“Uncle?” Reva said, moving to his side.

He grinned at her, patting the hands she laid on his arm. “Your uncle is old and tired, my wonderful niece.” He took her hands and climbed to his feet, Reva feeling the tremble in his grip. “And hasn’t had a drink in hours,” he added to the assembled captains, drawing strained laughter. “You have your orders, good sirs and lords. Be about them if you will.”

Reva and Lady Veliss helped him up the stairs to his rooms. “The blue bottle, if you would my lady,” he said to Veliss. She fetched it and he held it to his mouth, draining the liquid inside, smiling faintly then doubling over, face contorted in pain, the empty bottle tumbling to the carpet.

“I’ll fetch Brother Harin!” Veliss said, hurrying from the room.

Reva knelt before him, clasping his trembling hands once again. “What is this?” she asked. “What ails you?”

Air rushed from him as he reclined, gasping but smiling. “My life, Reva. My life ails me.”

? ? ?

Brother Harin’s face was grave as he closed the door behind him, Veliss and Reva awaiting his word in the hallway. “I’ve doubled his dose,” the healer said. “Given him a flask of redflower which should ease his pain.”

“You said the curative would buy him years yet,” Lady Veliss said.

“Restful years, my lady. Not war years. Exhaustion does not help his condition.”

“What condition?” Reva said.

Harin glanced at Veliss who gave a tense nod. “Your uncle has drunk a lot of wine in his time, my lady,” the brother told her. “More in fact than I would have thought it possible for a man to drink and still be living at his age.”

“He’s not yet sixty,” she said in a whisper.

“Liquor does unfortunate things to a man’s insides,” Harin explained. “The liver in particular.”

“What if he stopped?” Veliss asked. “Just stopped completely. No more wine. Not ever.”

“It would kill him,” Harin replied simply. “His body requires it, even though it’s killing him.”

“How long?” Reva asked.

“With rest, perhaps six months, at most.”

Six months . . . I’ve known him for barely three. “Thank you, brother,” she said, feeling a slow tear trace down her cheek. “Leave us now, if you would.”

He bowed. “I’ll call again tomorrow.”

Veliss moved beside her, fingers touching her hand. “He didn’t want you to know . . .”

Reva took her hand away, wiping the tear from her face. No more of this, she decided. No more weeping.

“The grain stocks,” she said in a voice void of emotion. “How long will they last?”

Veliss hesitated then spoke in a clear voice, her tone coloured by just the slightest quiver. “Given the expanded population, perhaps four months. And only then if carefully rationed.”

“Send the House Guard forth. Every scrap of food, every cow, pig and chicken within fifty miles of this city is to be brought here. All unharvested crops will be burned, all wells spoiled, anything that might give succour to our enemy destroyed.”

“There are people working those farms . . .”

“Then they’ll find shelter here, as the Fief Lord promised. Or they can take their chance with the Volarians.”

She moved to the door to the Fief Lord’s rooms. “I wish to talk to my uncle, alone.”

He was seated at his desk, a glass of wine at his side, his grandfather’s sword propped nearby, the quill in his hand moving over a sheet of parchment. “My will,” he said as she closed the door. “Thought it was about time.”

“Veliss can have the books,” she said.

“Actually, there’s a parcel of land to the north she always liked. Nice big house, well-kept gardens.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He sighed, tossing the quill aside and turning to her. “I was afraid you’d run,” he said. “And I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”

“And yet you curse me with all this anyway.”

He reached for his wineglass, taking a sip. “Did you know, according to Veliss’s figures, I am the most successful lord ever to sit in the Chair? In the history of this fief no other lord has produced so much wine, generated so much wealth or overseen such a period of peace and harmony. And will I be celebrated for it when I’m gone? Of course not, I’ll always be the drunken whore chaser with the mad brother. But you, Reva, you will be the saviour of Cumbrael. The great warrior, blessed by the World Father Himself, who threw wide the city gates and sheltered all within these walls against the vile, godless storm. I had expected it to take years, welding the people’s hearts to you. Thanks to the Volarians, it’ll barely take months.”

She shook her head in grim amusement. “I had thought Veliss the schemer. Turns out it was you.”

He gave an injured groan. “Try not to hate your old uncle. I shouldn’t wish to carry such a thought to the Fields.”

She went to him, putting her arms around his shoulders and planting a kiss on his head. “I don’t hate you, you drunken old sot.”

? ? ?

The first Volarians arrived three days later, a troop of cavalry appearing on the horizon about midday, lingering for no more than a few minutes before disappearing from view. Reva ordered scouts in pursuit and had riders sent out with orders to hasten any refugees to the city and call in the foraging parties. The scouts reported back within the day; the Volarian vanguard was no more than fifteen miles distant. She waited until darkness and the last trickle of beggared people had filtered through the gates before ordering them closed.

“Do we fetch the Fief Lord?” Antesh asked her as they stood atop the bastion over the main gate, looking out at the causeway and the pregnant darkness beyond.

“Let him sleep,” she said. “I suspect there’ll be plenty to do in the morning.”

They came as the sun rose over the eastern hills, cavalry first, moving at a sedate pace, their ranks tidy and well-ordered as they made their way to the plain beyond the causeway. The infantry followed soon after, tightly arrayed battalions in front, marching with an unnerving uniformity of step, the formations that followed more open, their pace less regular. The Volarian host arranged itself with the kind of precision and speed that could only arise from years of drill, cavalry on the flanks, the disciplined infantry in the centre, looser formations behind.

“Slave soldiers in the front rank,” Veliss said. “They call them Varitai. Those behind are conscripts, Free Swords. I read it in a book,” she added in response to Reva’s quizzical frown.

“They have slaves in their army?” she asked.

“Volaria is built on slaves,” her uncle said. “It’s what they came for.” He wore a heavy cloak, hand resting on Reva’s shoulder, his breath laboured, although his red-rimmed eyes still shone as bright as ever.

“No engines,” Antesh observed. “No ladders either.”

“All in good time, I’m sure,” Uncle Sentes said. “Though I suspect they’re about to try and scare us to death.”

Reva followed his gaze, seeing a lone rider emerge from the Volarian ranks to gallop along the causeway. He reined in over a hundred paces from the gate, staring up at them, his long cloak billowing in the wind. He was a tall man, wearing a black enamel breastplate, a scroll clutched in his fist. His gaze found the Fief Lord and he gave a shallow bow, a grin of contempt on his lips as he unfurled the scroll.

“Fief Lord Sentes Mustor,” he read in accented but clear Realm Tongue. “You are hereby ordered to surrender your lands, cities and possessions to the Volarian Empire. Peaceful compliance with this order will ensure just and generous treatment for yourself and your people. In return for your cooperation in overseeing the transfer of power to Volarian authority you will receive . . .”

“Lord Antesh,” Uncle Sentes said. “I see no recognisable flag of truce, do you?”

Antesh pursed his lips and shook his head. “Can’t say as I do, my lord.”

“Well then.”

“. . . swift transportation to any land of your choice,” the Volarian was saying, the scroll held in front of his eyes. “Plus one hundred pounds in gol—” He choked off as Antesh’s arrow punched through the scroll and the breastplate beyond. He tumbled from the saddle and lay still, the scroll pinned to his chest.

“Right,” the Fief Lord said, turning away. “Let me know when the rest get here.”

CHAPTER SIX

Vaelin

He found it impossible to gauge the Eorhil woman’s age. Somewhere between fifty and seventy was his best guess. Her face possessed many lines, her lips cracked with age and her long braids iron-grey. But there was a leanness and evident strength to her that bespoke an ageless vitality, her back straight as she sat cross-legged on the other side of the fire, her bare arms strung with knotted muscle. Behind her the great gathering of Eorhil warriors waited, some dismounted, most not, over ten thousand riders come in answer to the Tower Lord’s call. The Eorhil woman’s name, translated by Insha ka Forna, was unusual amongst her people as it consisted of but one word: Wisdom.