The second tower fared no better than the first, burned and gutted before it reached the wall, the crew falling under the arrow storm. Reva saw a few men jump into the river in an attempt to evade the rain of iron-tipped shafts. The third tower got closer, only ten yards short before fire and arrows halted its progress.
“Ladders!” a shout went up from somewhere to the left. Reva looked to the causeway, seeing several hundred men running past the line of towers, ladders raised above their heads. On reaching the end of the causeway they split into two groups, scores falling to the archers as they ran parallel to the walls for a hundred paces then turned and charged forward with their ladders raised. There was a strange disregard for safety to these men, barely seeming to notice so many of their comrades dying around them or tumbling from the ladders. Varitai, Reva recalled Veliss’s words. Slave soldiers with no will of their own.
A faint groan of disturbed air gave enough warning for her to duck as an arrow flew overhead. A nearby archer wasn’t so lucky, pitching back from the wall with a shaft embedded in his cheek. Reva risked a glance over the wall, seeing a thick knot of men with strongbows clustered at the end of the causeway, loosing arrows up at the defenders with mechanical speed and precision. Like the men on the ladders they betrayed little sign of fear.
Lord Antesh gathered several dozen archers into a tight group, having them duck down with arrows notched, then rise up and loose as one, swarms of iron-heads sweeping down on the Volarian archers in successive volleys until none remained standing. The Varitai were also dispatched in short order, none climbing more than halfway up their ladders before being brought down, the ladders pushed away from the walls to lie atop the piles of bodies below.
The remaining four towers came on, blundering through the corpse-strewn ground, trying to force their way past the burning remnants of their brothers, but finding their progress blocked and grinding to a halt. “Slow and steady now, lads!” Lord Antesh called as the fire arrows flew. “Let’s not be wasteful.”
Within an hour all four towers were burning and their surviving crew running back along the causeway. The walls erupted in celebration, Reva finding herself pummelled with back slaps as men raised their bows, yelling in exultation or shouting foul-mouthed taunts at the Volarians.
“Wasn’t so difficult, was it?” Arken commented. His face was grimy with mingled smoke and sweat, his quiver empty of arrows. Reva moved to the wall and looked down at the many bodies cluttering the narrow road that circled the city, seeing a few wounded crawling about, their groans lost amidst the tumult of joy. Slaves, she thought. Spent like a few coppers on a long-odds bet. She raised her gaze to the uncountable fires of the Volarian camp, knowing somewhere amongst them whoever had commanded this hopeless spectacle would be staring back at the carnage and calculating a fresh stratagem for the following day.
She noticed that her hand tingled, just where Veliss had kissed it. In fact it had been tingling ever since, though she only realised it now. “I’ll be at the manse,” she told Arken. “Find me when they come again.”
Uncle Sentes was in a foul mood when she arrived, though she suspected it had more to do with the broken-nosed priest who stood before him in the Lord’s chamber than her broken promise. “What’s this supposed to mean?” the Fief Lord demanded in a rasp, waving a piece of parchment. Veliss placed a calming hand on his shoulder as he glowered at the priest.
“The Holy Reader’s words are perfectly clear, my lord,” the priest said, casting a wary eye at Reva as she strode to stand at her uncle’s side. “His insight, gifted by the Father himself, has allowed him to divine the cause of our current plight. Our innumerable sins have incurred His anger, the godless beasts outside our walls are His punishment.”
“‘The World Father sees all, knows all and forgives all,’” Reva quoted. “‘Denying yourself His love is His only punishment.’”
The priest didn’t look at her, addressing the Fief Lord. “Our way is clear, my lord. To secure the Father’s forgiveness we must divest ourselves of our sins.” He gave a pointed glance at Veliss. “All of our sins. This city was built in honour of the Father’s greatest prophet, but we allow the stain of godless souls within its walls . . .”
“Your Reader,” Uncle Sentes broke in, a small line of drool dangling from his lower lip, “sits in his cathedral scribbling nonsense and refusing all entreaties to aid the people of this city as they defend themselves from slavery and slaughter!” He choked off, wincing as a fresh bout of pain coursed through him. Reva smoothed a hand over his back and gently took the parchment from his shaking hand.
“‘All heretics within the city must be gathered for the Father’s judgement,’” she read, walking slowly towards the priest. “‘The Holy Reader himself will adduce their acceptance of the Father’s love. Any found to be unable or unwilling to abandon their heresy will be given over to their fellow heretics outside the walls.’”
She looked up at the priest, finding his gaze averted, his misshapen nose slightly upturned. “This is going to save us, is it?” she asked.
“The Reader’s words are for the Fief Lord . . .”
He trailed off as she ripped the parchment in half and let it drop to the floor. “Get out of here,” she said. “And if you bother my uncle with any more of your old fool’s prattle, we’ll see what the heretics outside the walls will do to two such godly souls as you.”
He bit down an unwise retort and turned to go.
“And tell him,” she said to his retreating back, “that when this is over he’d better cough up the name of that bastard who raised me. Tell him that.”
“Was it horrible?” Veliss asked. They sat in the library, her uncle asleep upstairs. The priest’s visit had sent him into a rant that left him exhausted and gulping redflower. Veliss stayed at his side until sleep came.
Reva had taken off her mail shirt, marvelling at how it could manage to smell so bad after only a few hours. She lay on a couch beside the fire, Veliss seated opposite, her gaze intent, as if searching for signs of injury. “We held them off,” Reva replied. “Cost them a lot of men. But they’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Seen plenty of blood,” Veliss said. “Spilled a bit too in my time. But I’ve never seen war.”
Reva thought of the wounded Varitai crawling about as thousands cheered their deaths. “It’s horrible.”
“You don’t have to fight, Reva. These people need you, and the risk . . .”
“I do have to. And I will.” She studied Veliss’s downcast face for a moment, finding she preferred it when she smiled. “I have said things to you,” she said. “Unkind things . . .”
“I’ve heard worse, believe me. Bitch, whore, liar . . . spy. And they’ve all been true. So don’t worry over my feelings, love.”
“Why did you stay? You could be far away by now, and rich into the bargain.”
“I couldn’t leave him, not now.”
Reva sat up, massaging the ache in her arm. Drawing the wych elm was taxing but she only felt the strain now as the excitement of battle faded. “How long have you been with him?” she asked Veliss.
“We met years ago in Varinshold, when he was a guest of the King’s court. He was a regular and generous customer so I was sad to see him called back to sit in the Chair. A couple of years later, when I had a . . . pressing reason to leave Varinshold, I thought I might find a welcome here, or at least enough coin for passage to foreign climes. He proved more welcoming than I hoped, and open to some sage advice.”
“Will you do the same for me, when the time comes?”
Veliss met her gaze, speaking softly. “I think you know I’d do just about anything you asked, love.”