The Wolf's Call - Anthony Ryan Page 0,173

grunted, shuddering with the effort of speaking. “Begged forgiveness for . . . his father’s weakness. Now he stands . . . ever at the Darkblade’s side . . . his most loyal dog. This . . .” He gripped the sabre’s hilt, trying to raise it. “Is not . . . for him. I gave you a fine . . . gift. Now, I ask for payment in kind. Find a suitable hand . . . to wield this.” Trembling, he pushed the sabre towards Vaelin.

“I will,” he said, reaching out to touch his fingers to the pommel. “Skeltir,” he said, shuffling closer. “I must know, how many people with the Divine Blood does the Darkblade possess? What are their gifts?”

“More”—Varnko bared his crimson teeth once again—“than mere smoke, my friend . . .”

The Skeltir’s head slumped one final time, his last breath spattering a red mist onto Vaelin’s hand.

“Ellese,” he said, rising and hefting the sabre.

“Uncle?” She peered curiously at the blade as he held it out to her, hilt first.

“Your mother once owned something similar, as I recall,” Vaelin told her. “This man asked for a fitting hand to wield it. I think yours will fit very well.”

She gave a tight smile and took hold of the sabre. “Mother taught me the sword,” she said, coughing to clear the sudden hoarse note in her voice. “But I was always better with the knife and the bow.”

“So was she.”

“Let’s see him on his way,” Nortah said, nodding at Varnko’s corpse. “You have some knowledge of their funeral rites?”

“No,” Vaelin said, raising his gaze to the plain, where more bodies littered the ground, felled by a swarm of crossbow bolts as they fled. They were not easily counted, causing him to conclude that most of the warriors belonging to the Ostra Skeld must have perished this night. Perhaps that’s what he wanted, he thought, looking once again at Varnko’s slumped, empty form. To spare them becoming what Kehlbrand would twist them into.

“Just throw him over with the others,” he added. “I think he would prefer that.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Darkblade’s full host appeared on the northern horizon two days later. The great mass of riders approached to within a mile of the city before spreading out to the east and west to raise their town-sized camps. The infantry arrived as the day slipped towards evening, moving in loose ranks that told of a general lack of martial discipline as did their mismatched armour and weapons. Many wore the hauberks and carried the spears of fallen Merchant soldiery, whilst others were clad in dark breastplates and mail of Stahlhast manufacture.

“The Redeemed,” Luralyn named them. “Former artisans from the tors and denizens of conquered lands and tribes, all convinced of my brother’s godhood.”

“Not convinced enough to march in good order, apparently,” Sho Tsai said. The three of them stood atop the bastion of the north-facing gate, watching the host as it continued to spread. Camps were appearing to the south-east and west, indicating that the city would soon be surrounded.

“Most are new to soldiering, it’s true,” Luralyn replied. “But make no mistake, many have already tasted battle and they will all happily die for the Darkblade.”

“Their full number?” the general enquired.

“My people are not as fond of counting as yours.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “They are many.”

“I’d estimate somewhere over sixty thousand,” Vaelin said. “Together with the Stahlhast and the Tuhla, we face an army close to three hundred thousand strong.”

“We counted more than two thousand enemy bodies after their first attack. But we lost much the same number fighting them off.” Sho Tsai exchanged a glance with Vaelin as they both pondered a grim arithmetic and arrived at the same conclusion. The defenders of this city would bleed their strength away with every attack whilst their enemy remained strong.

“An army of such size will lay waste to the Northern Prefecture,” the general said. “Perhaps even menace the heartland of the kingdom.”

“Kehlbrand is not interested in laying waste,” Luralyn said. “Nor will he stop until he has claimed all the realms of the Merchant Kings. His army will only grow as he conquers. Everywhere he steps he finds more adherents, more Redeemed to swell his ranks.”

“Then we have to stop him here. Or at least bleed his horde so white it will stand little chance against the full might of the Merchant armies.”

“Meaning we’ll have to kill six of them for any one of us that falls,” Vaelin said. “A hard prospect.”

“But