Blood Song

by Anthony Ryan

  “There are rumours of war. He has visions of following you to the Cumbraelin capital, where together you will visit justice upon the Fief Lord. It would please me greatly if you were to refuse him. He is just a boy, and even as a man I doubt he would ever be much of a soldier, just a pretty corpse.”

  “There are no pretty corpses. If he asks, I will refuse him.”

  Her face softened, rosebud lips curving in a soft smile. “Thank you.”

  “I couldn’t accept if I wanted to. My Aspect has decided all the officers in the regiment will be brothers of the Order.”

  “I see.” Her smile became rueful, acknowledging his refusal to engage with her game of favours. “Will there be war do you think? With the Cumbraelins?”

  “The King thinks not.”

  “What do you think, brother?”

  “I think we should trust the King’s judgement.” He bowed stiffly and turned to go.

  “Recently I had the good fortune to meet a friend of yours,” she went on, making him pause. “Sister Sherin, is it not? She runs a healing house for the Fifth Order in Warnsclave. I went to make a gift of alms on behalf of my father. Sweet girl, though terribly dedicated. I mentioned that we had become friends and she asked to be remembered to you. Although she seemed to think you may have forgotten her.”

  Say nothing, he told himself. Tell her nothing. Knowledge is her weapon.

  “Do you have no reply for her?” she pressed. “I could have the King’s Messenger carry it. I do so hate to see friendships end needlessly.”

  Her smile was bright now, the same smile he remembered from their talk in her private garden, the smile that told of an unassailable confidence and knowledge far beyond her years. The smile that told him she thought she knew his mind.

  “I’m glad fate has brought us together once more,” she continued when he didn’t answer. “I’ve been thinking recently, pondering a problem that may interest you.”

  He said nothing, meeting her gaze and refusing to play whatever game she had in mind.

  “Puzzles are a hobby of mine,” she went on, “I once solved a mathematical riddle which had confounded the Third Order for over a century. I never told anyone of course, it doesn’t do for a princess to outshine brilliant men.” Her voice had changed again, taking on a bitter edge.

  “Your keenness of mind does you credit, Highness,” he said.

  She inclined her head, apparently deaf to the emptiness of the compliment. “But what has puzzled me lately is an event in which you were closely involved; the Aspect massacre, although why it’s called that when only two of them died I can’t imagine.”

  “Why should such an unpleasant event concern you, Highness?”

  “It’s the mystery of course. The enigma. Why would the assassins attack the Aspects on that particular night, a night when novice brothers from the Sixth Order are present in three of the Order Houses? It seems a singularly poor strategy.”

  Despite himself, his interest was piqued. She has something to share. Why? What advantage does she gain by this? “And what conclusions have you drawn, Highness?”

  “There’s an Alpiran game called Keschet, which means ‘cunning’ in our language. It’s highly complex, twenty-five different pieces played on a board of one hundred squares. The Alpirans have a great love of strategy, in business and in war. Something I hope my father remembers in times to come.”

  “Highness?”

  She waved a hand. “No matter. Games of Keschet can last for days and wise men have been known to devote their whole lives to mastering its intricacies.”

  “A task I’m sure you’ve already accomplished, Highness.”

  She shrugged. “It wasn’t so hard, it’s all in the opening. There are only about two hundred variations, the most successful being the Liar’s Attack, a series of moves designed to appear essentially defensive but which in fact conceal an offensive sequence bringing victory in only ten moves, if done right. The success of the attack is dependent on fixing the opponent’s attention on a separate overt move in another region of the board. The key is in the narrow focus of the hidden offensive, it has but one objective, to remove the Scholar, not the most powerful piece on the board but crucial to a successful defence. The opponent, however, has been convinced that he’s facing a varied attack on a broad front.”

  “Attacking all the Aspects was a diversion,” he said. “They only intended to kill one of them.”

  “Perhaps, or perhaps two. In fact if you apply the theory more widely, it could be that you were the intended victim and the Aspects merely incidental.”

  “Is that your conclusion?”

  She shook her head. “All theories require an assumption, in this case I assume that whoever orchestrated this attack was seeking to damage the Orders and the Faith. Simply killing the Aspects would of course meet this end, but new Aspects can be appointed to replace them, like Aspect Tendris Al Forne, and it is not unreasonable to conclude that his ascension has driven a wedge between the Orders. Damage has been done.”

  “You’re saying the whole attack was aimed at elevating Al Forne to Aspect of the Fourth Order?”

  She raised her face to the sky, closing her eyes as the sun warmed her skin. “I am.”

  “You speak dangerous words, Highness.”

  She smiled, her eyes still closed. “Only to you, and I do wish you’d call me Lyrna.”

  The promise of power wasn’t enough, he thought. So now she tempts me with knowledge. “What did Linden call you?”

  There was only the smallest pause before she turned away from the sun to meet his gaze. “He called me Lyrna, when we were alone. We had been friends since childhood. He sent me many letters from the forest so I know how much he admired you. My heart ached to hear…”

  “Love must risk all or perish.” He was aware that his voice was hard with anger and his face set in a fierce glower. He was also aware that she had stopped smiling. “Isn’t that what you told him?”

  It was only for a moment, but he was sure something like regret passed across her face, and for the first time there was uncertainty in her voice. “Did he suffer?”

  “The poison in his veins made him scream in agony and sweat blood. He said he loved you. He said he had gone to the Martishe to win your father’s approval so you could wed. Before I slit his throat he asked me to give you a letter. When we gave him to the fire I burned it.”

  She closed her eyes for a second, a picture of beauty and grief, but when she opened them again it was gone and there was no emotion in her answer: “I follow my father’s wishes in all things, brother. As do you.”

  The truth of it lashed at him. They were complicit. Murder entangled them both. He may have resisted loosing the bowstring but he had placed Linden in the path of the fatal arrow, just as she had set him on the road to the Martishe. It occurred to him this may have been the King’s plan all along, sordid murder binding them together in guilt.

  He knew now his enmity for her was a deceit, an attempt to avoid his own share of blame, but even so found himself holding to it. She is cold, she is scheming, she is untrustworthy. But more than that, he hated the lingering hold she had over him, her effortless ability to engage his interest.

  There was the faintest glimmer of something behind her eyes then as he realised the intensity of the gaze he had turned on her. Fear, he decided. The only man who can make her afraid.

  He bowed again, guilt mingling with satisfaction in his breast. “By your leave, Highness.”

  Sister Gilma was plump and friendly, with a quick smile and bright blue eyes that seemed to sparkle continually with mirth. “In the name of the Faith, cheer up, brother!” she had said when they first met, tweaking Vaelin’s chin with a mock punch. “You’d think the cares of the Realm were on your shoulders. Brother sour-face they call you.”

  “Are you really sure you want a healer attached to the regiment?” Nortah had asked.

  Sister Gilma laughed. “Oh I see I’m going to like you!” she said
in her thick Nilsaelin brogue, giving Nortah a punch on the arm that was less playful.

  Vaelin had concealed his disappointment that Aspect Elera hadn’t seen fit to appoint Sister Sherin in answer to his request, although he was hardly surprised. “Whatever you require will be provided, sister.”

  “It better be.” She laughed. In the month since her arrival he had noticed she tended to laugh when she was being serious, employing a humourless tone when indulging her weakness for gentle but effective mockery.

  “Another two broken arms today,” she told him with a chuckle and wry shake of her head as he entered the large tent that served as her treatment room. Four men were lying abed, bandaged and sleeping. Another two were being tended by the assistants she had insisted on recruiting from the ranks. To Vaelin’s surprise she had chosen two of the pressed men from the dungeons, slight fellows with quick minds and careful hands who would probably have made poor soldiers in any case.

  “Keep driving these men so hard, and there’ll be few left to face a battle a month from now.” She was smiling her bright smile, blue eyes twinkling.

  “Battle is a hard business, sister. Soft training will make for soft soldiers, who will in turn become soft corpses.”

  Her smile faded a little. “Battle is coming then? There will be a war?”

  War. The question was on everyone’s lips. It had been four weeks since the King had summoned the Fief Lord of Cumbrael and no answer had come. The Realm Guard had been confined to barracks and leave cancelled. Rumours flew with alarming speed. Cumbraelins were massing on the border. Cumbraelin archers had been seen in the Urlish. Hidden Denier sects were plotting all manner of hideous Dark-fuelled villainy. Everywhere the air was thick with expectation and uncertainty, making Vaelin drive the men as hard as he dared. If the storm broke, they had to be ready.

  “I know no more than you, sister,” he assured her. “Any more pox cases?”

  “Not since my visit to the ladies’ encampment.”

  An outbreak of pox amongst the men had been traced to a camp of enterprising whores recently established in the woods a scant two miles away. Fearing the Aspect’s reaction to the news of a nest of whores so close to the Order House, Vaelin had ordered Sergeant Krelnik to put together a squad of the more trustworthy men to evict the women and send them back to the city. However, the old soldier had surprised him by hesitating. “Are you sure about this, my lord?”

  “I’ve got twenty men too poxed to train, Sergeant. This regiment is under the command of the Order, can’t have the men sneaking off to…indulge their lust in this way.”

  The sergeant blinked, his grizzled, scarred face impassive but Vaelin felt sure he was suppressing a grin. There were times when talking to the sergeant he felt himself a child giving orders to his grandfather. “Erm, with respect, my lord. The regiment may belong to the Order but the men don’t. They ain’t brothers, they’re soldiers, and soldiers expect to be shown a woman now and again. Take away their…indulgence and there could be trouble. Not saying the men don’t respect you, my lord, they surely do, never seen a bunch as terrified of their commander as this lot, but these fellows ain’t exactly the cream of the Realm and we’ve been working them pretty hard. They get too hacked off, they could start taking to their heels, hanging or no.”

  “What about the pox?”

  “Oh the Fifth Order’s got remedies aplenty for that. Sister Gilma’ll sort it, get her to pay a visit to these women, sort them in no time she will.”

  So they had gone to Sister Gilma and Vaelin had stammered out a request whilst she regarded him with an icy visage.

  “You want me to go into a camp full of whores to cure them of the pox?” she said coldly.

  “Under guard of course, sister.”

  She looked away, closing her eyes whilst Vaelin fought the desire to flee.

  “Five years training at the Order House,” she said softly. “Four more on the northern border assailed by savages and ice storms. And what is my reward? To live amongst the dregs of the Realm and tend to their doxies.” She shook her head. “Truly the Departed have cursed me.”

  “Sister, I meant no offence!”

  “Oh good!” she said, beaming suddenly. “I’ll get my bag. The guard won’t be necessary, though I’ll need someone to show me the way.” She arched an eyebrow at Vaelin. “You don’t know it do you, brother?”

  He grimaced at the memory of his stuttering denial. Sergeant Krelnik had been right, the incidents of pox fell away quickly and the men stayed content, or as content as they could be after weeks of training under his brothers’ bruising tutelage. He opted to forget to apprise the Aspect of the incident and there was a tacit agreement it was not to be discussed amongst the brothers.

  “Is there anything you need?” he asked Gilma. “I can send a cart to your Order House for supplies.”

  “My stocks are sufficient for now. Master Smentil’s herb garden has been a great help. He’s such a dear. Been teaching me to sign, look.” She made a series of signs with her plump but nimble hands that roughly translated as: I am a bothersome sow. “It means ‘My name is Gilma.’”

  Vaelin nodded, his face expressionless. “Master Smentil is a gifted teacher.”

  He left her with the wounded and went outside. Everywhere, men were training, clustered in companies around brothers struggling to impart skills learned over a lifetime in the space of a few months. It was an often frustrating task, their recruits seemed so slow and clumsy, ignorant of the most basic tenets of combat. So much so that his brothers had complained bitterly when Vaelin forbade use of the cane. “Can’t train a dog if you can’t whip it,” Dentos had pointed out.

  “They’re not dogs,” Vaelin replied. “Not boys either, most of them anyway. Punish them with extra training or menial duties, cut their rum ration if you think it appropriate. But no beatings.”

  The regiment was now at full strength, numbers swelled by the pressed men from the dungeons and a steady flow of new recruits who, true to the King’s prediction, had been drawn to a soldier’s life by Vaelin’s legend, some having travelled great distances to enlist.

  “More times than not it’s the rumble in a man’s belly makes him enlist,” Sergeant Krelnik observed. “This lot seem hungry only for the glory of serving under the Young Hawk.”

  As the weeks passed, the training began to take hold, the men growing visibly stronger, aided by a healthy diet, which many had never known before. They stood straighter and moved faster, handling their weapons with greater skill, although they still had much to learn. Gallis the Climber soon recovered much of his physique, his spirits brightened by repeated visits to the whores’ camp. He became one of the regiment’s characters, ever ready with a cynical quip to draw laughter from his comrades, although he was wise enough to curb his tongue during the training sessions. The brothers may have been forbidden the cane but they knew a thousand ways to hurt a man in the tumble of a sparring match. Most gratifying for Vaelin was their discipline, they rarely fought amongst themselves, never questioned an order and there had been no attempts at desertion. He was yet to order a flogging or a hanging and lived in dread of the day when he had no option. War will be the test, he decided, recalling the miserable months in the Martishe and the many men who had chosen to risk escape through the Cumbraelin-infested forest rather than face another day in the stockade.

  He found Nortah teaching the bow to a group of their more burly recruits. All newly enlisted soldiers had been tested at the butts and most found wanting, the more keen-eyed collected into a company of crossbowmen, but a few had shown sufficient skill and strength to warrant further tuition. They numbered only thirty or so, but even a small number of skilled bowmen would be a valuable asset to the regiment. Nortah again proved an able teacher; all his charges could now sink a shaft into the centre of the butt from forty paces and one or two could repeat the feat with the rapidity usually displayed only by brothers of the Order.

  “Don’t kiss the string,” Nortah tol
d a student, a brawny fellow Vaelin recalled from his trip to the dungeons. His name was Drak or Drax, a renowned poacher before the King’s Foresters had caught him quartering a freshly felled deer in the Urlish. “Get the arrow back behind your ear for every loosing.”

  Drak or Drax forced the extra effort into his muscles and let fly, the shaft striking home a few inches higher than the bull’s-eye. “Not bad,” Nortah told him. “But you’re still letting the stave swing out after you loose. Remember, this is a war bow, you’re not hunting game with it. Get that string back as quick as you can.” He noticed Vaelin’s approach and clapped his hands to get the attention of his company. “All right. Move the butts back another ten paces. First man to hit the bull gets an extra inch of rum tonight.”

  He turned to give Vaelin an extravagant bow as his men went to move the butts. “Greetings, my lord.”

  “Don’t do that.” Vaelin glanced at the men, joking and laughing as they worked their shafts from the butts. “They’re in good humour.”

  “With good reason. Plenty of food, rum every day and cheap harlots a short walk through the forest. More than most of them could ever hope for.”

  Vaelin took a close look at his brother, seeing the familiar haunted look that had continued to cloud his eyes ever since their time in the Martishe. He seemed tired and distant when off duty, taking an excessive interest in the various rum-based concoctions the men would brew of an evening. Not for the first time Vaelin found himself on the verge of telling him the fate of his family but as ever the King’s order stilled his tongue. He seems so aged, Vaelin thought. Not yet twenty and he has the eyes of an old man.

  “Where’s Barkus?” Vaelin asked him. “He’s supposed to be teaching the pole-axe.”

  “In the smithy, again. Hardly away from the place these days.”

  Since their return from the Martishe Barkus had lost his reluctance to work metal, presenting himself to Master Jestin and spending many an hour in the smithy helping to fashion the new weapons needed by the regiment. Master Grealin’s armoury was extensive but even the racks of weapons in the vaults were insufficient to arm every man and still provide for the Order’s needs. Vaelin did not object to Barkus taking up the hammer once again, especially since it seemed to make him so happy, but found it irksome that it took him away from his duties with the regiment. He would have to speak to him, as he had to speak to Nortah.