Blood Song

  Vaelin had managed to hide his surprise when the Aspect had called him to his room and he found Makril waiting, staring at the red, diamond-shaped cloth in his hand, a bemused expression on his blunt features.

  “You two are acquainted, I believe,” the Aspect said.

  “We met during my Test of the Wild, Aspect.”

  “Brother Makril has been appointed commander of our expedition to the Martishe forest,” the Aspect told him. “You will follow his orders without question.”

  Apparently few men knew the Martishe as well as Makril, save for Master Hutril, who couldn’t be spared from his duties at the Order House. Their contingent numbered only thirty brothers, mostly experienced men from the northern border who seemed to share Vaelin’s wariness of Makril, but he quickly proved himself an adept tactician, albeit with a somewhat abrupt style of leadership.

  “One fucking hour,” he growled. “You were supposed to sweep to the south for two days.”

  “Lord Al Jelnek’s men ran away,” Nortah said. “Didn’t seem much point staying out there.”

  “Was I asking you, snot-boy?” Makril demanded. He had taken an instant dislike to all of them but reserved most of his bile for Nortah. Beside him his mongrel, Snout, gave a growl of agreement. Where he found the animal Vaelin had no idea, apparently Makril had given up on slave-hounds after his experience with Scratch and opted for the largest and most-ill-tempered hunting dog he could find, regardless of breeding. Several soldiers bore scars as evidence of Snout’s dislike of petting or eye contact.

  Nortah stared back at Makril with fully reciprocated dislike. Vaelin worried continually what would happen if the two were left alone together.

  “We thought it best to return with the body, brother,” Vaelin said. “We will patrol ourselves this evening.”

  Makril turned his glower on Vaelin. “Some of the men made it back. Said there had been at least fifty scum out there.” Makril always referred to the Cumbraelins as scum. “How many did you get?”

  Vaelin hefted the longbow in his hand. “One.”

  Makril’s bushy eyebrows knitted together. “One out of fifty?”

  “One out of one, brother.”

  Makril sighed heavily. “We better report to his lordship. He’s got another letter to write.”

  Lord Linden Al Hestian was tall and handsome with an easy smile and a lively sense of humour. He was courageous in battle and skilled with sword and lance. Contrary to the King’s description, he also turned out to possess a quick mind and his apparent arrogance was merely the swagger of a young man who had achieved much in his short life and saw little reason to hide his self-satisfaction. Vaelin, much to his regret, found himself liking the young noble, although he had to admit the man made a terrible leader, his nature simply lacked the necessary ruthlessness. He had threatened the men with flogging many times but had yet to inflict any punishment at all despite obvious cowardice, drunkenness and a camp that was a disgrace to soldierly conduct.

  “Brothers!” He greeted them with a broad smile as they approached his tent, the smile fading as he saw the body slung over the horse. Clearly none of the fleeing men had bothered to tell him the news.

  “My condolences, my lord,” Vaelin said. He knew the two men had been friends since childhood.

  Linden Al Hestian moved to the corpse, his face stricken with grief, and gently touched his dead friend’s hair. “Did he go down fighting?” he asked after a moment, voice thick with emotion.

  Vaelin saw Nortah open his mouth to reply and cut in quickly. Nortah had a tendency to indulge his cruel streak where Lord Al Hestian was concerned, voicing barely concealed insults and criticism without hesitation. “He was very brave, my lord.”

  Martil Al Jelnek had wept like a child with the arrow buried in his gut, his hands clutched at Vaelin in brief, desperate spasms as the light of life faded from his eyes and effluent spouted from his mouth. He had tried to say something at the end, Vaelin was sure of it, his mouth stumbling over a torrent of bile-choked gibberish. Perhaps some message for his beloved. They would never know.

  “Brave,” Al Hestian repeated with a faint smile. “Yes, he was always that.”

  “His men ran,” Nortah said. “One arrow and they ran. This regiment of yours is no more than a rabble of criminal scum.”

  “Enough!” Brother Makril barked.

  Sergeant Krelnik approached, snapping a smart salute at Al Hestian. He was a stocky man nearing his fiftieth year, with a heavily scarred face and a fearsome disposition towards the men. As he was one of the few experienced soldiers to enlist in the regiment, having served in the Realm Guard since the age of sixteen, Al Hestian had wisely made him Master Sergeant, responsible for discipline. But despite his best efforts Nortah’s description was accurate, the regiment remained a rabble.

  “I’ll order the pyre built, my lord,” Sergeant Krelnik said. “We should give him to the flames tonight.”

  Al Hestian nodded, stepping back from the corpse. “Yes. Thank you, Sergeant. And you, brothers, for bringing him back.” He returned to his tent. “Brother Makril, Brother Vaelin, may I have a moment?”

  Al Hestian’s tent was free of the luxuries found in the quarters of the other nobles, the available space taken up with his weapons and armour, which he cleaned and maintained himself. Most of the other nobles had brought along a servant or two but apparently Lord Al Hestian was capable of seeing to his own needs.

  “Please, brothers.” He gestured for them to take a seat and moved to the small portable desk where he dealt with the numerous administrative tasks that beset regimental commanders. “A royal missive,” he said, lifting an opened envelope from the desk. Vaelin’s heart began to beat a little faster at the sight of the King’s seal.

  “‘To Lord Linden Al Hestian, commander of the Thirty-fifth Regiment of Foot, from His Highness Janus Al Neiren,’” Al Hestian read. “‘My lord, please accept my congratulations for keeping a regiment in the field for such a protracted period. Lesser commanders would no doubt have opted for the more obvious course of concluding the Realm’s business in the Martishe forest with the utmost dispatch. You, however, clearly have a more subtle stratagem in mind, so subtle in fact that I am unable to discern its substance from this distance. You will recall Aspect Arlyn’s gracious provision of a contingent from the Sixth Order, brothers for whom the Aspect is keen to find other employment. I hear my former Battle Lord’s son is among them and I feel sure he has inherited his father’s appreciation for urgency in carrying out his king’s commands. Perhaps you should discuss your plans with these brothers, who may be of sufficiently generous disposition to offer some advice.’”

  Vaelin was appalled to find his hands trembling and hid them in his cloak, hoping the others assumed he was feeling the chill.

  “So, brothers,” Al Hestian said, regarding them with an expression of honest despair. “I must seek your counsel, it seems.”

  “I’ve given you my counsel several times, my lord,” Makril said. “Flog some men, force the laziest and most cowardly through the gates without weapons, and allow Sergeant Krelnik a free hand in discipline.”

  Al Hestian massaged his temples, fatigue evident in his brows. “Such measures would hardly win the men’s hearts, brother.”

  “Bugger their hearts. It’s a rare commander that can win the love of his men. Most rule by fear. Make them fear you and they’ll respect you. Then perhaps they’ll start killing some Cumbraelins.”

  “I suspect from the tone of His Highness’s letter we may have little more than a few weeks to conclude matters here. And, despite the King’s assumption, I confess I have no stratagem for bringing down Black Arrow and his cohorts. Even if I adopt the measures you recommend, it will take more time than we have to win victory in this blighted forest.”

  Black Arrow. They got the name from the only prisoner they had taken in seven months, an archer brought down by Nortah. He lived long enough to spit hate and defiance at them, calling on his god to accept his
soul and begging forgiveness for his failure. He laughed at their questions; there were few threats that could be made to a dying man. In the end Vaelin had sent the others away, sitting down to offer the man his water bottle.

  “Drink?”

  The man’s eyes were bright with defiance but the maddening thirst as his life-blood seeped away made him bite back a refusal. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

  “I know.” Vaelin held the bottle to the man’s lips as he drank. “Do you think he will forgive you? Your god.”

  “The World Father is great in His compassion.” The dying man spoke fiercely, spitting the words. “He will know my weaknesses and my strengths and love me for both.”

  Vaelin watched the man clutch at the arrow in his side, a small whimper escaping his lips.

  “Why do you hate us?” Vaelin asked. “Why do you kill us?”

  The man’s whimper of pain turned into a rasping laugh of bitterness. “Why do you kill us, brother?”

  “You came here in defiance of treaty. Your lord agreed you would not bring word of your god to the other Fiefs…”

  “His words cannot be bound by borders, nor by the servants of a false faith. Black Arrow brought us here to defend those you would slaughter in service to your heresy. He knew the peace between us was a betrayal, a vile blasphemy…” He choked off, coughing uncontrollably. Vaelin had tried to coax more information from him but the man would only ramble on about his god, his words becoming less coherent as his life ebbed away. He soon slipped into unconsciousness, his breathing faltering to stillness within a few minutes. For some reason Vaelin found himself wishing he had asked his name.

  “And you, Brother Vaelin?” Al Hestian’s question brought him back to the present with a start. “Our King seems to have faith in your judgement. Can you advise a method for bringing this campaign to a close?”

  Call an end to the whole bloody farce and go home. He left the thought unsaid. Al Hestian couldn’t leave the forest without victory, or at least a claim to victory. And the King does not wish him to leave the forest at all, he reminded himself. You have a bargain to keep. Who’s to say His Highness cannot undo what he has done?

  “Your men are hunted by Black Arrow’s archers whenever they leave the camp,” he said. “But my brothers and I are not, we are the hunters in this forest and the Cumbraelins fear us. Your men must become hunters also, at least those who can be taught.”

  Makril snorted. “This lot couldn’t be taught to piss straight never mind hunt.”

  “There must be some men here who can be trained, the Faith teaches us there is worth even in the most wretched. I suggest we select a few, thirty or so. We will train them, they will answer to us. We will organise a raid, find one of Black Arrow’s encampments and destroy it. When they have their first success against the Cumbraelins the rest of the men will be inspired.” He paused, gathering the will for what he had to do. “It would further inspire the men if you were to lead the raid personally, my lord. Soldiers will respect a leader who shares their dangers.” And much can happen in the confusion of a raid, an arrow can easily go astray…

  Al Hestian stroked the sparse stubble on his chin. “Brother Makril, you agree with this course of action?”

  Makril gave Vaelin a sidelong glance, his heavy brows creased with suspicion. He knows something isn’t right, Vaelin realised. He can smell it, like a hound catching an unfamiliar scent.

  “It’s worth a try,” Makril said after a moment. “Finding their encampment though. That’ll be a pretty trick. The scum cover their tracks well.”

  “Brothers of the Sixth are considered the finest woodsmen in the Realm,” Al Hestian said. “If the camp can be found, you will find it, I’m sure.” He slapped his knee, enlivened by the prospect of some resolution to his dilemma. “Thank you, brothers. This plan will do very well.” He rose, sweeping a wolf fur from the back of his chair and fastening it over his shoulders. “Let’s be about it. We have much to do!”

  None of the soldiers seemed to have a family name. They were known mostly by the criminal appellations of their past: Dipper, Red Knife, Fast Hands and so on. They had chosen the thirty trainees by the simple expedient of making the whole regiment run around the stockade and picking those who dropped last. They stood in three ranks of ten, staring balefully at Makril as he set out the rules that would govern their lives from here on.

  “Any man found drunk without permission will be flogged. Those found drunk more than once will be dismissed from the regiment. Any of you shitheads thinking that means a free passage home should know that dismissed men will have to walk out of the Martishe on their own two feet with no weapons.” Makril paused a moment to let the import of his words sink in. A lone man walking through the Martishe with no means of defence was likely to find himself lashed to a tree and disembowelled in short order.

  “Understand this, you miserable bunch of thieving scum,” Makril growled. “Lord Al Hestian has given the Sixth Order leave to train you as we see fit. You belong to us now.”

  “Didn’t sign up for this,” a sallow-faced man in the front row muttered sullenly. “S’posed to be in the King’s serv—”

  Makril’s fist smashed into the man’s jaw, felling him instantly. “Brother Barkus!” he barked, stepping over the prostate soldier. “Ten lashes for this man. No rum for a week.” He glared at the remaining trainees. “Anyone else want to discuss their terms of service?”

  Caenis and Dentos slipped into the forest the next day with instructions to find the Cumbraelins’ camp whilst the men were trained. The combined threat of flogging and death proved an excellent stimulus to both discipline and exertion. Their trainees scrambled to obey every order, running for miles through the snow, enduring bruising lessons in swordsmanship or unarmed combat, listening in respectful silence as Makril attempted to teach them the basics of woodcraft. If anything, they seemed too respectful, too cowed by fear, and Vaelin knew fearful soldiers made bad soldiers.

  “Don’t fret it,” Makril told him. “As long as they’re more scared of us than they are of the scum they’ll do fine.”

  Vaelin took charge of the sword lessons whilst Barkus made himself a figure of dread with his rough-and-tumble approach to unarmed combat. Nortah quickly abandoned attempts to teach the men the bow, none of them had the muscle or the skill for it, and concentrated instead on the crossbow, a weapon even the clumsiest oaf could master in a few days. By the end of the first week their small company could run five miles without complaint, had lost their fear of sleeping outside the stockade, and most could hit a mark at twenty paces with a crossbow. Their sword skills and basic fighting ability were still lacking but Vaelin felt they had at least learned enough to survive an initial encounter with Black Arrow’s men.

  As usual Vaelin’s legend had preceded him and the men regarded him with a mixture of awe and fear. They would occasionally exchange a word or two with Nortah and Barkus but maintained a rigid silence in Vaelin’s presence, as if one wrong word could earn a swift death. Their fear was deepened by Vaelin’s black mood, making him short-tempered and prone to dishing out painful slaps with the wooden stave he used for sword practice. At times he found himself sounding like Master Sollis. It did nothing to lighten his mood.

  Al Hestian had chosen to train with the men, running with them and sharing their bruises in practice. He proved a skilled swordsman and was sufficiently tall and strong to at least compete with Barkus in unarmed combat. All the while he strove to encourage the men, dragging slackers to their feet and pulling them along during the runs, applauding their meagre progress with the sword. Vaelin noticed their growing regard for the young noble, where before he had been “that snot-nosed lackwit” behind his back, now he was simply “his lordship.” The mood of the men was still sullen, they had no affection for Vaelin and his brothers, but Al Hestian had become a figure worthy of their solidarity. Watching him as he sparred with some of the men, Vaelin felt his depression deepen yet further. Murderer.

  The
voice had begun to plague him the day they began the training, a soft, knowing murmur at the back of his thoughts, whispering awful truths. Assassin. You’re no better than the scum who killed Mikehl. The King has made you his creature…

  “What do you think, brother?” Al Hestian was striding towards him through the snow, face flushed with exertion but also bright with optimism. “Will they do?”

  “At least another ten days, my lord,” Vaelin replied. “They still have much to learn.”

  “But they have improved greatly, wouldn’t you say? At least now we can call them soldiers.”

  Fodder more like. A mask for your deceit, bait for your trap. “Indeed, my lord.”

  “Pity Brother Yallin didn’t live to see this, eh?” Brother Yallin had been the Fourth Order’s addition to their expedition. Nominally responsible for reporting their progress to Aspect Tendris, he had spent the first weeks in the forest claiming he couldn’t venture outside the stockade because his attempts to teach the men the Catechism of Devotion were of primary importance. Sadly he soon succumbed to a virulent bout of dysentery and died shortly after. It was fair to say he hadn’t been greatly missed.

  “It seems odd that Aspect Tendris didn’t send a replacement for Brother Yallin,” Vaelin commented.

  Al Hestian shrugged. “Perhaps he thought the journey too perilous.”

  “Perhaps. Or he could be in complete ignorance of Brother Yallin’s death. One might almost think someone has been sending Aspect Tendris regular reports in Brother Yallin’s name.”

  “Such a thing would be unthinkable, brother.” Al Hestian laughed and went off to shout encouragement at a group of men grappling nearby. Why couldn’t you have been hateful? Vaelin wondered. Why couldn’t you have made my task easy? The voice’s response was immediate, implacable: Should murder ever be easy?