by Anthony Ryan
“What do you know of the Faith?” Vaelin asked him.
“’S what people believe ’appens when you die.”
“And what does happen when you die?”
“You join the other Departed and they, y’know, help us.”
Hardly the Catechism of Faith but succinctly put. “Do you believe it?”
Frentis shrugged. “S’pose.”
Vaelin leaned down and looked him in the eye, fixing him. “When the Aspect asks you, don’t suppose, be certain. The Order fights for the Faith before it fights for the Realm.” He straightened. “Let’s go and find him.”
“You’re gonna tell ’im to let me in?”
May my mother’s soul forgive me. “Yes.”
“Great!” Frentis surged to his feet and ran to the door. “Thanks…”
“Don’t ever thank me for this,” Vaelin told him. “Not ever.”
Frentis gave him a quizzical look. “All right. So when do I get a sword?”
It would be another three months before the next intake of recruits so Frentis was put to work. He ran errands, laboured in the kitchens or the orchard and swept the stables. They gave him a bunk in their north-tower room, the Aspect felt leaving him alone in one of the other rooms would be a poor welcome to the Order.
“This is Frentis,” Vaelin introduced him to the others. “A novice brother. He’ll bunk with us until the turn of the year.”
“Is he old enough?” Barkus asked, looking Frentis up and down. “He’s just rag and bone.”
“Up yours, fatso!” Frentis snarled in response, drawing back.
“How charming,” Nortah observed. “An urchin of our very own.”
“Why’s he bunking with us?” Dentos wanted to know.
“Because the Aspect commands it, and because I owe him a debt. And so do you, brother,” he said to Nortah. “If he hadn’t helped me, you’d be swinging in a wall cage.”
Nortah inclined his head but said no more.
“He’s the one you knocked out,” Frentis said. “The one that knifed that Blackhawk in the leg. Proper sharp that was. Are we allowed to knife Realm Guard then?”
“No!” Vaelin tugged him to his bunk, Mikehl’s old bed, which had lain unused in the years since his death. “This is yours. You’ll get bedding from Master Grealin in the vaults, I’ll take you there soon.”
“Do I get a sword from him?”
The others laughed. “Oh you’ll get a sword, right enough,” Dentos said. “Finest blade ash can make.”
“Wanna proper sword,” Frentis insisted sullenly.
“You’ll have to earn it,” Vaelin told him. “Like the rest of us. Now, I want to talk to you about thieving.”
“I ain’t gonna thieve nothin’. I’m done with that, I swear.”
More laughter from the others. “Fine brother he’ll make,” Barkus said.
“Thieving is…” Vaelin fumbled for the right words, “accepted here, but there are rules. You never steal from any of us and you never steal from the masters.”
Frentis gave him a suspicious look. “Is this one of them tests?”
Vaelin gritted his teeth. He was starting to understand why Master Sollis was so fond of his cane. “No. You can steal from others in the Order provided they aren’t a master and they’re not in your group.”
“What? And no-one cares?”
“Oh no, they’ll tan the hide off you if you get caught but that’s for getting caught, not for stealing.”
A very small smile appeared on Frentis’s lips. “I only ever got caught once. Won’t happen again.”
If Vaelin had expected Frentis to be quickly disillusioned by the rigours of Order life, he was to be disappointed. The boy happily scampered to every task given him, moving like a blur around the House, watching attentively during practice sessions and pestering them to teach him their skills. Mostly they were happy to oblige, training him in sword play and unarmed combat. He needed little instruction in knife throwing and soon began to rival Dentos and Nortah at the game. Seeing an opportunity, they quickly arranged a knives tournament and reaped a tidy sum in blades, which were shared out equally.
“How come I can’t keep ’em?” Frentis whined as they counted the winnings.
“’Cos you’re not a real brother yet,” Dentos told him. “When you are you’ll get to keep all you win. Till then we all get a share, payment for our kind tutoring.”
The most surprising thing was Frentis’s complete lack of fear when dealing with Scratch. Where the other boys were wary he was playful, wrestling the animal with happy abandon, giggling when the dog threw him around with ease. Vaelin had been concerned at first but saw that Scratch was exercising his own brand of caution, Frentis was never nipped or scratched.
“To him the boy’s a cub,” Master Jeklin explained. “Probably thinks he’s one of yours. Sees himself as an older brother.”
Frentis also earned the distinction of being the only boy to never receive a beating from Master Rensial. For some reason the stable master never raised his hand to him, simply pointing him towards his allotted tasks and watching silently until they were complete, his expression even odder than usual; a curious mix of puzzlement and regret that made Vaelin resolve to keep Frentis out of the stables as much as possible.
“What’s wrong with Master Rensial?” Frentis asked one evening as Vaelin taught him the basics of the parry. “Is ’e funny in the head?”
“I know little about him,” Vaelin replied. “He knows his horses, that’s for sure. As for what goes on in his head, it’s clear that the hardships of a life in the Order can do strange things to a man’s mind.”
“Think it’ll happen to you one day?”
Vaelin didn’t answer, instead he sent an overhand swipe at Frentis’s head that the boy only just managed to block with his wooden blade. “Pay attention,” Vaelin snapped. “You won’t find the masters as forgiving as me.”
The months with Frentis passed quickly, his energy and blind enthusiasm making them forget their woes, even Nortah seemed enlivened by his time with the boy, taking on the task of showing him the bow. As with his tutelage of Dentos before the Test of Knowledge, Vaelin noted once again Nortah’s facility for teaching, where the other boys would occasionally make their frustration with Frentis obvious, particularly Barkus, Nortah seemed to possess an abundance of patience.
“Good,” he said as Frentis managed to get his shaft within a yard of the target. “Try pushing the stave at the same time as you pull the string, the bow will bend easier.”
It was thanks to Nortah that Frentis was able to begin his training as the only boy to hit the target during his first formal practice.
“Can’t I stay with you lot?” Frentis had asked the night before he was due to move to the room he would share with his group.
“You must be in a group,” Vaelin said. They were in the kennels, watching Scratch as he stood guard over his heavily pregnant bitch. No-one else was allowed near his pen now, his mate’s condition making him violently protective, even Master Jeklin was likely to provoke an attack if he came too close.
“Why?” Frentis said, the whine in his voice having abated somewhat but still noticeable.
“Because we cannot be with you throughout your training,” Vaelin told him. “You will find brothers amongst the boys you meet tomorrow. Together you will help each other face the tests. It is how things are done in the Order.”
“What if they don’t like me?”
“Like and dislike mean little here. The bond that binds us is beyond friendship.” He gave Frentis a nudge. “Don’t worry. You already know more than them, they will look to you for guidance, just don’t be too cocky about it.”
“Are you and the others still gonna teach me?”
Vaelin shook his head. “You will be under Master Haunlin’s care. He will teach you now. We cannot interfere. He is a fair man, sparing with the cane as long as you don’t push him. Mind him well.”
“Will I be allowed to
steal for you, still?”
This was something Vaelin hadn’t considered. Frentis’s effortless ability to procure items of considerable value would be sorely missed. They were now rich in extra clothing, money, talismans, knives and myriad other sundries that made Order life a little more comfortable. True to his word, he had never been caught although the other boys had been quick to connect Frentis’s arrival with the upsurge in missing valuables, leading to a particularly bloody fight in the dining hall one night. Luckily they now possessed both the skill and the strength to defend themselves, even from the older boys, and the incident hadn’t been repeated although Master Sollis had told Vaelin to make Frentis lay off for a while.
“You’ll have to steal for your own group now,” Vaelin told him, not without regret. “But you can trade with us.”
“Thought I wouldn’t be allowed to talk to you now.”
“We can still talk. Let’s say we meet here every Eltrian eve.”
“Will Master Jeklin let me have one of the puppies?”
Vaelin looked at Scratch, noting the wary hostility of his gaze and the tension in his stance, knowing even he would earn a bite or two if he attempted to enter the pen. “I don’t think it’s up to Master Jeklin.”
CHAPTER TWO
The Test of the Melee came after the Winterfall feast midway through the month of Weslin. Their swords were exchanged for wooden blades and they were divided, along with the fifty or so other boys of their age, into two equal contingents. On the practice field a lance adorned with a red pennant had been thrust into the frost-hard earth. Vaelin was surprised to see the other masters standing on the fringes of the field, even Master Jestin, who was rarely seen outside his forge.
“War is our sacred charge,” the Aspect told them when they had been arrayed before him. “It is the reason for the Order’s existence. We fight in defence of the Faith and the Realm. Today you will fight a battle. One contingent will seek to capture that pennant, another will defend it. Masters will observe the battle. Any brother failing to show sufficient courage and skill in battle will be required to leave on the morrow. Fight well, remember your lessons. Killing blows are not permitted.”
As the Aspect walked from the field the two contingents eyed each other with mingled trepidation and excitement. They all knew what this meant; no killing blows and wooden swords or not, this would be a bloody day.
Master Sollis came forward and handed Vaelin’s contingent a number of red ribbons and told them to tie them to their left arm. Nearby Master Haunlin was handing out white ribbons to their nominal enemies. “You will attack, the whites will defend,” Sollis told them. “The battle is over when one of you gets his hands on the lance.”
As their white-ribboned enemies trooped off to arrange themselves in a loose line in front of the lance Vaelin saw the Aspect greeting three unfamiliar onlookers. There were two men, one large and broad the other lean and wiry, with long black hair trailing in the wind. The third figure was small, muffled in furs, and clung to the side of the large man.
“Who is that, Master?” he asked when Sollis handed him a ribbon, but it was clearly not a day for questions.
“Worry about the test, boy!” Sollis cuffed him angrily on the side of the head. “Distraction will kill you this day.”
When they had all tied the ribbons to their arms they stood eyeing the defenders about a hundred yards away. Somehow they seemed to have grown in number.
“What do we do, Vaelin?” Dentos asked, looking at him expectantly.
Vaelin was about to shrug when he noticed they were all looking at him expectantly, not just the boys from his group, all of them. Nortah was the only exception, blithely tossing his wooden sword into the air and catching it again. He seemed bored. Vaelin struggled to formulate a plan; they were taught combat but not tactics. He had heard of flanking manoeuvres and frontal attacks but had no real idea how they worked. Most of the battle stories he knew concerned heroic brothers winning victory through individual effort and even then they were usually trying to storm a city wall or defend a bridge not capture a lance. The lance…What value is there in a lance?
“Vaelin?” Caenis prompted.
“This isn’t really a battle,” Vaelin said, thinking aloud.
“What?”
Battles are not over when a man gets his hands on a lance, they’re over when one army destroys the other. That’s why it’s called the Test of the Melee. They want to see us fight, that’s all. The lance means nothing.
“We’ll go straight into them,” he said, raising his voice, trying to sound both confident and decisive. “We’ll charge into the centre of their line, hard and fast. Break it open, and the lance is ours.”
“Hardly a subtle stratagem, brother,” Nortah observed.
“Do you want to lead this?”
Nortah inclined his head, smiling. “I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m sure your plan is sound.”
“Form up,” Vaelin told them. “Keep it tight. Barkus, you’re in front with me, and you, Nortah. You two as well.” He picked out two of the beefier boys he knew to be more aggressive than most. “Caenis, Dentos, stay close, keep them off when we go for the lance. The rest of you heard what the Aspect said. If you don’t want your coins in the morning, get in there, pick an enemy and beat him to the ground, when you’ve done that find another.”
The cheer surprised him, a ragged yell punctuated with a small forest of upraised wooden swords. He joined in, waving his sword and yelling and feeling silly. Incredibly, they yelled even louder, some of them even began shouting his name.
He kept it going as they began to advance, walking at first. The hundred yards to the enemy seemed to shrink in a few heartbeats.
“Vaelin! Vaelin!”
He took the pace up to a jog, hoping to save as much energy as possible for the fight.
“Vaelin! Vaelin!”
Some of the boys were almost screaming now, Caenis amongst them. The pace began to quicken as they covered more than half the distance to the enemy. Seemingly his small army was eager to get at their foes, some of them breaking into a run.
“Steady!” Vaelin shouted. “Keep together!”
“Vaelin! Vaelin!” He glanced around, seeing faces distorted with rage. Fear, he understood. They hide fear in rage. He didn’t feel enraged. In fact, his overriding concern was that he not get another scar. He had only just had the stitches removed from his last one, a deep cut on his thigh earned from a nasty fall when riding.
“Vaelin! Vaelin!”
They were all running now, their formation starting to break up. Dentos, despite instructions, was out in front, yelling with manic fervour.
Oh for Faith’s sake! Vaelin broke into a sprint, pointing his sword at the centre of the enemy line. “Charge! CHARGE…”
The two groups met with bone-crunching force, Vaelin’s shoulder feeling like he had rammed it into a tree although he did manage to knock over two defenders. At first it seemed the shock of their charge would force a path straight through to the lance as five or six defenders went down under the combined weight, with Barkus trampling over their prone forms to charge for the pennant. However, their foes quickly gathered their wits and soon both sides were thrashing at each other with a savagery none had known before. Vaelin found himself assailed by two boys at once, both swinging their ash swords with a ferocity that made them forget their many lessons. He parried a blow, dodged another then hit back with a swipe at one boy’s legs, sending him to the ground. The other thrust at Vaelin but overextended, allowing Vaelin to trap his sword arm beneath his own and send him reeling with a head-butt.
As the battle raged and the air filled with the mingled cacophony of cracking wood and grunted pain it became harder to follow the chain of events, time seemed to fragment, the struggle becoming a series of confused, bruising fights in which he caught only the vaguest glimpses of his comrades. Barkus was laying about with his sword, two-handed blows landing with sickening thwacks on those who made the mistake o
f venturing too close. Dentos, forehead bloodied, had lost his sword and was exchanging punches with a boy a foot or more taller, he seemed to be winning. Caenis leapt on an opponent’s back and proceeded to choke him with his sword, forcing him to the ground before one of the defender’s boots caught him on the head, sending him sprawling. Vaelin fought his way through to him, hacking through the press of struggling boys, finding Caenis on his back desperately parrying blows from the boy he had tried to choke. Vaelin kicked the boy in the stomach and brought his sword up to connect with his temple, dropping him to the earth, where he stayed for the rest of the battle.
“Enjoying the glory of it, brother?” he asked Caenis, leaning down and offering a hand to help him up.
“Duck!” Caenis yelled.
Vaelin went down on one knee and felt the wind rush of a sword narrowly missing his head. He twisted, bringing his leg round to sweep the attacker off his feet, smacking his sword against his nose as he fell. They fought together after that, back-to-back, stumbling over unconscious or wounded comrades and enemies until they were within a few yards of the lance. One of the defenders, seeing a final chance to display his courage, charged at them wildly, screaming and hacking. Caenis parried his first slash and Vaelin sent him to the ground with a blow to the shoulder that made him wince at the audible crack of breaking bone.
Then it was done, no more enemies, no-one to fight. Just groaning boys stumbling around and rolling on the ground amidst their immobile brothers and Nortah standing with the lance in his hands, blood streaming from wounds on his head and face. He smiled as Vaelin approached, a thick crimson bead swelling on the cut in his lip. “It was a good plan, brother.”
Vaelin steadied him as he swayed, feeling more tired than he could remember, his arms felt like lead and the aftermath of violence left a ball of sickness in the pit of his stomach. He found he had no real idea how long it had lasted. It could have been an hour or a few minutes. It was like waking from a particularly draining nightmare. He was relieved to see that Barkus and Dentos were among the ten boys still left standing, although Dentos could only remain upright by virtue of Barkus’s meaty hand on his neck. “What’s that, brother?” he said loudly for the benefit of the masters, leaning close as if to listen to Dentos’s words although speech seemed to be beyond him at present. “Yes! A fine fight indeed!”
