“Livella?” She remembered Lieza saying the name that morning, in a voice laden with fear. She found herself drawing back from the sudden intensity of Varulek’s gaze.
“A great warrior of legend,” he murmured. “Favoured by the gods with skill and strength beyond that of any woman. She journeyed into the pits and fought the Dermos themselves, killing three. One with a sword, one with a spear, and one . . .” He handed her the torch and moved away, going to a shadowed corner of the cavern and returning with something wrapped in a threadbare cloak. She saw how his hands trembled with excitement as he drew back the cloth, revealing a stave little under five feet in length, the wood pale and shiny from use, decorated on either side of the central span, one side showing crossed swords, the other crossed axes.
“And one,” Varulek went on, breathless now with mingled awe and fear, eyes shining in the torchlight. “One she killed with a bow fashioned from wych elm.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Frentis
“Your vengeance is hard indeed, brother.”
Fleet Lord Ell-Nurin’s expression betrayed a mingling of disgust and judgement as his gaze swept over New Kethia, taking in the ruined houses evident in every quarter and the smoke rising beyond the south-facing walls. Corpses were still being consigned to the pyre, a task that had occupied fifty freed folk for six days now. “Your people certainly have a talent for destruction.”
“Justice, as ordained by the queen.” Frentis could hear the hollow note in his voice. The sight of the grey-clad girl lying dead in her mother’s arms was yet to fade. So many years of battle and death, so many faces forgotten, but he knew this image would never dim.
“And the city is not destroyed,” he added. “Any damage will be restored according to the queen’s design, in time.”
“A task dependent upon a successful outcome to this war.” The Fleet Lord’s gaze went to the harbour, crowded with Meldenean ships and captured Volarian prizes, many more vessels anchored in the estuary beyond. They had arrived the day before, the sight of so many masts on the northern horizon provoking the newly freed populace to panic. Frentis had managed to calm them, though not before several hundred had fled the city with their bundled spoils. He arrayed his own people at the dockside in a thick defensive formation with archers on the surrounding rooftops, then ordered Draker to begin a cheer at the sight of the Red Falcon sailing into the harbour.
“I believe we have sufficient space to carry your entire command,” Ell-Nurin said, gesturing at the fleet. “I have to say there wasn’t much heart in the enemy when we caught up to them. Seems their admiral committed suicide rather than face the Empress’s wrath. Most gave up without a fight.”
“Carry my command where, my lord?”
“Volar of course. The queen will expect reinforcement.”
“Most people now bearing arms in this city were slaves up until two weeks ago. The others joined me to win freedom, not acceptance to the Realm. The Realm folk we freed will come, I’ve little doubt of that. The Garisai too, though many will expect payment. Perhaps two thousand swords in all. The others have suffered much, more than I would ever have asked them to.”
“They may have seized a city and slaughtered their masters, but lasting freedom will only come through victory. As I’m sure you’ll explain to them.” There was a hardness to Ell-Nurin’s voice, a reminder that he held rank here.
Frentis sighed and gave a slow nod of assent.
“Very good. This”—the Fleet Lord turned to a young woman standing amidst his entourage of captains—“is Sister Merial. You will give her a full report of your operations, and any useful intelligence gathered, for onward conveyance to the queen.”
Frentis frowned at the woman, finding her perhaps a year or two shy of his own age, dressed in clothing he assumed had been chosen for its plainness. She was also palpably uncomfortable in the presence of so many Meldeneans, though they seemed inclined to provide her with ample space. “Seventh Order?”
“Quite so, brother.” Ell-Nurin leaned closer. “And, however tempting it might be, you really don’t want to touch her.”
? ? ?
“Nine thousand more, y’say?” Sister Merial spoke with a strong Renfaelin accent, largely devoid of honorifics and rich in dubious inflection. “Of these terrible red men.”
“They’re real enough,” Draker growled. “Plenty of us with the scars and burns to prove it. Got one on my arse if you want to see it.”