Queen of Fire (Raven's Shadow #3)

Queen of Fire (Raven's Shadow #3) Page 57

She continued to work the engine, loosing bolts at varying trajectories until all targets had sustained a hit. When the last bolt had flown she stood back, perspiring a little despite the cold. “Still some details to work out,” she said, chest heaving a little. “It tends to seize up if it’s not oiled frequently, and I think I can improve on the design of the bolt-heads.”

“Give me a hundred of those, Highness,” Count Marven said, his tone now entirely serious. “And I’ll match us against any army the Volarians can field.”

Lyrna went forward to favour Alornis with a soft embrace, planting a kiss on her forehead. “What else can you show me, my lady?”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Frentis

Illian ducked under the arc of his wooden blade and countered with a jab at his eyes, easily turned before stepping close to trap her arm under his shoulder, pulling her close. “Now what will you do, sister?” he asked in a light tone.

He saw her bite back a retort, features red with frustration, detecting the decision in her eyes a fraction of a second too late. Her forehead connected painfully with his nose, leaving him stunned for the brief moment it took her to wrestle free, her ash sword coming round in a clumsy but fast swipe at his midriff. His wooden blade connected with hers an inch from his chest, deflecting it with a loud crack, then sweeping it aside to thrust into her belly. She grunted from the blow and lowered her sword, chest heaving and eyes dark with resentment.

“Anger is your enemy,” he reminded her, wiping blood from his nose. “A little better this time, but still not fast enough. Practice your scales until midday then feed the dogs.”

She took a deep calming breath before nodding, her tone carefully modulated. “Yes, brother.”

He left her to it and strode across the deck where his company were engaged in their own practice, Draker teaching a trio of their younger members the basics of cutting a man’s throat. “Gotta get it done in one stroke,” he advised, a beefy arm around the chest of a lanky youth named Dallin, a Renfaelin farmhand rescued from slavers shortly before their time in the Urlish reached its disastrous conclusion. “Forget about finding the veins.” Draker demonstrated the technique with a sheathed dagger. “Just cut deep and draw it all the way around. Then get hold of his hair and pull the head back to open the cut as wide as you can.”

Frentis passed Weaver on the way to the stern, Slasher and Blacktooth at his side as they often were these days, seemingly fascinated by his work. Halfway through the voyage he had abruptly stopped plaiting rope and begun working strips of leather into a tight arrangement fixed onto a circular frame, replying with only a vague smile when asked what he was about. The creation had initially resembled a shallow basket but its purpose had gradually become clear as Weaver fixed straps to the concave side and borrowed pitch from the crew to cover the curving outer surface.

“A fine shield, sir,” Frentis offered, pausing at his side and raising a hand for Slasher to lick.

“A Lonak design,” Weaver replied, an oddly familiar cadence to his voice as he used a large bone needle to thread twine along the edge of the shield. “Though rarely used, since their martial culture is essentially aggressive in nature.”

He continued to work, not looking up as Frentis moved on. Captain Belorath was at the stern, standing as still as the shifting deck would allow, his sextant trained on the horizon. Frentis had no notion of how the device worked or the meaning of the numbers the captain paused to scribble on parchment, but knew it was how he fixed their position on this ocean.

“Seas are calmer today,” he offered. In fact it was the first calm day for over a week; the stories he had heard of the Boraelin’s tempestuous wintry nature had not been exaggerated.

Belorath replied with a customary grunt, raising his sextant once more. “But the clouds aren’t. Promises another storm by tomorrow.” He squinted, keeping the sextant level, his eyes tracking to a brief glimpse of the sun through the cloud. “I believe, brother,” he said, consulting the numbers on his parchment. “We are less than two weeks from Volarian shores. It’s time a decision was made.”

• • •

“Eskethia.” Thirty-Four’s finger tapped the chart where a two-hundred-mile-long stretch of Volarian coastline traced from north to south. “One of the last provinces to fall to Volarian rule. The free people there may be less inclined to fight for the empire. Also, New Kethia is home to the largest slave market in the western provinces. Many of the slaves seized in your homeland will still be there, awaiting the winter auctions.”

“Well garrisoned?” Frentis asked him, although it was Lekran who replied.

“At least a division,” he said. “As our friend says, Eskethians are ever resentful at the loss of their sovereignty, though it happened centuries ago.”

Frentis eyed the chart closely, gauging the distance from Eskethia to Volar. Close enough to threaten the capital, but sufficiently distant to ensure any forces sent against us won’t have time to return when the queen lands. He raised his gaze to Belorath. “Captain?”

“It’s not a shore I’m familiar with, may take a while to find a suitable landing site. Luckily the coming storm should mask our approach from their patrol ships.”

Frentis nodded. “Eskethia then,” he said, hating himself for the dread that clutched at his chest, knowing the decision meant his weeks of dreamless sleep would soon have to be abandoned. Just one night, he told himself. What can she do in just one night?

• • •

There was a time she would have made them watch, delighting in their impotence as they squirmed in their bonds, helpless witnesses to the slaughter of their families. But for reasons she can’t fathom such diversions hold no interest for her now and she has been content to gather them atop the Council Tower, standing at the parapet with the tip of a sword pricking every back, watching smoke and flames rise from the wealthier districts of the city as their estates are laid waste. It is close to midnight and the flames are bright, though they are at too great a height to hear the screams. For all their unnatural vitality these greats of the empire are now revealed as old men, sagging in grief, weeping or choking out desperate pleas for mercy, kept upright only by the promise of instant death should they falter.

“I realise this may be a redundant statement, Honoured Council-men,” she tells them. “But the Ally is less than impressed by your efforts to fulfil his great design.”

She moves to the grey-haired dullard, the one whose name she still can’t recall although she is almost certain he must have known her father as a youth. He wears the formal robes of a Council-man, red from head to toe, though a telltale stain is spreading across the fabric around his legs. “Barely a tenth of the forces required have been gathered,” she tells the somewhat pungent greyhead, “whilst you present me with an endless parade of ever-more-pathetic excuses. The Ally has ordained a great destiny for this empire whilst you wallow in your comforts and blind yourselves to the threat growing across the sea.”

He attempts to beg, but his words emerge in a stumbling incoherent babble of spit and tears. She lets him burble on and turns an appraising glance on the man standing at his back, dressed in light armour like the Kuritai, but armed with but one sword, the blade longer and more slender than the Volarian standard, reminiscent in fact of the Asraelin pattern. Also, unlike the Kuritai, his armour is enamelled in red rather than black. He is of average height but his body is toned to near perfection, the product of decades of breeding and years of conditioning. It had always been a persistent delusion among these long-lived clods that the Kuritai were the ultimate slave soldiers, incapable of improvement, and now here they were, once again proved fatally wrong.

The swordsman is aware of her scrutiny, returning her gaze with a respectful nod, a grin of anticipation on his lips. They had been the Ally’s most cherished project for centuries, a slave soldier capable of thought as well as obedience, but successive generations had proved a disappointment, either too difficult to control or too easy. It was her beloved who had provided the clue; during his time in the pits they had studied him closely, finding him most deadly when the binding was loosened, when his rage added precious speed to his blows. And so they had begun to change their diet of drugs, subtly alter their training regimen, weeding out those lacking the required spirit. In a few short years the results achieved had been . . . impressive.

“Step forward,” she tells the swordsman and his grin widens as he complies, his sword digging into the Council-man’s back. The scream is long as he plummets to the ground. She doesn’t bother herself to view the result, waving a hand at each of the swordsmen in turn, the Council-men forced over the edge with varying degrees of panic and terror, some begging as they fall, as if their pleas will conquer gravity. In a few moments only one remains. He stands with his back straight, staring fixedly at the northern suburbs where his villa burns, the ornamental lake that surrounds it providing a fine reflection as the air is still tonight.

“Nothing to say, Arklev?” she asks him.

He doesn’t react, not even to turn his head. She moves closer, finding his posture oddly noble, stoic in the face of death, refusing to acknowledge his enemy. A classic Volarian pose, worthy of any statue. “I’ve always wondered,” she says, resting her arms on the parapet beside him. “Was it you who proposed the Council employ me to assassinate my father?”