Authors: Anthony Ryan
“How much did you have last night?”
Nortah shrugged. “Stopped counting after my sixth cup. Slept well though.”
“I’ll bet.” He sighed, hating the necessity of saying what he had to say. “I don’t begrudge a man a drink, brother, but you are an officer in this regiment. If you must get drunk, please do so out of sight of the men.”
“But the men like me,” Nortah protested with mock sincerity. “‘Come sup with us, brother,’ they say. ‘You’re not like the Young Hawk. We’re not scared shitless of you, oh no.’ They even invited me to come roger some whores with them. I was touched.” He laughed at Vaelin’s appalled expression. “Don’t worry, I’ve not quite sunk that far. Besides, from what I hear a visit to the camp will most likely leave a man with a fire raging in his britches.”
Vaelin decided it best not to enlighten Nortah with the news that the pox outbreak was now under control. He nodded at the bowmen. “How long till they’re ready?”
“In about seven years they’ll be as good as we are. Think the Cumbraelins will give us that long?”
“I can only hope so. I meant will they stand? Will they fight?”
Nortah looked at his men, his haunted eyes distant, no doubt picturing them in battle, hacked and bloodied. “They’ll fight,” he said eventually. “Poor bastards. They’ll fight all right.”
He was dreaming of the Martishe when Frentis came to wake him, back in the clearing listening to the maddening enigma woven by Nersus Sil Nin. But now the red marble pattern of her eyes was jet black, like the stone that sat in the empty socket of the one-eyed man. The warm summer sun that had bathed the clearing in his vision was gone now, the ground thick with snow, the air cutting with its chill. And her words, whilst still mysterious, were cruel.
“You will kill and kill again, Beral Shak Ur,” she told him with a sickening smile, small points of light gleaming in the black orbs of her eyes. “You will witness the harvest of death under a blood-red sun. You’ll kill for your faith, for your King and for the Queen of Fire when she arises. Your legend will cover the world and it will be a song of blood.”
He was kneeling in the snow, his hands entwined on the hilt of his dagger, the blade slick with blood that shone black in the moonlight. Behind him there was a corpse, he could feel its heat seeping away into the snow. He knew the face of the corpse, he knew it was someone he loved. And he knew he had killed them. “I didn’t ask for this,” he said. “I never wanted it.”
“Want is nothing. Destiny is everything. Your are a plaything of fate, Beral Shak Ur.”
“I’ll choose my own fate,” he said, but the words were faint, empty, a child’s defiance to an indifferent parent.
Her laugh was a mocking cackle. “Choice is a lie. The greatest of lies.”
Her spite-filled features faded as a hand shook his shoulder. “Brother!” He came awake with a start, Frentis’s pale, worried face swimming into clarity through clouded eyes. “There’s a messenger here,” his brother said. “From the palace. The Aspect wants you.”
He dressed quickly, forcing the lingering nightmare from his mind as he made his way to the keep. He found the Aspect in his rooms reading from a scroll bearing the King’s seal. “The Fief Lord of Cumbrael is dead,” the Aspect told him without preamble. “It appears his son, his second son, has murdered him and claimed Lordship of the Fief. He calls for all loyal Cumbraelins and true servants of their god to rally to him and throw off the hated oppressor and heretic King Janus. He orders all adherents of the Faith to leave the Fief or face righteous execution. Reportedly some are already burning in their bonfires.” He paused, watching Vaelin’s face closely. “You know what this means, Vaelin?”
The conclusion was obvious if chilling. “There will be war.”
“Indeed. Battles and bloodshed, towns and cities will burn.” The Aspect’s voice was bitter as he tossed the King’s message onto his desk. “His Highness has ordered the Realm Guard to muster. Our regiment is to be at the north gate by noon tomorrow.”
“I’ll see to it, Aspect.”
“Are they ready?”
Vaelin recalled Nortah’s words and his own assessment of their discipline. “They will fight, Aspect. If we had more time they would fight better, but they will fight.”
“Very well. Brother Makril will command a scout troop of thirty brothers to accompany the regiment and provide reconnaissance. I would have liked a more sizeable contingent but our commands are scattered about the Realm and there is no time to recall sufficient numbers.”
The Aspect came closer, his face as serious as Vaelin had ever seen it. “Remember this above all. The regiment is under the King’s word but is a part of this Order and this Order is the sword of the Faith. The sword of the Faith cannot be stained with innocent blood. In Cumbrael you will see many things, many terrible things. They are a people who deny the Faith and indulge in the falsehood of god-worship but they are still subjects of this Realm. There will be great temptation to indulge your rage, to allow your men to abuse the people you find there. You must resist it. Rapists and thieves and any who abuse the people are to be flogged and hanged. You will show every kindness to the common folk of Cumbrael. You will show them the Faith is not vengeful.”
“I will, Aspect.”
The Aspect moved back to his desk, sitting down heavily, his long fingers clasped together in his lap, his thin face drawn and tired, eyes mournful. “I had hoped I would not see this Realm once again rent by war in my lifetime,” the Aspect said eventually. “ It was why we joined him, you see? Why we wedded the Faith to the crown. For peace and…” a faint smile curled his narrow lips, “for unity.”
“I… doubt the King wished this crisis to end in war, Aspect,” Vaelin offered.
The Aspect turned to him sharply and the sorrow was gone in an instant, replaced by the immobile certainty Vaelin had known since his boyhood. “The King’s wishes are not for us to know. Do not forget my instructions, Vaelin. Keep to the Faith and may the Departed guide your hand.”
The regiment marched under a slate grey sky, the late summer sun hidden by a bank of angry cloud that matched the grim mood of the men. It had taken longer to get them assembled and marching than Vaelin had liked and he found his temper flaring continually during the march to the city.
“Pick it up, lack-wit!” he snarled at one unfortunate soldier who dropped his pole-axe. “It’s worth more than you are. Sergeant, no rum for this man tonight.”
“Aye, my lord!” Sergeant Krelnik was always at his side, eyeing him with wary respect. Vaelin suspected the sergeant might not always be punctilious in enforcing his punishments, something he chose to ignore, although today he felt markedly less inclined to do so.
They arrived at the north gate an hour before noon, the men falling out on the side of the road, some grumbling at the lack of rest on the march, but not too loudly.
“Where are they all?” Barkus asked, looking at the empty plain. “Isn’t the whole Realm Guard supposed to be here?”
“Maybe they’re late,” Dentos suggested. “We beat them here cos we march faster.”
“Brother Commander Makril may have some answers,” Caenis nodded at the gate where Makril had appeared, leading his small company of mounted scouts at the gallop.
“The Realm Guard is mustering on the Western Road,” the Brother Commander told them as he reined in, scattering dust before him. “The Battle Lord orders us to wait here.”
“Battle Lord?” Vaelin asked. There hadn’t been a Battle Lord in the Realm since his father left the King’s service.
“Lord Marshal Al Hestian has been honoured by the King. He leads the Realm Guard to Cumbrael with orders to take the capital with all dispatch.”
Al Hestian…The King has put the Realm Guard in the hands of Linden’s father.
Vaelin wished now he had met with the Lord Marshal when he delivered his sword to Linden’s brother. He would have given much to gauge the man’s temper, to know if he lusted for vengeance. If so the Aspect’s fears for the innocent people of Cumbrael would be well founded.
He turned to Sergeant Krelnik. “Make sure the men go easy on the water. No fires. We don’t know how long we’ll be here.”
“Aye my lord.”
They waited under the threatening sky, the men clustering together to play dice or toss board, the Order game having been enthusiastically adopted by the regiment. As in the Order throwing knives had become a form of currency and a sign of status amongst the soldiers, although Vaelin had been keen to ensure other Order traditions, such as thievery and frequent mealtime brawling, did not cross over into the ranks.
“Faith, Barkus! What is that?”
Dentos was staring at the object Barkus had unfurled from his saddle bag. It was about a yard long with a spiralled iron haft and a double headed blade that seemed to shine unnaturally in the meagre daylight. “Battle-axe,” Barkus replied. “Master Jestin helped me forge it.”
Looking at the weapon Vaelin experienced a murmur of disquiet from the blood-song, his unease deepened by what he knew of Barkus’s Dark affinity for metal.
“Star silver in the blade?” Nortah asked as they gathered round to inspect the weapon.
“Of course, only the on the edges though. The haft is hollow to keep it light.” He tossed the axe into the air where it turned end over end before landing in his palm. “See? Could bring down a sparrow in flight with this. Try it.”
He handed the weapon to Nortah who gave it a few practice swings, his eyebrows raising at the fluid passage of the blade through the air. “Sounds like it’s singing. Listen.” He swung the axe again and there was a faint, almost musical note in the air. Vaelin felt the pitch of the blood-song deepen at the sound and found himself edging away involuntarily, a dull nausea building in his gut.
“Want to try, brother?” Nortah offered him the axe.
Vaelin’s gaze was drawn to the axe blade, its gleaming star silver edge and the broad centre of the blade indented with an inscription. “You gave it a name?” he asked Barkus, not taking the axe.
“Bendra. For my… A woman I used to know.”
Nortah peered closely at the blade. “Can’t read it. What language is this?”
“Master Jestin said it was old Volarian. It’s a smith’s tradition to use it when inscribing blades. Dunno why.”
“Volarian smiths are counted the best in the world,” Caenis said. “It’s said they were the first race to smelt iron. Most of the secrets of the smithy originate with them.”
“Enough play, brothers,” Vaelin said, seized by a desire to be away from the weapon. “See to your companies. Make sure they haven’t contrived to lose any heavy gear on the march.”
It was an hour before another party came through the gate, twenty men of the mounted Palace Guard led by a tall red-haired young man on an impressive black stallion. Vaelin recognised the impeccably neat figure of Captain Smolen riding at his side.
“Get them into ranks!” Vaelin barked at Sergeant Krelnik. “Make it tidy. We have a royal visitor.”
He strode forward to greet the prince as the regiment quickly formed companies and stood to attention, raising a thick cloud of dust in the process. The prince’s party reined in as Vaelin sank to one knee, head bowed. “Highness.”
“Get up, brother,” Prince Malcius told him. “We have scant time for ceremony. Here.” He tossed Vaelin a scroll bearing the King’s seal. “Your orders. This regiment is at my disposal until further notice.” He glanced over his shoulder and Vaelin’s gaze was drawn to the hunched figure mounted in the front rank of the guards, a sallow faced man with red rimmed eyes and heavy brows denoting an extended period of over-indulgence. “You’ve met Lord Mustor before I believe,” Prince Malcius said.
“I have. My condolences on your father’s passing, my lord.” If the heir to Cumbrael noticed his offer of commiseration he gave no sign, squirming uncomfortably in his saddle and yawning.
“Lord Mustor will be accompanying us,” the prince informed him. He glanced around at the neatly arranged ranks. “Are they ready to march?”
“At your command, Highness.”
“Then let’s not dally. We will take the northern road and be at the bridge over the Brinewash by nightfall.”
Vaelin did a rough calculation of the distance.
Nearly twenty miles, and on the northern road, away from the Realm Guard’s route.
He pushed the torrent of questions to the back of his mind and gave a formal nod. “Very well, Highness.”
“I will proceed ahead and make camp.” The prince favoured him with a brief smile. “We’ll talk tonight. No doubt you’ll wish an explanation for all this.”
He spurred his horse and rode off at the gallop followed closely by the company of guardsmen. As they rode past Vaelin picked out another familiar face amongst the riders, a thin youthful face framed by a mane of black curls. His eyes met Vaelin’s briefly, an earnest expression seeking recognition, approval.
Alucius Al Hestian. So he will ride to war after all.
Vaelin turned away and began shouting orders.
Night was already drawing in when the regiment reached the timber bridge over the broad torrent of the Brinewash river. Vaelin ordered the camp raised and pickets posted. “No rum ration until this is over,” he told Sergeant Krelnik, dismounting from Spit and rubbing the ache in his back. “I expect several more days of hard marching. Don’t want the men’s feet slowed by liquor. Any man who complains can take it up with me personally.”
“There’ll be no complaints, my lord,” Krelnik assured him before striding off, his harsh gravelled voice casting forth a torrent of orders.
Leaving Spit in the care of a brother in Makril’s command he found the Prince’s party encamped near a willow tree close to the bridge. “Lord Vaelin,” Captain Smolen greeted him formally, snapping off a precise salute. “Good to see you again.”
“Captain.” Vaelin was still cautious of the Captain after his part in placing him in Princess Lyrna’s company. Still, it seemed churlish to hold it against him, he could understand how a man would find it all too easy to accede to her persuasion.
“Must say I’m glad of the chance to be a soldier again.” Captain Smolen inclined his head at the campfire where a huddled, cloaked figure stared into the flames, taking occasional sips from a wine bottle. “I feel I have been nurse-maiding the new Fief Lord long enough.”