She turned her gaze on the ranks of the Realm Guard. The regimental loyalty of the Realm’s soldiery was legendary and she saw open dismay on many faces. “When this war is won,” she told them, raising her voice, “I give you my word the Realm Guard will be rebuilt and any wishing to rejoin their former regiments will be granted leave to do so. For now, we have a war to win and sentiment will not aid us in that endeavour.”
Lord Travick barked a command, his sergeant’s voice a thunderclap, sending every soldier to one knee, heads bowed. “The Realm Guard is yours, Highness,” he said. “To forge as you will, and,” he added, his voice loud and carrying to every soldier in his command, “if I hear any man say differently, I’ll flog him down to the bone.”
? ? ?
The walls of Warnsclave had been neglected for many years, the long period of peace heralded by her father’s ascension making them an expensive irrelevance to successive town factors. Vaelin opined they had been strong enough to repel one Volarian assault, but ultimately proved too weak to withstand another. They were rent in several places, great gashes torn into the stone from ground to parapet, offering an all-too-clear view of what lay beyond as Arrow brought Lyrna closer.
“Nothing remains, Highness,” Lord Adal had reported that morning, having returned from reconnaissance. “Not a house, and not a soul.”
Her faint hope the North Guard had exaggerated dwindled with every tread of Arrow’s hooves, the ash and rubble visible through the breaches told of utter destruction. She found Vaelin waiting at the ruined gate, expression grim. “The harbour, Highness,” he said.
The harbour waters were cloudy with silt and scummed by oil leaking from the scuttled boats of the town’s fishing fleet, but she could see them clearly enough, a great cluster of pale ovals, tinged green by the algae in the water so they resembled a mound of grapes after the harvest.
Lyrna swept her gaze around the remnants of what she recalled as a lively if somewhat smelly town, grimy in fact, the people speaking in a coarse accent, more ready to meet her gaze than in Varinshold, and less ready to bow. But they had been happy to see her, she remembered, cheering as she rode through, offering babies to kiss and tossing flower petals in her path. She had come to open an alms-house, paid for by the Crown and staffed by the Fifth Order. She had found no trace of it in the journey to the harbour, just street after street of piled brick and scorched timber.
“They chained them together,” Vaelin said. “Pushed the first in and the rest followed. Perhaps four hundred, the only survivors from when they took the town, I assume.”
“Didn’t want to be burdened with slaves on the march north,” Lord Adal commented. His voice had the clipped tones of well-controlled emotion, but Lyrna saw how the muscles of his jaw bunched as he stared down at the water.
“March north, my lord?” she asked him.
Lady Dahrena stepped forward with a bow, her face showing the kind of paleness that only came from the deepest chill. “I believe I may have useful intelligence, Highness.”
“It’s gone?” Lyrna asked her a short while later. She had ordered Murel to fetch the lady a hot beverage and she sat in her tent now, small hands clutching a bowl of warm milk. Vaelin stood by regarding Dahrena with evident concern, already having voiced his disquiet at her using her gift.
“Alltor cost you much,” he said. “Flying free again so soon was unwise.”
“I am a soldier in this army,” the lady replied with a shrug. “Like any other, and my gift is my weapon.”
Lyrna forced herself to stillness as the air seemed to thicken between them, knowing much was being left unsaid, but still they knew each other’s mind as if the words had been shouted. Whilst I know so little of what lies behind his eyes.
“Burnt to ash from end to end,” Dahrena confirmed. “The Urlish is dead, Highness.”
Lyrna remembered the day Lord Al Telnar had come begging her father to lift the strictures on harvesting timber from the Urlish, how he had been sent scurrying from the council chamber, face red with humiliation. “The Urlish is the birthplace of this Realm,” Janus had told a cringing Al Telnar as he signed another decree reallocating yet more land formerly owned by the Minister of Royal Works. “The cradle of my rule, not to be grubbed over by the likes of you.”
Al Telnar and the Urlish, she reflected. Now both nothing but ash. Strange he should sacrifice himself for me after so many years of Father’s torments. “And this army moving across the Renfaelin border towards Varinshold?” she asked Dahrena. “Could you gauge their number?”
“Somewhere over five thousand, Highness. Mostly on horseback.”
“Darnel calls his knights,” Lyrna mused. “He’ll certainly need them before long.”
“I don’t think so, Highness,” Dahrena said. “There’s a soul among them, burning bright but red. I’ve seen it before, when I flew over the Urlish. I’m certain it was fighting the Volarians there.”
Lyrna nodded, recalling a night spent in a Renfaelin holdfast, only months ago but it seemed like years now. There are many, Banders had said, who find the prospect of being ruled by that man a stain on their honour.