Blood Song

by Anthony Ryan

  Erlin looked up then, his eyes meeting Vaelin’s, widening into alarmed recognition. He glanced once back at the puppet show, his expression an unreadable confusion of emotion, then turned and disappeared into the crowd. Vaelin was seized by a compulsion to follow him, find out if Sella was well, but as he started forward a shout erupted behind him followed by the sound of clashing blades. It was fifty yards away, near the gallows.

  A crowd was knotted around the scene of the disturbance and he had to force his way through, drawing grunts of pain and insults as his desperation made him less than gentle.

  “What was he doing?” someone in the crowd was saying.

  “Trying to get through the cordon,” another voice said. “Oddest thing. Not what you expect from a brother.”

  “Think they’ll hang him too?”

  Finally he was through the throng and drew up short at the scene before him. There were five of them, soldiers of the Twenty-seventh Cavalry judging by the black tail feathers in their tunics that gave them their informal name: the Blackhawks. Reputedly a favourite with the King because of their service during the Wars of Unification, the Blackhawks were often given the honour of policing public events or ceremonials. One of them, the largest, had Nortah by the throat, a beefy arm wrapped around his neck as two of his comrades attempted to restrain him. A fourth man stood back a little, his sword raised, poised for a strike. “Hold the bastard still, Faith’s sake!” he shouted. They all bore bruises or cuts, showing Nortah had not been easily captured. A fifth man was kneeling nearby, clutching at a bloody wound on his arm, his face grey with pain and tense with fury. “Kill the fucker!” he snarled. “He’s bloody crippled me!”

  Seeing the man with the sword draw his arm back further, Vaelin acted without thought. His one remaining throwing knife left his hand before he knew he had drawn it. It was the finest throw he had ever managed, the blade catching the swordsman just below the wrist. The sword dropped to the ground instantly, its owner gaping in shock at the shiny piece of metal impaling his limb.

  Vaelin was already moving, his sword hissing from the scabbard on his back. As Vaelin charged, one of the men holding Nortah’s arms released him, scrabbling at his belt for his own sword. Nortah saw the opportunity and brought his elbow round to smash into the soldier’s face, making him stagger into Vaelin’s flying kick. The soldier stumbled a few more paces, blood streaming thickly from his nose and mouth, before collapsing heavily to the earth.

  Nortah snatched a throwing knife from his belt and stabbed backwards, sinking the blade deep into the thigh of the man choking his neck, forcing him to release his hold. Vaelin moved in and dropped him with a blow to the temple from his sword hilt. The remaining Blackhawk had released his hold on Nortah and was backing away, sword drawn, the trembling point flicking between them.

  “You’re…” he stammered. “You’re breaking the King’s peace. You’re under arr—”

  Nortah moved with blinding speed, ducking under the sword and smashing his fist into the man’s face. Two more punches and he was down.

  “Hawks?” Nortah spat on the unconscious soldier. “More like sheep.” He turned to Vaelin, a hysterical desperation shining in his eyes. “Thank you brother. Come.” He turned away wildly. “We have to rescue my fa—”

  Vaelin’s blow took him under the ear, a technique they had learned after much painful tutelage under Master Intris. It rendered the victim unconscious but without lasting damage.

  Vaelin knelt next to his friend, checking the pulse in his neck. “I’m sorry, brother,” he whispered before sheathing his sword and gathering him up, hoisting his inert form over his shoulder with difficulty. Vaelin was bigger than Nortah but still his brother’s weight was a substantial burden as he moved towards the cordon of stunned spectators. Not one of them said a word as he gestured for them to make way.

  “Hold there!” A shouted command breaking the silence like glass, the crowd’s shock giving way to sudden babble of incomprehension and amazement.

  “Beat five Blackhawks, just the two of them…”

  “Never seen the like…”

  “It’s treason to strike a soldier. King’s Edict said so…”

  “HOLD!” The voice again, cutting through the noise. Looking round, Vaelin saw a mounted figure kicking his horse forward through the crush, occasionally laying about himself with a riding crop to speed progress. “Make way!” he commanded. “King’s business. Make way!”

  Emerging from the throng, he drew his mount up and Vaelin saw him clearly. A tall man on a black warhorse, a thoroughbred of Renfaelin stock. He wore a ceremonial uniform with a black feather in his tunic and the short-plumed helmet of an officer on his head. Beneath the visor the rider’s lean, clean-shaven face was hard with fury. The single four-pointed star on his breastplate depicted his rank: Lord Marshal of the Realm Guard. Behind the mounted man a troop of Blackhawks on foot emerged and fanned out, swords drawn, pushing the crowd back with the aid of a few kicks and punches. Some of them tended to their fallen comrades, casting vengeful glances at Vaelin as they did so. The man with Vaelin’s knife through his wrist was weeping openly in pain.

  Seeing no avenue of escape, Vaelin gently laid Nortah on the earth and stepped away, careful to keep himself between his friend and the man on the horse.

  “What is this?” the marshal demanded.

  “I answer to the Order,” Vaelin replied.

  “You’ll answer to me, Order whelp, or I’ll string you from the nearest tree by your guts.”

  Vaelin resisted the impulse to draw his sword as some of the Blackhawks moved closer. He knew he couldn’t fight them all, not without killing a few, which was unlikely to help Nortah.

  “Might I know your name, my lord?” he enquired, desperately playing for time and hoping his voice didn’t tremble.

  “I’ll know your name first, whelp.”

  “Vaelin Al Sorna. Brother of the Sixth Order, awaiting confirmation.”

  The name ran through the crowd like a wave. “Sorna…”

  “Battle Lord’s boy…”

  “Should’ve known, spitting image…”

  The rider’s eyes narrowed at the name but his furious expression remained firmly in place. “Lakrhil Al Hestian,” he said. “Lord Marshal of the Twenty-seventh Regiment of Horse and Sword of the Realm.” He nudged his mount closer, peering down at Nortah’s inert form. “And him?”

  “Brother Nortah,” Vaelin said.

  “I’m told he tried to rescue the traitor. Why would a brother of the Order do such a thing, I wonder?”

  He knows, Vaelin realised. He knows who Nortah is. “I couldn’t say, Lord Marshal,” he replied. “I saw my brother about to be murdered and prevented it.”

  “Murdered my arse!” one of the Blackhawks spat, face flushed with anger. “He was resisting lawful arrest.”

  “He is of the Order.” Vaelin spoke to Al Hestian. “Like me. We answer to the Order. If you believe we have transgressed, you must take the matter to our Aspect.”

  “All are subject to King’s Law, boy,” Al Hestian replied evenly. “Brothers, soldiers and Battle Lords.” He stared hard into Vaelin’s eyes. “And you and your brother will answer to it.” He motioned his men forward. “Keep you hands clear of your weapons, boy, or you’ll be answering to the Departed.”

  Vaelin reached back to grasp his sword hilt as the Blackhawks advanced. Perhaps if he wounded a few, he could create enough confusion to escape into the crowd with Nortah. There could be no return to the Order after this, no welcome for those that fought the Realm Guard. Life as an outlaw, Vaelin pondered. Can’t be that bad.

  “Easy now, lad,” one of the Blackhawks warned, a veteran sergeant with a weather-beaten face. He advanced slowly, his sword held low, a dagger in his left hand. Seeing the way his feet moved and the easy balance of his stance, Vaelin judged him to be the most dangerous of his opponents. “Leave the sword where it is,” the sergeant continued. “No need for any more blood here. You let us take
you in, and it’ll all get sorted out, nice and civilised.”

  Seeing the wary fury in the faces of the other Blackhawks, Vaelin judged that the treatment he and Nortah would receive would be anything but civilised.

  “I’ve no wish to spill any blood,” he told the sergeant, drawing his sword. “But I will if you make me.”

  “The hour drags ever onwards, Sergeant,” Al Hestian drawled, leaning forward in his saddle. “End this…”

  “Well here’s a pretty picture!” a voiced boomed from the crowd, the throng parting amidst shouts of protest as three figures forced their way through.

  Vaelin felt a tug at his heart. It was Barkus, flanked by Caenis and Dentos. Barkus was smiling at the Hawks, a picture of affability. By contrast Caenis and Dentos stared at them with the flat concentrated aggression they had learned through years of hard training. They all had their swords drawn.

  “A pretty picture indeed!” Barkus went on as the three of them fell in beside Vaelin. “A brace of Hawks all lined up for plucking.”

  “Get out of here, boy!” Al Hestian spat at Barkus. “This is not your concern.”

  “Heard the commotion,” Barkus told Vaelin, ignoring Al Hestian. He glanced back at Nortah’s inert form. “Snuck out did he?”

  “Yes. They’re going to execute his father.”

  “We heard,” Caenis said. “Bad business. They say he was a good man. Still, the King is just and must have his reasons.”

  “Tell that to Nortah,” Dentos said. “Poor bastard. Did they do that to him?”

  “No,” Vaelin said. “Couldn’t think of another way to stop him.”

  “Master Sollis is going to beat us for week,” Dentos grumbled.

  They fell silent, watching the Blackhawks, who stared back, faces full of malevolent anger but making no move to advance.

  “They’re afraid,” Caenis observed.

  “They should be,” Barkus said.

  Vaelin risked a glance at Al Hestian. Clearly not a man used to being balked, the marshal was visibly shaking with fury. “You!” He stabbed a finger at one of the cavalrymen. “Find Captain Hintil. Tell him to bring his company.”

  “A whole company!” Barkus sounded cheerful at the prospect. “You do us much honour, my lord!”

  A few people in the crowd laughed, making Al Hestian’s rage even more palpable. “You’ll all be flayed for this!” he shouted, his voice nearly a scream. “Don’t imagine the King will grant you an easy death!”

  “Speaking for my father again, Lord Marshal?”

  A tall, red-haired young man had emerged from the mass of onlookers. His clothes were modest but finely made, and there was something strange about the way the crowd parted before him, each citizen’s eyes averted, heads bowed, a few even dropping to one knee. Vaelin was shocked when he turned back and found Caenis and the Hawks all doing the same.

  “Kneel, brothers!” Caenis hissed. “Honour the prince.”

  Prince? Looking at the tall man again Vaelin recalled the serious youth he had seen at the King’s palace so many years before. Prince Malcius had grown almost as tall and broad as his father. Vaelin looked for soldiers of the Royal Guard but saw no-one accompanying the prince. A prince who walks alone amongst his people, he thought, puzzled.

  “Vaelin!” Caenis whispered insistently.

  As he made to kneel, the prince waved his hand. “No need, brother. Please rise, all of you.” He smiled at the kneeling multitude. “The ground is muddy. Now then, my lord.” He turned to Al Hestian. “What manner of disturbance is this?”

  “A traitorous outrage, Highness,” Al Hestian said forcefully, rising from a bow, his left knee caked in mud. “These boys attacked my men in an effort to rescue the prisoner.”

  “You bloody liar!” Barkus exploded. “We came to help our brothers when they had been attacked…” He fell silent as the prince held up his hand. Malcius paused and surveyed the scene, taking in the wounded Blackhawks and Nortah’s unconscious form.

  “You, brother,” he said to Vaelin. “Are you a traitor as the Lord Marshal claims?” Vaelin noted his eyes barely left Nortah.

  “I am no traitor, Highness,” Vaelin replied, trying to keep any trace of fear or anger from his voice. “Neither are my brothers. They are here only in my defence. If an answer must be given for what has happened here, then it is mine alone to make.”

  “And your fallen brother.” Prince Malcius moved closer, staring down at Nortah with an odd intensity. “Should he make an answer too?”

  “His…actions were driven by grief,” Vaelin faltered. “He will answer to our Aspect.”

  “Is he badly hurt?”

  “A blow to the head, Highness. He should wake in an hour or so.”

  The prince continued to stare down at Nortah for a moment longer before turning away, saying softly, “When he wakes tell him I grieve too.”

  He moved away and addressed Al Hestian. “This is a very serious business, Lord Marshal. Very serious.”

  “Indeed, Highness.”

  “So serious that full resolution will take so much time as to delay the execution, something I should hate to explain to the King. Unless you wish to do so.”

  Al Hestian’s eyes briefly met the prince’s, the light of mutual enmity shining clearly. “I should hate to intrude on the King’s time needlessly,” he grated through clenched teeth.

  “I am grateful for your consideration.” Prince Malcius turned to the Hawks. “Take these wounded men to the royal pavilion, they will have the care of the King’s physician. Lord Marshal, I hear there are some riotous drunkards near the west gate in need of your attentions. Do not let me detain you further.”

  Al Hestian bowed and remounted, guiding his horse past Vaelin and the others with the promise of retribution writ large in his face. “Out of the way!” he shouted, his riding crop lashing at the crowd as he forced his way through.

  “Take your brother back to the Order,” Prince Malcius told Vaelin. “Make sure you tell your Aspect what occurred here, lest he hear it from other lips first.”

  “We will, Highness,” Vaelin assured him, bowing as low as he could.

  A hundred yards away a steady, monotonous drumbeat was sounding, the crowd falling silent as the beat increased in volume. Vaelin could see a row of spear-points rising above the throng, moving in time with the drum, drawing ever closer to the dark silhouette of the gallows.

  “Take him away!” the prince commanded. “Senseless or not, he should not be here.”

  It was as they made their way through the silent crowd, Vaelin and Caenis carrying Nortah, Dentos and Barkus forcing a passage, that the drumbeat stopped. There was a silence so thick Vaelin could feel the anticipation like a weight pressing him into the earth. There was a distant clatter then an eruption of cheering, thousands of fists raised in the air in triumph, manic joy on every face.

  Caenis surveyed the celebrating crowd with naked disgust. Vaelin couldn’t hear the word he mouthed but the shape of his lips carried the meaning clearly enough: “Scum.”

  Nortah disappeared into the care of the masters as soon as they were within the walls of the Order House. It was obvious from the guarded looks of the other boys and the glares of the masters that word of their adventure had sped ahead of their return.

  “We’ll see to him,” Master Checkrin said, relieving them of Nortah’s burden, lifting him easily in his muscle-thick arms. “You lot get to your room. Do not come out until ordered. Do not talk to anyone until ordered.”

  To ensure the instruction was followed Master Haunlin accompanied them to the north tower, the burnt man’s usual passion for song evidently quelled by the circumstances. When the door slammed behind them Vaelin was sure the master was waiting outside. Are we prisoners now? he wondered.

  In the room they set aside their gear and waited.

  “Did you get my boots?” Vaelin asked Caenis.

  “I didn’t get the chance. Sorry.”

  Vaelin shrugged. The silence stretched.r />
  “Barkus nearly shagged a tart behind the ale tent,” Dentos blurted. He always found silence particularly oppressive. “Right saucy bint she was too. Tits like melons. Right, brother?”

  Barkus stared balefully at his brother from across the room. “Shut up,” he said flatly.

  More silence.

  “You know they’ll give you your coins if you get caught?” Vaelin said to Barkus. Occasionally girls from Varinshold and surrounding villages turned up at the gate with swollen bellies or squalling infants in tow. The guilty brother would be forced into a hasty joining ceremony conducted by the Aspect and given his coins plus an extra two, one for the girl and one for the child. Oddly, a few boys actually seemed happy to be leaving under such circumstances although others would protest their innocence, but a truth test by the Second Order would soon prove the matter one way or the other.

  “I didn’t bloody do anything,” Barkus sputtered.

  “You had your tongue down her throat,” Dentos laughed.

  “I’d had a few ales. Besides, it was Caenis getting all the attention.”

  Vaelin turned to Caenis, seeing a slow flush creeping up his friend’s cheeks. “Really?”

  “Not half. All over him they were. ‘Ooh, isn’t he pretty?’”

  Vaelin suppressed a laugh as Caenis began to blush furiously. “I’m sure he resisted manfully.”

  “I dunno,” Dentos mused. “A few more minutes I reckon we’d’ve had a whole troop of pretty bastards at the gates in nine months’ time. Lucky some drunk came in and started shouting about a fight between the Hawks and the Order.”

  Mention of the fight brought the silence again. It was Barkus who finally said it: “You don’t think they’ll kill him do you?”

  The room was growing dark before the door opened and Master Sollis strode in, a mountainous anger dominating his expression. “Sorna,” he grated. “Come with me. The rest of you get a meal from the kitchens then go to bed.”

  The urge to ask about Nortah was overwhelming but Sollis’s thunderous visage was enough to keep them silent. Vaelin followed him down the stairs and across the courtyard to the west wall, all the time watching for any sign of his cane. He expected to be led to the Aspect’s chambers but instead they made their way to the infirmary, finding Master Henthal tending Nortah. He was laid in bed, his face slack, half-lidded eyes unfocused and dimmed. Vaelin knew the look; sometimes boys with grievous injuries had need of strong medicine, which took the pain away but left them out of touch with the world.