isn’t at sea within the day, I’ll see the backbone of every slave aboard!”
“Are you sure?” Fornella asked, standing near the map table, wine cup in hand. “Returning home with such impressive tidings is not something I would recommend.”
“We’re not going home,” he snapped back. “We return to Varinshold to await the next wave. When they get here I will build an army that will leave this land barren. Write this down, slave!” he snarled at me. “I, General Reklar Tokrev hereby decree the extermination of all denizens of this province . . .”
I was reaching for parchment when something caught my eye. The ship had finally begun to pull away as the sails unfurled and the prevailing wind took us downriver, the crew deaf to the entreaties of the Free Swords struggling in the water. I squinted at the sight of a new sail appearing above a bend in the river little under a mile ahead. I had seen enough of ships by now to recognise the Meldenean pennant fluttering from the mainmast, a large black flag signifying the sighting of an enemy. A shout from the rigging confirmed I was not labouring under a fear-born delusion.
“Archers up!” the ship’s captain ordered. “Ready the ballistas! Kuritai to the prow!”
I watched as another sail appeared behind the Meldenean vessel, and two more after that. I glanced over at the general and was surprised to find myself regarding the visage of a coward. All trace of bluster and poise had disappeared, replaced by sweat-soaked features and limbs twitching with unrestrained fear. I knew then that this man had never actually been in a battle. He had seen them, commanded men to die in them, but never fought in one. The thought raised a laugh in my breast which I managed to contain. Coward or not, he had charge of my life whilst this ship still floated.
However, whilst I was able to restrain my mirth, his wife was not. His fevered gaze swung to her as she stood by the map table, holding the scroll I had handed him earlier, laughing heartily at the contents.
“What is it!” he demanded. “What causes you so much amusement, honoured wife?”
She waved a hand at me, still laughing. “Oh, just the pleasure of money well spent.”
The general’s eyes swung towards me, anger adding some colour to his pale features. “Really? How so?”
“Allow me to recite quite possibly the last work by renowned scholar and poet Lord Verniers Alishe Someren, entitled An Ode to General Reklar Tokrev, after Draken.” She paused for a theatrical cough, stifling a giggle. “A man of vice and misplaced pride, Rightly detested by his bride, He drank and whored whilst safe afloat, Penning lies for his scribe to quote . . .”
“Shut up,” the general told her in a quiet tone but she went on without pause.
“Sent his men to die in flame, Whilst he dreamt of unearned fame . . .”
“Shut your mouth, you venomous bitch!” He rushed towards her, a hard blow of his fist sending her reeling, delivering a kick to her stomach as she tried to rise. “Year after year of your bile!” He kicked her again, making her retch and writhe on the deck. “A century in your company, true-heart!” Another kick, blood appearing in her mouth. “After the first week I knew I would kill you—”
The knife my mistress had tossed aside in her cabin had a short blade, but it was very sharp, sinking into the base of the general’s skull with ease. He gave a strange high-pitched groan, a little like a tearful child drawing breath for another sob, then fell forward, his nose making a loud crack as it smashed into the planking. It has always been a matter of great regret to me that his death was so brief, and that he never knew who had delivered the killing blow. However, I have long had occasion to ponder the unpalatable fact that so few of us receive the end we deserve.
Fornella heaved a red stain onto the deck, casting a weary gaze of acceptance at me. “I . . . suppose a . . . final kiss is . . . out of the question?”
I turned at the sound of running feet, seeing two Kuritai charging with twin swords drawn. I was about to run for the rail and take my chances in the river but drew up short as an arrow thumped into the planking beside me, quickly followed by many more. I dived for the table, rolling under as the arrows sent the Kuritai tumbling to a lifeless halt. I looked at Fornella as she uttered a frightened whimper, an arrow pinning her gown to the deck. I would like to relate how there was some chivalrous motivation behind my next action, that I acted on nothing more than courageous impulse in grabbing her arms and pulling her under the table as the arrows continued to rain down. However, that would be a lie. I knew she would be valuable to the Meldeneans and thought they might regard me with some favour if I delivered her to them unharmed.
We huddled together as the arrows fell, soon followed by the whoosh of something large and heavy that brought a blast of heat and an instant pall of smoke. More arrows, more whooshes, Fornella pressing herself against my side though what reassurance she felt I could offer escapes me. Soon the deck pitched at an alarming angle, the hail-like pattering of the arrows replaced by the shouts and metallic clashes of men in combat. A slave-sailor fell dead a foot away from the table, blood still gushing from the wound in his neck as shouts of anger and challenge gave way to screams and pleas for mercy.
Silence fell for what seemed an age, eventually broken by a voice speaking the Meldenean dialect of Realm Tongue. “Get those fires out!” it called with peerless authority. “Belorath, get below and finish any still in arms. And check the hull for breaches. Be a shame not to claim her as a prize.”
A pair of boots strode across the deck to stand before the table, polished and gleaming despite the blood that stained them. Fornella coughed, clutching at her belly, and the boots shifted, a familiar face appearing below the table edge, bearded and handsome with golden hair hanging over his blue eyes.
“Well, my lord,” the Shield said. “You must have a tale to tell.”
The fires were quickly extinguished as per his order, his first mate returning from below to report the hull intact. “Excellent!” the Shield enthused, running a hand over the finely carved woodwork on the starboard rail. “Have you ever seen the like, Belorath? A ship to sail all the world.”
“She’s called the Stormspite,” Fornella said in her heavily accented Realm Tongue.
The Shield turned to her with an expression of dark promise. “She’s called what I choose to name her. And you don’t speak until told to.” He brightened at the sight of something behind us. “In fact, her namesake comes to bless her now.” He strode forward greeting an odd group of people climbing aboard from the Meldenean vessel tied alongside.
Two men were first on deck, one large with a brutish aspect, the other much younger but clearly no stranger to the sights of battle. They both surveyed the carnage with drawn swords and little sign of alarm. The large man turned and bowed to the three women who followed them aboard, one of whom instantly captured the attention of all in sight. She stood straight and slender in a plain gown and a shirt of light mail, a silk scarf tied around her head, walking across the deck with a sureness of step and innate confidence that gave the lie to the dead general’s pretensions to greatness.
