Blood Song

by Anthony Ryan

  “Am I to take it, Highness,” the Aspect said, “that you are convinced the Fief Lord is the author of the letters?”

  “Convinced? No. But it seems likely. The man may not be a fanatic like the fools Brother Vaelin dispatched in the Martishe but he does have a weakness for his god. Probably fretting over his place in the Eternal Fields now he’s passed his fiftieth year. In any case, whether he wrote the letters or not makes little difference, the problem lies in the mere fact of their existence. Once they came to light I had little choice but to act. At least this way the Fief Lord will feel a debt to my son when he ascends the throne.”

  The King quickly downed the rest of his wine and rose from his desk. “Enough statecraft, I have other business with you brothers. Come.” He beckoned them into a smaller adjoining room no less ornately decorated, but in place of paintings or tapestries the walls were adorned with swords, a hundred or more gleaming blades. A few were of the Asraelin pattern but there were many others the style of which Vaelin had never seen. Great two-handed broadswords nearly six feet in length. Sicklelike sabres with blades that curved almost in a semicircle. Long needlelike rapiers with no edge and bowl-shaped guards. Swords with blades fashioned of gold or silver despite the fact that such metals were too soft to ever make useful weapons.

  “Pretty, aren’t they?” the King commented. “Been collecting them for years. Some are gifts, some are the spoils of war, some I bought simply because I liked the look of them. Every so often I give one away”—he turned to Vaelin, smiling again—“to a young man like you, brother.”

  Vaelin experienced a sudden resurgence of the unease that had gripped him during his first meeting with the King. The unsettling knowledge that he was a small part of a larger, unseen design. The wrongness, what Nersus Sil Nin had called the blood-song, was singing faintly at the back of his mind. If he gives me a sword…

  “I am a brother of the Sixth Order, Highness,” he said, trying to match the Aspect’s neutral tone. “Royal honours are not for one such as me.”

  “Royal honours are precisely for one such as you, Young Hawk,” the King replied. “Sadly, I’m usually obliged to hand them out to the undeserving. Today will be a welcome change.” He gestured expansively at the collection of swords around them. “Choose.”

  Vaelin turned to the Aspect, seeking guidance.

  Aspect Arlyn’s eyes had narrowed slightly but his expression was otherwise unchanged. He remained silent for a moment and when he spoke his tone was the same as before, void of both deference and defiance. “The King honours you, brother. In so doing he honours the Order. You will accept.”

  “But can it be right, Aspect? Can a man be both a brother and a Sword of the Realm?”

  “It has happened before. Many years ago.” The Aspect’s gaze shifted from the King to Vaelin and softened somewhat but his voice held no room for further discussion. “You will accept the King’s honour, Brother Vaelin.”

  I don’t want it! he thought fiercely. It’s payment, payment for a murder. This scheming old man wishes to bind me to him even more.

  But he could see no escape. The Aspect had commanded him. The King had honoured him. He had to take the sword.

  Swallowing a sigh of frustration, he scanned the walls, eyes flicking from one blade to another. He toyed with the idea of choosing one of the golden blades, he could always sell it later, but decided a weapon of some practical use would be the wisest choice. He saw little point in taking an Asraelin sword, it could hardly be better than his own star-silver blade, and the more exotic weapons seemed too unwieldy to his eye. His gaze finally fell on a broad-bladed short sword with a simple plain bronze guard and wooden hilt. He took it down from the wall and tried a few experimental swings, finding it well balanced with a comfortable weight. The edge was keen, the steel bright and unscarred.

  “Volarian,” the King said. “Not very pretty but a solid weapon, useful in the press of battle when a man can’t raise his arm. A good choice.” He held out his hand and Vaelin passed him the sword. “Normally there would be a ceremony, lots of oaths and kneeling but I think we can dispense with that. Vaelin Al Sorna, I name you Sword of the Realm. Do you pledge your sword in service to the Unified Realm?”

  “I do, Highness.”

  “Then use it well.” The King handed him the sword. “Now, as Sword of the Realm I must find you a commission. I name you commander of the Thirty-fifth Regiment of Foot. Since the Aspect has been gracious enough to allow the use of the Order House to accommodate my regiment, I think it only proper that the Order retain command of it. You will train the soldiers and command them in war, when the time comes.”

  Vaelin looked to the Aspect for some reaction but saw nothing but the same rigid lack of expression.

  “Forgive me, Highness, but if the regiment is to come under Order control, then Brother Makril would seem a better choice…”

  “The famous Denier hunter? Oh, I don’t think so. Could hardly give him a sword could I? Only one ennobled by the Crown can command a regiment of the Realm Guard. How long before they’re ready do you think?”

  “Our losses in the Martishe were heavy, Highness. The men are weary and haven’t been paid for weeks.”

  “Really?” The King looked at the Aspect with raised eyebrows.

  “The Order will meet the cost,” the Aspect said. “It would only be right if the regiment is to be ours to command.”

  “Very generous, Arlyn. As for the losses, you can have your choice from the dungeons plus any men you can recruit from the streets. I daresay more than a few boys will come seeking service in a regiment commanded by the famous Brother Vaelin.” He chuckled ruefully. “War is always an adventure to those who’ve never seen it.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “No rapists, no murderers, no redflower fiends.” Sergeant Krelnik handed the Chief Gaoler the King’s order with the smallest of bows. “No weaklings either. Got to make soldiers out of this lot.”

  “Life in a dungeon doesn’t do much for a man’s fitness,” the Chief Gaoler replied, checking the seal on the King’s order and briefly reading the contents. “But we always endeavour to do the best for His Highness, especially since he’s sent the Realm’s most famous warrior.” He gave Vaelin a smile that was intended as either ingratiating or ironic, it was difficult to tell under the grime. Vaelin had initially taken the Chief Gaoler as a prisoner from the meanness of his garb and the dirt that covered his flesh, but the width of his girth and the extensive set of keys jangling at his belt bespoke his rank.

  The Royal Dungeons were a set of old, interconnected forts near the harbour that would have fallen into disuse with the construction of the city walls two centuries ago. However, succeeding rulers had found their cavernous vaults an ideal storage space for the city’s criminal element. The exact number of prisoners was apparently unknowable. “They die so often, you can’t keep count,” the Chief Gaoler explained. “Biggest and meanest last the longest, can fight for the food, y’see.”

  Vaelin peered into the darkness beyond the solid iron grate secured over the entrance to the vaults, resisting the urge to hide his face in his cloak against the almost overpowering stench. “Do you give many to the Realm Guard?” he asked.

  “Depends on how troubled the times are. When the Meldenean war was on the place was almost empty.” The Chief Gaoler’s keys jangled as he moved forward to unlock the grate, gesturing at the four burly guards nearby to follow. “Well, let’s see how rich the pickings are today.”

  The pickings consisted of a little under a hundred men, all in varying stages of emaciation, dressed in rags and soiled with a thick layer of dirt, blood and filth. They blinked in the sunlight, casting wary glances at the guards on the walls above the main courtyard, each aiming a loaded crossbow at the knot of prisoners.

  “This really the best you could do?” Sergeant Krelnik asked the Chief Gaoler sceptically.

  “Hanging day yesterday,” the man replied with a shrug. “Can’t keep ’em forever.”<
br />
  Sergeant Krelnik shook his head in stoic disgust and started whipping the men into line. “Let’s have some order here, scum! No use to the Realm Guard if you can’t stand up straight.” He continued to abuse them until they were arrayed in two uneven lines, then turned to Vaelin, snapping off a salute. “Recruits for your inspection, my lord.”

  My lord. The title still sounded strange to his ears. He didn’t feel like a lord, he felt and looked like a brother of the Sixth Order. He had no lands, no servants, no wealth and yet the King had proclaimed him a lord. It felt like a lie, one of many.

  He nodded to Sergeant Krelnik and walked along the line, finding it hard to meet the many frightened eyes that tracked his progress. Some men stood straighter than others, some were cleaner, some so thin and wasted it was remarkable they could still stand upright. And they all stank, a thick, cloying stench he knew so well. These men stank of their own death.

  He continued down the line until something made him pause, one set of eyes that didn’t follow him but remained fixed on the ground. He stopped and moved closer to the man. He was taller than most of the prisoners, broader too, the sagging flesh on his chest indicating a once-muscular torso weakened by a long period of malnutrition. Just visible under the filth covering his forearm was the deep indentation of a badly healed scar.

  “Still climbing?” Vaelin asked him.

  Gallis looked up, reluctantly meeting his eyes. “On occasion, brother.”

  “What was it this time? Another sackful of spice?”

  There was a faint tick of amusement in Gallis’s haggard face. “Silver. From one of the big houses. Would’ve made it too if my lookout had kept his head.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Month or two. Can’t really keep track of time in the vaults. Was s’posed to get hung yesterday but the cart was full.”

  Vaelin nodded at his scarred arm. “Does that give you any trouble?”

  “Aches a little in the winter months. But I can still scale a wall better than any man. Don’t you worry.”

  “Good. I can find a use for a climber.” Vaelin took a step closer, holding the man’s gaze. “But you should know I’m still unhappy at what you tried to do to Sister Sherin, so if you run…”

  “Wouldn’t think of it, brother. I may be a thief but my word is iron.” Gallis made an effort to look soldierly, puffing out his chest and pulling his shoulders back. “Why, it’d be an honour to march with…”

  “All right.” Vaelin waved him to silence and moved back, lifting his voice so they could all hear. “My name is Vaelin Al Sorna, brother of the Sixth Order and commander by the King’s Word of the Thirty-fifth Regiment of Foot. King Janus has graciously consented to commute your sentence to the privilege of serving in the Realm Guard. In return you will march and fight at his word for the next ten years. You will be fed, you will be paid and you will follow my orders without question. Any man guilty of indiscipline or drunkenness will be flogged. Any man who deserts will be executed.”

  He scanned their faces for some reaction to his words but saw mostly dumb relief. Even the hardships of a soldier’s life were preferable to another hour in the dungeons. “Sergeant Krelnik.”

  “My lord!”

  “Get them back to the Order House. I have business in the city.”

  The seat of the noble house of Al Hestian was in the northern quarter, the city’s richest district. It was an impressive red sandstone manse of many windows and extensive grounds surrounded by a solid wall topped with wicked iron spikes. The impeccably attired servant at the gate listened to Vaelin’s enquiry with practised disinterest before asking him to wait and going inside for instructions. He returned after a few minutes.

  “Young master Al Hestian is in the garden at the rear of the house, my lord. He bids you welcome and asks that you join him presently.”

  “And the Lord Marshal?”

  “Lord Al Hestian was called to the palace this morning. He is not expected until this evening.”

  Vaelin gave an inward sigh of relief. The ordeal ahead would have been even more onerous if he had had to face the father as well as the brother.

  Once through the gate he found a squad of Royal Guardsmen loitering on the lawn, one holding the reins of a handsome white mare. His relief evaporated as he surmised the meaning of their presence. The guardsmen gave him a formal bow as he passed. It seemed word of his new rank had spread quickly. He returned the bow and hurried on, anxious to be done with this and return to the Order House, where he could busy himself with training his regiment. My regiment. He wondered at the fact of it. Barely in his nineteenth year and the King had given him a regiment and, although Caenis had been quick to reel off a list of famous warriors who had risen to command at an early age, to Vaelin it still seemed absurd. He had sought an explanation from the Aspect as they travelled back to the Order House after the meeting at the palace but his questions were met with a simple instruction to follow his orders. But the preoccupied frown on the Aspect’s brow told him the King’s actions had left him much to consider.

  The gardens were a protracted maze of hedgerows and flowerbeds blossoming in the onset of spring. He found them sheltering from the sun under a maple tree. The princess was as lovely as ever, smiling radiantly and tossing her red-gold hair as she listened to the earnest youth on the bench beside her reading aloud from a small book. Vaelin saw only the faintest resemblance to his brother in Alucius Al Hestian, a thin boy of fifteen years or so, his youthful features delicate, almost feminine, topped by a mane of black curls that cascaded over his shoulders. He wore black in mourning. Vaelin took a firm grip on the scabbard of the longsword he carried, drew in a deep draught of air and strode forward with all the confidence he could muster. As he drew nearer he could hear the lilting refrain of the boy’s words: “I pray you weep no more my love, let no tears fall for my demise, lift your face to the sky above, and let the sun dry your eyes…”

  He fell silent as Vaelin’s shadow fell upon them.

  “My Lord Al Sorna!” Alucius rose to greet him, offering his hand without regard to the lordly formalities Vaelin was finding so irksome. “This is indeed an honour. My brother’s letters spoke so highly of you.”

  Vaelin’s confidence withered and drifted away with the wind. “Your brother was an overly generous man at times, sir.” He shook the boy’s hand, and offered a short bow to Princess Lyrna. “Highness.”

  She inclined her head. “A pleasure to see you again, brother. Or do you prefer ‘my lord’ these days?”

  He met her gaze, a mounting rage threatening to spill unwise words from his lips. “Whatever pleases you, Highness.”

  She made a show of contemplation, stroking her chin, her nails were painted pale blue and adorned with inlaid jewels that glittered in the sun. “I think I’ll keep calling you ‘brother.’ It seems more…seemly.”

  There was a barely perceptible edge to her voice. He couldn’t tell if she was angry, still smarting over his rejection, or simply mocking a man she thought a fool for passing up the chance to share in the power she craved.

  “A fine verse, sir.” He turned to Alucius, seeking escape. “One of the classics?”

  “Hardly.” The boy seemed a little embarrassed and quickly put aside the small book he was holding. “Merely a trifle.”

  “Oh don’t be so modest, Alucius,” the princess chided him. “Brother Vaelin, you are honoured to witness a reading by one of the Realm’s most promising poets. I’m sure it will be a proud boast in years to come.”

  Alucius gave a sheepish shrug. “Lyrna flatters me.” His gaze fell on the longsword in Vaelin’s hand, sorrow clouding his face in recognition. “Is that for me?”

  “Your brother wanted you to have it.” Vaelin held the sword out to him. “He asked that you leave it sheathed.”

  The boy took the sword after a moment’s hesitation, gripping the hilt tightly, his expression suddenly fierce. “He was always more forgiving than I. Those who killed him wi
ll pay. I vow it.”

  Boy’s words, Vaelin thought, feeling very old. Words from a story, or a poem. “The man who killed your brother is dead, sir. There is no vengeance to seek.”

  “The Cumbraelins sent their warriors into the Martishe, did they not? Even now they plot against us. My father has heard word of it. The Cumbraelin Fief Lord sent the heretics who slew Linden.”

  Word flies fast from the palace indeed. “The matter is in the King’s hands. I’m sure he will steer the Realm on the correct course.”

  “The course to war is the only course I will follow.” The boy’s sincerity was intense, tears gleaming in his eyes.

  “Alucius.” Princess Lyrna laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, her tone soothing. “I know Linden would never have wanted your heart to be burdened with hatred. Listen to Brother Vaelin’s words; there is no vengeance to be had. Cherish Linden’s memory and leave his sword in its sheath, as he wished.”

  Her concern sounded so genuine Vaelin almost forgot his anger, but the vivid image of Linden’s marble-white face as he pressed the knife against his neck dispelled any regard. However, her words seemed to have a calming effect on the boy, the anger draining from his face, although his tears continued.

  “I beg your forgiveness, my lord,” he stammered. “I must be alone now. I should…I should like to speak to you again, about my brother and your time with him.”

  “You can find me at the House of the Sixth Order, sir. I would be glad to answer any questions you have.”

  Alucius nodded, turned to press a brief kiss against the princess’s cheek and walked back to the house, still weeping.

  “Poor Alucius,” the princess sighed. “He does feel things so, ever since we were children. You realise he intends to ask for a commission in your regiment?”

  Vaelin turned to her, finding her smile gone, her flawless face serious and intent. “I had not.”