Blood Song

by Anthony Ryan

  “…went straight through two men,” Dentos was saying. “A single arrow, I swear. Never seen nothing like it.”

  Vaelin took a seat next to Frentis. Scratch, who had been curled up at Frentis’s feet, rose and came to him, nuzzling his hand in search of petting. Vaelin scratched his ears, realising he had missed the slave-hound greatly but had no regrets about leaving him behind. The Martishe would have been a fine playground for him but Vaelin felt he had tasted enough human blood already.

  “The Aspect thanks us for our service,” he told them, stretching his hands out to the fire. “The letters we found are not to be discussed.”

  “What letters?” Frentis asked. Barkus threw a half-eaten chicken leg at him.

  “Did he say where we’re going next?” Dentos asked, passing him a cup of wine.

  Vaelin shook his head. “I’m to accompany him to the palace tomorrow.”

  Nortah snorted and gulped a mouthful of wine. “You don’t need the Dark to see the future for us.” His words were loud and slurred, chin stained red with spilled drink. “On to Cumbrael!” He got to his feet, raising his cup to the air. “First the forest then the Fief. We’ll bring the Faith to them all, the Denier bastards. Whether they like it or not!”

  “Nortah—” Caenis reached up to pull him down but Nortah shrugged him off.

  “It’s not as if we’ve slaughtered enough Cumbraelins already, is it? Only killed ten of them myself in that bloody forest. How about you, brother?” He swayed towards Caenis. “Bet you can beat that, eh? At least twice as many, I’d say.” He swung towards Frentis. “Should’ve been there, m’boy. We bathed in more blood than your friend One Eye ever did.”

  Frentis’s face darkened and Vaelin gripped his shoulder as he tensed. “Have another drink, brother,” he told Nortah. “It’ll help you sleep.”

  “Sleep?” Nortah slumped back to the ground. “Haven’t done much of that recently.” He held up his cup for Caenis to pour more wine, staring morosely into the fire.

  They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, Vaelin grateful for the distraction provided by one of the soldiers at a neighbouring fire. The man had found a mandolin somewhere, probably looted from a Cumbraelin corpse in the forest, and played it with considerable skill, the tune melodious but sombre, the whole camp falling quiet to listen. Soon the player had an audience clustered around him and began to sing a tune Vaelin recognised as “The Warrior’s Lament”:

  A warrior’s song is a lonely tune

  Full of fire and gone too soon

  Warriors sing of fallen friends

  Lost battles and bloody ends…

  The men applauded loudly when he finished, calling for more. Vaelin made his way through the small crowd. The player was a thin-faced man of about twenty years. Vaelin recognised him as one of the thirty chosen men who had taken part in their final battle in the forest, the stitched cut on his forehead testified that he had done some fighting. Vaelin struggled to remember his name but realised with shame that he hadn’t bothered to learn the names of any of the men they had trained. Perhaps, like the King, he hadn’t expected any to live.

  “You play very well,” he said.

  The man gave a nervous smile. The soldiers had never lost their fear of Vaelin and few made any effort to speak to him, most taking care to avoid catching his eye.

  “I was apprenticed to a minstrel, brother,” the man said. His accent differed from that of his comrades, the words precisely spoken, the tone almost cultured.

  “Then why are you a soldier?”

  The man shrugged. “My master had a daughter.”

  The gathered men laughed knowingly.

  “I think he taught you well, in any case,” Vaelin said. “What’s your name?”

  “Janril, brother. Janril Norin.”

  Vaelin spied Sergeant Krelnik in the crowd. “Wine for these men, Sergeant. Brother Frentis will take you to Master Grealin in the vaults. Tell him I’ll meet the expense, and make sure he gives you the good stuff.”

  There was an appreciative murmur from the men. Vaelin fished in his purse and dropped a few silvers into Janril’s hand. “Keep playing, Janril Norin. Something lively. Something fit for a celebration.”

  Janril frowned. “What are we celebrating, brother?”

  Vaelin clapped him on the shoulder. “Being alive, man!” He raised his cup, turning to the assembled men. “Let’s drink to being alive!”

  The King convened his Council of Ministers in a large chamber with a polished marble floor and ornate ceiling decorated in gold leaf and intricately moulded plaster, the walls adorned with fine paintings and tapestries. Immaculately turned-out soldiers of the Royal Guard stood to attention in a wide circle around the long, rectangular table where the Council sat. King Janus himself was markedly different from the ink-spattered old man with whom Vaelin had made his bargain, seated at the centre of the table, an ermine-lined cloak about his shoulders and a band of gold on his brow. His ministers were seated on either side, ten men dressed in varying degrees of finery, all staring intently at Vaelin as he finished his report, with Aspect Arlyn at his side. At a smaller table nearby two scribes sat writing down every word spoken. The King insisted on a precise recording of every meeting and each Council member had been required to state his name and appointed role before sitting down.

  “And the man who carried these letters,” the King said. “His identity remains unknown?”

  “There were no captives to name him, Highness,” Vaelin replied. “Black Arrow’s men were not given to surrender.”

  “Lord Al Molnar.” The King handed the letters to a portly man on his left who had stated his name and office as Lartek Al Molnar, Minister of Finance. “You know Fief Lord Mustor’s hand as well as I. Do you see a similarity?”

  Lord Al Molnar examined the letters closely for a few moments. “Regretfully, Highness, the hand that penned these missives seems so similar to the Fief Lord’s that I can discern no difference between the two. More than that, the way the letter is phrased. Even without a signature I would know it as the work of Lord Mustor.”

  “But why?” asked Fleet Lord Al Junril, a large, bearded man on the King’s right. “Faith knows I’ve scant love for the Fief Lord of Cumbrael, but the man’s no fool. Why sign his name to letters of free passage for a fanatic intent on fracturing our Realm?”

  “Brother Vaelin,” Lord Al Molnar said. “You fought these heretics for several months, would you say they were well fed?”

  “They did not seem weakened by hunger, my lord.”

  “And their weapons, of good quality would you say?”

  “They had finely crafted bows and well-tempered steel, although some of their weapons were taken from our fallen soldiers.”

  “So, well equipped and well fed, and this in the dead of winter when game would be scarce in the Martishe. I submit, Highness, that this Black Arrow must have had considerable support.”

  “And now we know from where,” said a third minister, Kelden Al Telnar, Minister of Royal Works and, next to the King, the most finely dressed man at the table. “Fief Lord Mustor has condemned himself. Long have I warned that his observance of the peace was but a mask for future treachery. Let us not forget that the Cumbraelins were forced into this Realm only after the bloodiest of defeats. They have never stopped hating us, or our beloved Faith. Now the Departed have guided brave Brother Vaelin to the truth. Highness, I implore you to act…”

  The King raised a hand, silencing the man. “Lord Al Genril.” He turned to a grey-bearded man seated at his right hand. “You are my Lord of Justice and Chief Judge of my courts, and perhaps the wisest head at this Council. Are these papers evidence enough for trial or merely investigation?”

  The Lord of Justice stroked his silver-grey beard thoughtfully. “If we consider this as only a matter of law, Highness, I would say the letters require question and any charges would depend on the answers. If a man came before me charged with treason based solely on this evidence, I could
not send him to the gallows.”

  Lord Al Telnar started to speak again but the King waved him to silence. “What questions, my lord?”

  Lord Al Genril took up the letters and scanned them briefly. “I note that these letters grant the bearer free passage across the borders of Cumbrael and require any soldier or official of the Fief to render whatever assistance the bearer may require. And indeed, if the signature and seal are genuine, they have been signed by the Fief Lord himself. But they are not addressed to any individual. Indeed we do not even know the name of the man who carried them to his death. If they were penned by the Fief Lord, did he intend them for use by Black Arrow or were they perhaps stolen and used for a different purpose?”

  “So then,” Lord Al Molnar said. “You would have us put the Fief Lord to the question?”

  The Chief Judge took several seconds to reply and Vaelin could see from the tension in his face that he recognised the grave import of his words. “I believe question is warranted, yes.”

  The door to the chamber opened abruptly and Captain Smolen entered, coming to attention before the King and saluting smartly.

  “Found him, have you?” the King asked.

  “I have, Highness.”

  “Whorehouse or redflower palace?”

  Captain Smolen’s only sign of discomfort was to blink twice. “The former, Highness.”

  “Is he in a fit state to talk?”

  “He has made efforts to sober himself, Highness.”

  The King sighed and rubbed his forehead wearily. “Very well. Bring him in.”

  Captain Smolen saluted and strode from the room, returning a few seconds later with a man dressed in expensive but soiled clothes. He walked with the precise gait of one who worries he might tip over at any moment, the redness of his eyes and sallowness of his stubbled complexion bespoke several hours of excess. He looked to be in his forties but Vaelin guessed him to be younger, a man aged by indulgence. He halted next to Aspect Arlyn, greeted him with a cursory nod, then bowed extravagantly, but unsteadily, to the King. “Highness. As ever I am honoured by your summons.” Vaelin noted the man’s accent: Cumbraelin.

  The King turned to his scribes. “Let the record show that His Honour, Lord Sentes Mustor, heir to the Fiefdom of Cumbrael and appointed representative of Cumbraelin interests to the court of King Janus, is now in attendance.” He turned a level gaze on the Cumbraelin. “Lord Mustor. And how are you this morning?”

  Lord Al Telnar gave a muted snort of amusement.

  “Very well, Highness,” Lord Mustor replied. “Your city has always been very kind to me.”

  “I am glad. Aspect Arlyn you know of course. This young man is Brother Vaelin Al Sorna, recently returned from the Martishe forest.”

  Lord Mustor’s gaze was guarded as he turned to Vaelin, nodding a formal greeting, but his tone remained cheerful, if forced. “Ah, the blade that won me ten golds at the Test of the Sword. Well met, young sir.”

  Vaelin nodded back but said nothing. Mention of the Test of the Sword tended to darken his mood.

  “Brother Vaelin has brought us some documents.” The King took the letters from Lord Al Genril. “Documents that raise questions. I believe your opinion of their content would be valuable in discerning their intent.” Vaelin took note of Lord Mustor’s momentary hesitation before stepping forward to take the papers from the King’s hand.

  “These are letters of free passage,” he said after scanning the pages.

  “And they are signed by your father, are they not?” the King asked.

  “That…would appear to be the case, Highness.”

  “Then perhaps you can explain how Brother Vaelin came to find them on the body of a Cumbraelin heretic in the Martishe forest.”

  Lord Mustor’s gaze swung to Vaelin, his reddened eyes suddenly fearful, then back to the King. “Highness, my father would never place documents of such import in the hands of a rebel. I can only imagine they were stolen somehow. Or perhaps forged…”

  “Perhaps your father could provide a more absolute explanation.”

  “I—I have no doubt he could, Highness. If you would care to write to him…”

  “I would not. He will come here.”

  Lord Mustor took an involuntary step backwards, fear now obvious in his face. Vaelin could tell the situation dwarfed him, he was being tested and found wanting. “Highness…” he stammered. “My father…It is not right…”

  The King let out a long sigh of exasperation. “Lord Mustor, I fought two wars against your grandfather and found him an enemy of considerable courage and cunning. I never liked him but I did respect him greatly and I feel he would be grateful he is no longer here to see his grandson gabble like the whoring drunkard he is when his Fief stands on the brink of war.”

  The King raised a hand to beckon Captain Smolen over. “Lord Mustor will be our guest in the palace until further notice,” the King told him. “Please escort him to suitable quarters and ensure he is untroubled by unwanted visitors.”

  “You know that my father will not come here,” Lord Mustor stated flatly. “He will not be put to the question. Imprison me here if you must but it will make no difference. A man doesn’t place his favoured son in the hands of his enemy.”

  The King paused, regarding the Cumbraelin lord with a narrow gaze. Surprised you, Vaelin realised. Didn’t think he had the stomach to speak up.

  “We’ll see what your father does,” the King said. He nodded to Captain Smolen and Lord Mustor was led from the room, two guards following close behind.

  The King turned to one of his scribes. “Draft a letter to the Fief Lord of Cumbrael commanding his presence here within three weeks.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “This meeting is over. Aspect Arlyn, Brother Vaelin, please join me in my rooms.”

  Everything in the King’s quarters gave an overwhelming impression of order, from the angle of the finely woven carpets on the tiled marble floor to the papers on the large oaken desk. Vaelin found nothing to compare to the cramped, hidden room of books and scrolls he had been led to eight months before. That was where he worked, he realised. This is where he wants people to think he works.

  “Sit, please, brothers.” The King gestured at two chairs as he settled behind his desk. “I can send for refreshment if you wish.”

  “We are content, Highness,” Aspect Arlyn replied in a neutral tone. He remained standing, obliging Vaelin to follow suit.

  The King’s gaze lingered on the Aspect for a moment before he turned to Vaelin, his lips forming a smile beneath his beard. “Note the tone, my boy. No respect but no defiance either. You’d do well to learn it. I suspect your Aspect is angry with me. Why can that be I wonder?”

  Vaelin looked at the Aspect, who stood expressionless, offering no reply.

  “Well?” the King pressed. “Tell me, brother. What could have aroused the anger of your Aspect?”

  “I cannot speak for my Aspect, Highness. The Aspect speaks for me.”

  The King snorted a laugh and smacked his palm on the desk. “You hear it, Arlyn? His mother’s voice. Clear as a bell. Don’t you find it chilling at times?”

  Aspect Arlyn’s tone was unchanged. “No, Highness.”

  “No.” The King shook his head, chuckling slightly and reaching for a wine decanter on his desk. “No, I don’t suppose you do.” He poured himself a glass of wine and settled back into his chair. “Your Aspect,” he told Vaelin, “is angry because he believes I have set the Realm on the road to war. He believes, with some justification I might add, that the Fief Lord of Cumbrael will happily let me hack his drunken son’s head from his shoulders before setting foot outside his own borders. This in turn will force me to send the Realm Guard into his Fief to root him out. Battles and bloodshed will result, towns and cities will burn, many will die. Despite his vocation as a warrior, and therefore a practitioner of death in all its many forms, the Aspect believes this to be a regrettable action. And yet he will not tell me so. It has always been h
is way.”

  Silence reigned as the two men matched stares and Vaelin experienced a sudden revelation: They hate each other. The King and the Aspect of the Sixth Order detest the sight of one another.

  “Tell me, brother,” the King went on, addressing Vaelin but keeping his eyes on the Aspect. “What do you think the Fief Lord will do when he hears I have taken his son and commanded his presence?”

  “I do not know the man, Highness…”

  “He’s not a complicated fellow, Vaelin. Reckon it out. I daresay you’ve enough of your mother’s wit for that.”

  Vaelin found himself disliking the way the King’s tongue twisted around the mention of his mother but forced out a reply. “He will be…angry. He will see your action as a threat. He will be put on guard, gathering his forces and watching his borders.”

  “Good. What else will he do?”

  “It seems he has but two choices, to follow your command or ignore it and face war.”

  “Wrong, he has a third choice. He can attack. With all his might. Do you think he will do that?”

  “I doubt Cumbrael would have the strength to face the Realm Guard, Highness.”

  “And you would be correct. Cumbrael has no actual army beyond a few hundred guardsmen loyal to the Fief Lord. What it does have is thousands of peasant bowmen it can call upon in time of need. A formidable force, having ridden through an arrow storm or two in my time, I would know. But no cavalry, no heavy infantry. No chance, in fact, of attacking Asrael or matching the Realm Guard in open field. The Fief Lord of Cumbrael is far from being an admirable character but he does have enough of his father’s brains to heed a reminder of his weakness.”

  The King smiled again, turning away from the Aspect and waving a hand in placation. “Oh don’t worry, Arlyn. In a fortnight or so, the Fief Lord will send his messenger with a suitably grovelling apology for not attending in person and a plausible, if not very convincing, explanation for the letters, probably attached to a chest full of gold. I will be persuaded by my wise and peace-loving son to withdraw my command and release the drunkard. Thereafter, I doubt the Fief Lord will be giving any more letters of free passage to Denier fanatics. More importantly, he’ll have remembered his place in this Realm.”