The sixth and final ring was constructed around the cathedral square, every foot of it sheltering at least one defender. Those too old, injured or young to fight were crammed into the cathedral. The remaining guardsmen were arrayed in the square itself, ready to counter any breakthrough. They were weary, she could tell, but all stood straight as she approached, her grandfather’s sword resting on her shoulder.
“I thought it was time,” she said. “That I thanked you for your service. You are hereby dismissed with full honours and may depart at your leave.”
The laugh was surprisingly loud, if short-lived thanks to Lord Arentes’s glower of disapproval. “It can be said,” Reva went on, “that my family has not always deserved such great service. Nor in truth, have I. For I am not blessed, you see. I . . . am a liar . . .” She paused as a drop of rain fell onto her hand, strange, as the sky had been so clear for so long. She looked up to find the sky darkening, clouds forming with uncanny speed. Soon the rain was falling, driven by a hard wind, the fires on the other side of the ring dying under the deluge.
“My lady!” Antesh called from the walkway above, standing and pointing towards the south. “Something’s happening!”
CHAPTER NINE
Vaelin
Cara swayed a little as the clouds began to move in the sky, thin wisps of cotton coalescing into dark spidery tendrils, forming into a slowly spinning spiral a mile wide.
“Are you all right?” Vaelin asked, reaching out to steady her as she stumbled.
“Just a little light-headed, my lord,” she replied with a forced smile. “Haven’t done this for such a long time.” She took a breath and raised her gaze to the sky once more, a fresh breeze stirring the grass on the hilltop. The spiral twisted in the sky, darkening with every passing second, the tendrils thickening into roiling mountains of grey and black. Cara gritted her teeth and gave a pained grunt, the swirling mass of cloud starting to drift towards the smoke-shrouded city some six miles away, its course heralded by a rumble of thunder and lit by the occasional flash of lightning.
Cara sank to her knees, face pale and eyes dim with exhaustion. Lorkan and Marken rushed to her side, the young gifted casting a resentful glare at Vaelin which he chose to ignore. Weaver stood a little way off, his usually placid features now drawn in confusion as he paced back and forth, his ever-growing rope grasped tight in both hands. As far as Vaelin knew he hadn’t used his gift throughout the entirety of the march, though he was often seen carrying wounded from the field in the aftermath of battle. The song sounded a clear a note of frustration as Vaelin watched Weaver turn his gaze from Cara, wincing in discomfort before straightening into a determined stance. He waits for something, Vaelin realised. Or someone.
He turned to watch the mass of cloud rumble towards Alltor, pregnant with menace and hopefully enough rain to quench the fires raging within the walls. North Guard scouts had reported in the day before bringing news of the city’s dire straits and he had ordered the army’s pace quickened. He drove them hard, riding along the columns of trotting men with a grim visage and sincere threats for any who seemed likely to fall out. They continued through the night, covering fifty miles before he called a halt. In the morning Nortah had brought Cara to his tent with a suggestion.
“I have to stress, my lord,” the girl said. “I cannot predict the consequences if I do this. I can bring the rain down on the city, but what happens next . . .” She gave a helpless shrug. “When I was a girl a drought blighted our village, the crops withered and my mother said we were like to starve come the winter. I had some knowledge of my gift by then, making little whirlwinds and such, sometimes forming the clouds into pretty shapes. So I made a big cloud, called all the other clouds to join it, and it rained. For three days it rained and people rejoiced. Then the rain stopped and the duck pond froze over. It was the middle of summer. Erlin found me shortly after, telling my parents of a place in the north where I would be safe.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Vaelin cautioned her. “I know well the price our gifts exact.”
“I didn’t come all this way just to watch, my lord.”
He waited until the clouds were over Alltor, glimpsing the curtain of shifting grey that told of heavy rain. The song was strong now, singing Reva’s tune with a note of pride but also foreboding. Time was short.
“Odds of at least two to one,” Count Marven told the council of captains. “Lengthening by the hour as they draw more troops from Alltor to face us. Given the enemy’s strength, my lord, I am bound to suggest a feinting strategy.” He pointed to the centre of the map Harlick had drawn, showing the Volarian camp now no more than a few hundred paces distant, lines of Free Swords and Varitai drawn up to bar the route to Alltor, cavalry in large numbers on both flanks. “Keep our infantry where it is and send the Eorhil to the western bank to draw their gaze. At the same time the Nilsaelin horse and the North Guard go west. The enemy will be forced to reorder their ranks, allowing for an assault around here.” His finger moved to a section on the right of the Volarian line. “We hit them hard then veer off to the west to join up with the cavalry whilst the Eorhil threaten their eastern flank. It should draw off enough of their forces to buy the city some time. We can then pull back to the forest where I’m sure our Seordah friends can make great play with their infantry. We tie them up in small battles, ambushes and the like. It won’t be quick, a matter of weeks rather than days, but I think this is a battle we can win.”
“Alltor doesn’t have weeks,” Nortah said. “Or even days.”
“And we do not have the numbers, good Captain,” Marven returned, the strain of the past week telling in his voice. “We need an army twice the size to break their line.”
“So we’ve come all this way to run around the woods whilst the city perishes?” Nortah gave a disgusted snort.
“What about the river?” Adal put in. “We could build boats. There are plenty in our ranks who know how. Send reinforcements to the city that way.”
“By the time we get across there won’t be anyone to reinforce,” Nortah said. “That’s if we can make it past that monster they’ve got moored in the river.”
Vaelin glanced up at the tent roof as a thunderclap sounded overhead. Cara’s storm was gathering force and soon the ground would be too sodden for cavalry. He went to the rear of the tent where the canvas bundle lay on his bunk, the captains’ dispute continuing as he undid the knots, pulling back the wrapping to reveal the sword. The blood-song swelled in welcome as he grasped the scabbard, the heft of it so comfortable in his hand. He was aware their voices had stilled as he strapped on the sword, the scabbard resting against his back with a familiar weight.
“My lord?” Dahrena asked as he walked from the tent. He went to where Flame had been tethered, hauling the saddle onto his back and tying it in place, then leading him towards the ranks of assembled infantry.
“What are you going to do?” Dahrena stood in his path, a little breathless, eyes bright with fearful suspicion. Behind her the captains all stood, most looking on in bafflement but Nortah and Caenis wearing expressions of grim understanding. They exchanged a glance then moved off in opposite directions, Caenis calling to his sergeant, Nortah running to his company, with Snowdance padding along in his wake.
“My lord?” Dahrena said.
“You see the souls of others when you fly,” he said. “But do you ever see your own?”
She gave a wordless shake of her head.