She released her hold on its fur, standing upright and hefting the spear in both hands, whirling it about and sinking the broad blade into the ape’s shoulder. She put all her weight on the haft, teeth gritted as she forced it deeper, feeling it grinding on bone and slicing through sinew until it protruded from the ape’s chest.
It convulsed as she dived clear, a gasping bellow of pain and confusion issuing from its mouth. It stood fully erect for a moment, eyes tracking from the spear-blade to Reva, now crouched in the sand, ready to dodge another charge. Seeing its eyes, however, dulled with pain and the knowledge of defeat, she saw it was done even before it sank to its knees with a gurgling whine.
Reva glanced about, finding herself less than a hundred yards from the Empress’s balcony. She was standing close to the edge, smiling with sisterly pride as the crowd’s unbidden exultation filled the arena. A brief look at the upper tiers confirmed the absence of archers; Varulek had kept his word.
She rose and walked towards the balcony, her eyes picking out the eagle motif in the centre. Flowers cascaded down from the terraces as she walked, liberally covering the sand around her in a multi-coloured floral carpet. She lowered her gaze, concealing a grunt of frustration at the growing blanket of flowers. How to find it amidst all this . . .
Then she saw it, a faint irregular line in the sand, only partially obscured by a cluster of roses. She raised her eyes to the Empress, seeing her incline her head in acknowledgment. Think nothing. Feel nothing. Reva went to one knee, keeping her gaze on the Empress, her fingers sinking into the sand and inching towards the line until they felt the rough weave of coarse fabric. Her fingers bunched on it, ripping it away, sand erupting in a large plume to reveal the bow, strung and ready . . . and a single arrow alongside it.
The crowd fell to instant silence as something landed in the sand with a soft thud. Reva closed her eyes, air escaping her in a hiss. Just one arrow.
She opened her eyes, finding herself staring at Varulek’s slack, lifeless face. From the fresh blood still seeping from the stump of his severed neck it was clear he had died only moments before.
Reva raised her gaze, expecting to find the Empress now shielded by a wall of Arisai, but instead she stood as she had before, precariously close to the edge, arms open with no protection at all.
“You displayed great skill in concealing yourself from my song, little sister,” she said. “The Honoured Master of the Arena did not.”
The doors in the arena walls slammed open in unison, Arisai emerging from the tunnels in a run, perhaps fifty of them, all forming a circle around Reva, Lieza and the dying ape. Lieza tried to run to Reva’s side but was quickly brought down by a trio of Arisai, laughing as she spat and thrashed in their grip.
“I am pleased to have made such a valued gift to my sister,” the Empress said as Lieza was forced to her knees. Reva dragged her attention back to the balcony where the Empress still stood, maddeningly close, such an easy target.
“But, if we are to share power,” the Empress continued, “I am forced to conclude that you require a lesson in its cost. Power was never won without blood, ambition never fulfilled without sacrifice. So before dear Lieza receives the three deaths, the Arisai have orders to rape her in front of you for a day and a night. But, of course, you can spare her such a fate.” She pointed at the bow and the single arrow a few inches from Reva’s hand. “It seems you have a choice to make, little sister.”
CHAPTER NINE
Frentis
“Volar features the most heavily fortified harbour in the world,” the Fleet Lord said, his gloved hand sweeping across the map. It was an old chart, the edges frayed and the waxed parchment yellow with age, but also highly detailed. “Towers on either side of the harbour mouth and high walls on the moles that enclose it. The dockside itself has six different strongholds, each holding a battalion of Varitai.”
The map fluttered a little in the wind, obliging him to weight it down with a dagger. The day had dawned with an ominous sky and an unseasonal chill to the air. Frentis could see the trepidation on the faces of many Meldeneans working the Red Falcon’s rigging, knowing they feared the onset of another Dark-born storm though Ell-Nurin himself scoffed at such notions. “Sailed the Cut half a hundred times. She’s ever prone to summer squalls, nothing Dark about it.”
“How do you propose we attack such a place?” Karavek asked the Fleet Lord. “Unless you intend to commit my people to some suicidal enterprise.”
“I certainly don’t.” Ell-Nurin’s finger tracked to a shallow inlet five miles east of the city. “This is Brokev’s Notch, favoured haunt of smugglers for as long as there’s been an empire.”
One of the other captains, an Asraelin from his garb, stepped forward to peer at the map with a dubious eye. “The channel’s barely wide enough for three ships abreast that far in.” Ell-Nurin said nothing, staring at him in silence until the captain gritted his teeth, and added, “My lord.”
“We land in relays,” Ell-Nurin said. “Form up on the beach and march on Volar from the east, the least expected direction.”
“The Empress is mad but not foolish,” Frentis said. “She may well have anticipated the move. We could find ourselves facing a fortified shore.”
“Which is why a third of our ships, those not laden with troops, will linger outside the harbour come the dawn, giving every appearance of being about to make an assault. With luck the Empress will concentrate her forces there.”
“They could sally out,” the Asraelin captain pointed out. “Seek to break the fleet in two before we land.”
“Thanks to Lady Alornis’s marvellous devices,” Ell-Nurin replied, “and our considerable advantage in numbers, I’m certain we can contain any sallies they might attempt.” He turned to Frentis. “Brother, I leave it to you to decide the order of landing.”
Frentis nodded. “My own people first. The Politai next. Master Karavek’s people last.”
“Want the glory all to yourself, eh, brother?” Karavek asked, though not without a note of relief.
Ell-Nurin straightened, lifting his chin and gazing off to the east. “My lords, Captains of the Fleet and honoured allies, come the new day we will have struck a deathblow to this most vile of empires. For we come with justice in our hearts and freedom in our souls. Let all who sail with us know, destiny awaits and will not be denied.”
Ell-Nurin held his pose, seemingly expectant of some response, a hearty cheer perhaps. After a moment, as the silence stretched and thickened, he coughed. “To your duties, lords and sirs.”
“What an arse,” Draker muttered as he and Frentis made their way below. “We truly have to take orders from him, brother?”
“Arse he may be, fool he isn’t. The plan is sound. Make sure the others know that.”
Draker nodded and began to move away, then paused. “Always wondered, brother. What’s my rank?”
“Rank?”
“Yeh. You’re a Brother, Illian’s a Sister, the arse is a Fleet Lord. What am I?”
“You can be a sergeant, if you like.”
Draker’s bushy brows bunched in disappointment. “Got more folk answering to me than any sergeant I ever saw. Over two hundred of the buggers at last count.”
“Captain then. Captain Draker of the Queen’s Free Company. How’s that sound?”
“Sounds like it’d earn a pension.”
Frentis sighed a laugh. “I expect it will.”
Draker smiled, though his voice held a sombre note as he said, “Sorry for the beatings, brother. If I never said before. I was drunk the whole time, see? Don’t think I had a sober day till Varinshold fell.”
“It was a long time ago, Captain. See to your company, if you would.”
He sought out Sister Merial, finding her in company with a pipe near the stern, the sweet-smelling smoke escaping through an arrow-slit in the hull. “Meldeneans can always be counted on for some prime Alpiran five-leaf,” she said, offering him the pipe. “Been over a year since I had a toke on anything this fine.”
He declined with a raised hand. “Any word from your husband?”
“Indeed.” She took a deep draw, blinking with watery eyes, her gaze losing focus. “Think I might’ve been a bit too generous with meself, brother.”
“Any word?” he repeated as she patted her chest and coughed a little.
“The queen won another victory,” she said, voice a little hoarse. “Becoming a bit of a habit with her. Battle of the Flowers they’re callin’ it, don’t know why. In any case the road to Volar was open as of this morning. They should get there within two days.”
He nodded, thoughts clouded with visions of Lady Reva in the arena, and more besides. Bring the healer . . .
He had resumed taking Brother Kehlan’s sleeping draught in New Kethia, keen to avoid any more shared dreams, wary of what they might reveal to her, though it also robbed him of any clues as to her intentions. Doesn’t care if I bring my army. Seems indifferent to the queen’s approach. What does she plot now?
“We’re landin’ first, I take it,” Sister Merial said.