by Anthony Ryan
Vaelin had been surprised at the lack of interest in Scratch. The Masters seemed preoccupied, besides which they were difficult men to impress at the best of times. Sollis met him in the courtyard as he got down from the cart, favouring Scratch with a brief look of incurious disgust, he said, “Nysa and Dentos made it back so far, the others are due in tomorrow. Leave your gear here and follow me to the Aspect’s chambers. He wants to see you.”
Vaelin assumed the Aspect wanted an explanation as to why he had returned with a large and savage animal in tow and repeated his story when the Aspect asked for a report on his test.
“You seem well fed,” the Aspect observed. “Usually boys return thinner and weaker.”
“I was fortunate, Aspect. Scr- the dog, helped by scenting a stag killed in a storm. I didn’t think it would breach the conditions of the test as we are permitted to use whatever tools we find in the wild.”
“Yes.” The Aspect clasped his long fingers together, resting them on the desk. “Very resourceful. Pity you couldn’t help Brother Tendris in his search. He is one of the Faith’s most valued servants.”
Vaelin thought of burning children and forced an earnest nod. “Indeed, Aspect. I was impressed with his devotion.”
Vaelin heard Sollis make a small noise behind him and couldn’t decide it was a laugh or a snort of derision.
The Aspect smiled, an odd sight on such thin face, but it was a smile of regret. “There have been… events beyond our walls since your test began,” he said. “That is why I called you here. The Battle Lord has resigned from the King’s service. This has caused disharmony in the Kingdom, the Battle Lord was popular with the common folk. That being the case, and in recognition of his service, the King has granted him a boon. Do you know what that is?”
“A gift, Aspect.”
“Yes, a King’s gift. Anything which it is in the King’s power to give. The Battle Lord has chosen his boon and the King looks to us to fulfil it. Except our Order cannot be commanded by the King, we defend the Realm but we serve the Faith and the Faith is above the Realm. But still, he looks to us, and it is not an easy thing to refuse a King.”
Vaelin stirred uncomfortably. The Aspect seemed to be expecting something from him but he had no idea what it could be. Eventually, finding the silence unbearable he said, “I see, Aspect.”
The Aspect exchanged a brief glance with Master Sollis. “You understand Vaelin? You know what this means?”
I am the Battle Lord’s son no longer, Vaelin thought. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, in fact he wasn’t sure he felt anything at all about it. “I am a brother of the Order, Aspect,” he said. “Events outside these walls do not concern me until I pass the Test of the Sword and am sent forth to defend the Faith.”
“Your presence here was a symbol of the Battle Lord’s devotion to the Faith and the Realm,” the Aspect explained. “But he is Battle Lord no longer and wishes his son returned to him.”
Vaelin wondered at the absence of joy or surprise, no leap of the heart or stomach churning surge of excitement. Just numb puzzlement. The Battle Lord wishes his son returned to him. He remembered the drumbeat thud of hooves on damp sod fading into morning fog, the stern command in his father’s words, Loyalty is our strength.
He forced himself to meet the Aspect’s eye. “You would send me away, Aspect?”
“My wishes are not at issue here. Neither are Master Sollis’s, although rest assured he has made them plain. No, this decision falls to you, Vaelin. As the King cannot command us, and it is a cherished maxim of our Order that no student is forced to leave unless they fail a test or transgress the Faith, the King has given the choice to you.”
Vaelin suppressed a bitter laugh. Choice? My father made a choice once. Now so will I. “The Battle Lord has no son,” he told the Aspect. “And I have no father. I am a brother of the Sixth Order. My place is here.”
The Aspect looked down at his desk, suddenly seeming older than Vaelin had seen him before. How old is he? It was difficult to tell. He had the same fluid movements of the other masters but his long features were lean and worn with outdoor living, his eyes aged and heavy with experience. There was a sadness too, a regret as he pondered Vaelin’s words.
“Aspect,” Master Sollis said. “The boy needs rest.”
The Aspect looked up, meeting Vaelin’s gaze with his old, tired eyes. “If that is your final word.”
“It is, Aspect.”
The Aspect smiled, Vaelin could tell it was forced. “You gladden my heart, young brother. Take your dog to Master Chekril, I think he’ll prove more welcoming than you might expect.”
“Thank you, Aspect.”
“Thank you Vaelin, you may go.”
“A Volarian slave-dog,” Master Chekril breathed in awe as Scratch stared up at him, his scarred head angled in puzzlement. “Haven’t seen one in twenty years or more.”
Master Chekril was a cheerful, wiry man in early middle age, his movements more jerky and less measured than the other masters, mirroring the hounds he cared for with such dedication. His robe was dirtier than any Vaelin had seen, stained with earth, hay and a mixture of urine and dog muck. The odour he emitted was truly spectacular but he didn’t seem to mind, or pay the slightest heed to any offence it might cause anyone else.
“You killed its pack brothers you say?” he asked Vaelin.
“Yes master. Brother Makril said it saw me as pack leader now.”
“Oh yes. He’s right about that. Dogs are wolves, Vaelin, the live in packs, but their instincts are dulled, the packs they run in are temporary, they quickly forget who is leader and who is not. But slave-dogs are different, got enough of the wolf left in them to keep the pack order but they’re more vicious than any wolf, bred that way centuries ago. Only the nastier pups got bred, some say there was a touch of the Dark in their breeding. They were changed somehow, made more than a dog but less than a wolf, and different to both. When you killed the pack leader it adopted you, saw you as stronger, a worthy leader. Doesn’t happen every time though. You’ve certainly got a measure of luck young man.”
Master Chekril took a small piece of dried beef from the pouch at his belt and crouched lower to offer it to Scratch, Vaelin noting the hesitant, wary movements of the man. He’s scared, he realised, appalled. He’s frightened of Scratch.
Scratch sniffed the meat cautiously, glancing uncertainly at Vaelin.
“See?” Chekril said. “He wont take it from me. Here.” He tossed the morsel to Vaelin. “You try.”
Vaelin held the meat out to Scratch who snapped it up and wolfed it down in an instant.
“Why’s he called a slave-dog, master?” Vaelin asked.
“Volarians keep slaves, lots of them. When one of them runs they bring him back and cut the small fingers off his hands. If he runs again they send the slave-dogs after him. They don’t bring him back, except in their bellies. It’s not an easy thing for a dog to kill a man. Men are stronger than you think, and more cunning than any fox. For a dog to kill a man it must be strong and swift but also cunning, and vicious, very vicious.”
Scratch lay down at Vaelin’s feet and rested his head on his boots, tail thumping slowly on the stone floor. “He seems friendly enough.”
“He is, to you. But never forget, he’s a killer. It’s what he’s bred for.”
Master Chekril went to the rear of the large stone store room that served as his kennels and opened a pen. “I’ll put him in here,” he said over his shoulder. “You better lead him in, he won’t stay otherwise.”
Scratch obediently followed Vaelin to the pen and went inside, briefly circling a patch of straw before laying down.
“You’ll have to feed him too,” Chekril said. “Muck him out and so on. Twice a day.”
“Of course master.”
“He’ll need exercise, plenty of it. Can’t take him out with the other hounds, he’d kill them.”
“I’ll attend to it master.” He went into the pen and patted Scratch
on the head, provoking a slobbering attack of licks that knocked him off his feet. Vaelin laughed and wiped the drool away. “I had wondered if you would be happy to see him, master,” he told Chekril. “I thought you might want him killed.”
“Killed? Faith no! Would a blacksmith throw away a finely made sword? He’ll be the start of a new blood line, he’ll sire many puppies and hopefully they’ll be just as strong as him but easier to manage.”
He stayed in the kennels for another hour, feeding Scratch and making sure he was comfortable in his new surroundings. When it came time to leave Scratch’s whines were heart rending but Master Chekril told him he had to get the dog used to being left so he didn’t turn around after he closed the pen door. Scratch started howling when he went out of his sight.
The evening was subdued, an unspoken tension reigning in the room. He exchanged stories of hardship and hunger with the others. Caenis, like Vaelin looking better fed than when he left, had taken shelter in the hollow trunk of an ancient oak only to find himself attacked by an angry eagle owl. Dentos, never fleshy at the best of times but now distinctly gaunt, had spent a miserable week fighting starvation with roots and the few birds and squirrels he managed to catch. Like the masters, neither seemed all that impressed with his story. It was as if hardship bred indifference.
“What’s a slave-dog?” Caenis asked dully.
“Volarian beast,” Dentos muttered. “Nasty buggers. Can’t use ‘em for fighting, they turn on the handlers.” He turned to Vaelin, his gaze suddenly interested. “Did you bring any food back with you?”
They spent the night in a sort of exhausted trance, Caenis honing the edge on his hunting knife with a whet stone and Dentos nibbling at the dried venison Vaelin had hidden in his cloak with the small bites they knew were best when you had an empty stomach, bolting would only make you sick.
“Never thought it was gonna end,” Dentos said eventually. “Really thought I’d die out there.”
“None of the brothers I went out with came back,” Vaelin commented. “Master Hutril said it was the storm.”
“Starting to see why they’re so few brothers in the Order.”
The next day was probably the least punishing they had endured so far. Vaelin had expected a return to the harsh routine but instead Master Sollis filled the morning with a sign language lesson, Vaelin found his meagre ability had improved after his brief exposure to Sella and Erlin’s fluid signs although not by much and he still lagged behind Caenis. The afternoon was taken up with sword practice, Master Sollis introducing a new exercise, throwing rotten fruit and vegetables at them with blinding speed as they tried to fend off the putrid projectiles with their wooden swords. It was smelly but strangely enjoyable, more like a game than most of their exercises which normally left them sporting a few bruises or a bloody nose.
Afterwards they ate their evening meal in uncomfortable silence, the dining hall was much quieter than usual, the many empty places seemed to stall attempts at conversation. The older boys gave them a few looks of sympathy or grim amusement but no one commented on the absences. It was like the aftermath of Mikehl’s death only on a grander scale. Some boys were already lost and wouldn’t be coming back, others were yet to return and the tension of worrying over their possible non-appearance was palpable. Vaelin and the others exchanged some grunted comments about stinking like compost from the afternoon practice but there was little real humour in it. They concealed a few apples and bread rolls in their cloaks and returned to the tower.
It grew dark and still no one returned. Vaelin began to feel a sinking certainty that they were the only boys left in their group. No more Barkus to make them laugh, no Nortah to bore them with another of his father’s axioms. It was a truly chilling prospect.
They were climbing into bed when the sound of footsteps on the stone staircase outside caused them to freeze in wary anticipation.
“Two apples says its Barkus,” Dentos said.
“Taken,” Caenis accepted.
“Ho there!” Nortah greeted them brightly, coming into dump his gear on his bed. He was thinner than Caenis and Vaelin, but didn’t quite match Dentos’s haggard emaciation, and his eyes were red with exhaustion. Despite it all he seemed cheerful, even triumphant.
“Barkus here yet?” he asked, stripping his clothes away.
“No,” Caenis said smiling at Dentos who curled a disgusted lip.
Vaelin noticed something new about Nortah as he pulled his shirt over his head, a necklace of what looked like elongated beads around his neck. “Did you find that?” he asked, gesturing at the necklace.
There was a flash of smug satisfaction on Nortah’s face, a mingled expression of victory and anticipation. “Bear claws,” he said. Vaelin admired his off-handed manner and imagined the hours of rehearsal it must have taken. He decided to keep quiet and force Nortah to tell the tale of his own volition but Dentos spoilt it.
“You found a bear claw necklace,” he said. “So what? Took it off some poor fool caught in the storm eh?”
“No, I made it from the claws of a bear I killed.”
He continued to undress, affecting disinterest in their reaction but Vaelin saw clearly how much he was enjoying the moment.
“Killed a bear my arse!” Dentos sneered.
Nortah shrugged. “Believe me or not, it’s of no matter.”
They lapsed into silence, Dentos and Caenis refusing to ask the inevitable question despite their obvious curiosity. The moment stretched and Vaelin decided he was too tired to let the tension endure.
“Please brother,” he said. “Tell us how you killed a bear.”
“I put an arrow in its eye. It took a fancy to a deer I’d brought down. Couldn’t have that. Anyone who tells you bears sleep through the winter is a liar.”
“Master Hutril says they only wake up when their forced. You must have found a very unusual bear, brother.”
Nortah fixed him with an odd look, coldly superior, which was usual, but also knowing which was not. “I must say I’m surprised to find you here brother. I met a trapper in the wilds, a rough fellow to be sure, and a drunkard if I’m any judge. He had a lot of news to share about events in the wider world.”
Vaelin said nothing. He had decided not to tell the others about the King’s boon to his father but it seemed Nortah would leave him little choice.
“The Battle Lord left the King’s service,” Caenis said. “Yes, we heard.”
“Some say he asked a boon of the King to return his son from the Order,” Dentos put in. “But since the Battle Lord don’t have a son, how could he be returned?”
They knew, Vaelin realised. They knew ever since I arrived. That’s why they’ve been so quiet. They were wondering when I was going to leave. Master Sollis must have told them I was staying today. He wondered if it was truly possible to keep a secret in the Order.
“Perhaps,” Nortah was saying. “The Battle Lord’s son, if he had one, would be grateful for an opportunity to escape this place and return to the comfort of his family. It’s not a chance any of the rest of us will ever get.”
Silence reigned. Dentos and Nortah glaring at each other fiercely and Caenis fidgeting in uncomfortable embarrassment. Finally Vaelin said, “It must have been a fine piece of bow work, brother. Putting an arrow in a bear’s eye. Was it charging?”
Nortah gritted his teeth, controlling his anger. “Yes.”
“Then it’s to your credit that you held your nerve.”
“Thank you, brother. Do you have any stories to share?”
“I met a pair of fugitive heretics, one with the power to twist men’s minds, killed two Volarian slave-dogs and kept another. Oh, and I met Brother Tendris and Brother Makril, they hunt Deniers.”
Nortah threw his shirt onto his bed, standing with his muscular arms on his hips, face set in a neutral frown. His self-control was admirable, the disappointment he felt barely showing but Vaelin saw it. This was to be his moment of triumph, he had killed a bear and Vaelin was lea
ving. It should have been one of the sweetest moments of his young life. Instead Vaelin had refused the chance of escape, a chance Nortah hungered for, and his adventures made Nortah’s look paltry in comparison. Watching him Vaelin was struck by Nortah’s physique. Although still only thirteen, the shape of the man he would become was clear; sculpted muscle and lean, handsome features. A son to make his King’s Minister father proud. If he had lived his life outside the Order it would have been a tale of romance and adventure played out under the admiring gaze of the court. Instead he was doomed to a life of war, squalor and hardship in service to the Faith. A life he hadn’t chosen.
“Did you take its pelt?” Vaelin asked.
Nortah frowned in irritated puzzlement. “What?
“The bear, did you skin it?”
“No. The storm was brewing and I couldn’t drag it back to my shelter so I hacked its paw off to take the claws.”
“A wise move, brother. And an impressive achievement.”
“I dunno,” Dentos said. “I thought Caenis’s eagle owl thing was pretty good too.”
“An owl?” Vaelin said. “I brought back a slave-dog.”
They bickered good naturedly for a while, even Nortah joined in with caustic observations of Dentos’s thinness, they were family once more, but still incomplete. They went to bed later than usual, nervous of not greeting the next arrival, but tiredness overtook them. Vaelin’s sleep was dreamless for once and when he woke it was with a startled shout, hands instinctively scrabbling for his hunting knife. He stopped when his eyes fixed on the bulky shape on the next bunk.
“Barkus?” he asked groggily.
There was a soft grunt, the shape immobile in the gloom.
“When did you get in?”
No answer. Barkus sat still, his silence disconcerting. Vaelin sat up, fighting the deep seated desire to snuggle back into his blankets. “Are you all right?” he asked.
