“We may have a little respite . . .” she began turning back, falling silent at the sight of them all kneeling with their heads lowered. She looked around, ready to berate her uncle for coming to the wall, then realised he wasn’t there. They were kneeling for her, even Antesh and Arken.
“Don’t do that,” she said in a small voice.
Reva spent the rest of the morning helping carry the wounded to the makeshift healing house Brother Harin had established in an inn near the gate. The brother and his two fellow healers from the Fifth Order, an elderly woman and a man of middle years, worked tirelessly stitching cuts and setting bones, whilst occasionally managing to save men from what Reva assumed would be fatal wounds.
“This may interest you, my lady.” Harin held up an instrument and moved to the archer she had seen take an arrow in the cheek the night before. The shaft had been removed but the head was firmly lodged in the bones of his face. The brother had given him a hefty dose of redflower but he still whimpered in pain, staring up at the instrument in Harin’s hand with fearful eyes. “This is called the Mustorian lance, in honour of your late father.”
The archer shrank back as Harin crouched down to inspect his wound, a deep gash in his cheek, recently cleaned but still leaking blood. Reva took the man’s hand and squeezed it, forcing an encouraging smile. “My father?” she asked Harin.
“Yes, his famous arrow wound was pretty much identical to this unfortunate fellow’s. The head so deeply buried that trying to cut it out would have been fatal. The healer who treated him was obliged to design a new instrument.” He held the long probe up for her inspection. “See the way the point is shaped? Narrow enough to fit into the base of an arrowhead and when it does”-he pushed his thumb along the centre of the probe and it split in two-“I extend it and grip the head, allowing swift and easy removal.”
“And painless?” she asked.
“Oh, Faith no,” he said, leaning over the wounded archer and starting to guide the probe into the wound. “It’s exquisitely agonising, so I’m told. Hold this fellow’s arms for me would you?”
She found Arken in the inn’s tap room, the elderly healer wrapping bandages about his chest. “Cracked ribs,” he told her with a rueful grin. “Only two though.”
“That was foolish,” she said. “Choose an easier kill next time.”
“None of them are easy, except for you.”
“All done,” the healer said, tying off the bandages. “I’d normally give you a vial of redflower for the pain, but we’re having to ration it.”
“There are a few extra bottles at the manse,” Reva said. “I’ll have them brought here.”
“Your uncle’s care requires redflower, my lady.”
He won’t last long enough to need it all, she thought then winced at the coldness of it. “He . . . wouldn’t wish to see his people in pain.” She turned to Arken, clasping his hand. “Get some rest.”
She sought out Lord Antesh, finding him in a room in the gatehouse arguing with Lord Arentes about how best to distribute the men. “They’ll know by now that concentrating against one or two points will avail them nothing,” he said with an air of forced patience. “Next time they’ll try to test us in several places at once. The Father knows they have the strength to do it.”
“We must make a stand,” Arentes replied with a sniff. “Keep our best men concentrated for a counterstroke should they break through.”
“Should they break through, this city is lost in any case, my lord.”
They both fell silent as she approached, Antesh betraying the same odd expression as when he and the other men had bowed to her. Arentes was more guarded, perhaps not willing to believe the wild stories circling the walls, something she found she liked him for. “Is there a problem, my lords?”
“The Lord Archer seeks to exert control over my men, my lady,” Arentes said. “Command of the House Guard and the City Guard was given to me. Already too many of my best men have been hived off to bolster the . . . amateur elements of the defence. Further weakening will reduce our ability to contain a serious assault.”
“And the assaults we’ve faced already haven’t been serious?” Antesh scoffed, his patience clearly running thin. “My lady, this city stands or falls on the strength we can place on the walls. If we are attacked at several points at once . . .”
She held up a hand. “My lords, in truth I see merit in both your arguments.” She stepped closer to the map spread out on the table between them. Why did this place have to be so big? “If I may make a suggestion.” She pointed to the barracks near the centre of the city. “Keeping so many men here seems pointless. If the Volarians do manage to seize a section of the wall, it’ll take them too long to get there and drive them back. However, if the force is split into four, one for each quarter of the city, they can rush to wherever the threat is greatest in their sector. I suggest the House Guard be quartered here, just back from the gate. The City Guard divided into three and placed according to Lord Arentes’s discretion.”
Antesh considered the map for a moment then raised his eyebrows at Arentes. The old commander stroked his pointed beard then gave a slow nod. “There . . . may be some value to such a stratagem.” He lifted his helmet from the table and gave a short bow. “I’d best be about it, my lord, my lady.”
“I think he likes you,” Antesh said when Arentes had gone. “Bit of a twinkle in his eye when you’re around.”
“Watch your tongue, my lord,” Reva told him without much conviction. “How many did we lose today?”
“Thirty-five dead, twenty more wounded. Not a bad rate of exchange considering how many bodies lie on the other side of these walls.”
“These slavers waste their men like cheap corn. How does such indifference breed loyalty?”
“Loyalty and fear are often the same thing, especially in war.” He paused, expression guarded. “May I enquire as to the health of the Fief Lord?”
Reva saw little point in concealment. “He’s dying. With the Father’s grace he may last another month.”
“I see. I’m sorry, my lady. He . . . proved a better man than most in the end.”
“The end is not yet come.” She held up her wych-elm bow. “You owe me a story.”
“Arren was the finest bowsmith known to Cumbraelin history,” Antesh said. They were on the battlements, touring the eastern section, Reva forcing polite nods at the reverent greetings, tolerating the stares and whispered awe. “Possibly the finest in the world. So great was his skill and so impressive were his bows that some have claimed there was a touch of the Dark to their fashioning. In truth, I think he was just a highly skilled man who saw great art in an ancient craft. From an early age he was crafting bows of great power but also beauty.”
Antesh held up his own bow, displaying the thick stave, smoothed by years of use. “The longbow is powerful, and there’s a pleasing aspect to its simplicity, but Arren brought an elegance to it, somehow managing to decorate the stave without diminishing its power. Naturally his bows carried a high price, though when the Lord of Cumbrael came calling he was wise enough to work for free.” His eyes moved to her own bow.
“He made this for my great-grandfather?”
“That he did, and four more like it, all decorated differently to reflect the lord’s various interests, literature, music and so on. Yours appears to be the hunting bow. The lord decreed they were his gift to future generations of the Mustor family. But, within a few short years they were all lost when Janus set about forcing us into his new Realm. Arren himself died in a raid on his village, though there’s a story Janus had wanted to take him alive and had the men responsible executed, but who can say?”