Blood Song

by Anthony Ryan

  “The truly Faithful could never rejoice at the spilling of innocent blood, Highness. Denier or not.”

  “Then you would agree that we should seize any chance we have to halt such slaughter before it begins?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good!” The prince’s fist thumped the table and he moved to the tent flap. “Fief Lord Mustor! Your attention please.”

  It took the Fief Lord of Cumbrael several moments to answer the summons, his unshaven visage even more drawn and wasted than Vaelin remembered. The man was clearly still drunk and Vaelin was surprised at the steadiness of his voice.

  “Brother Vaelin. I understand congratulations are in order.”

  “Congratulations, my lord?”

  “You are made a Sword of the Realm, are you not? It seems your elevation coincides with my own.” His laugh was loaded with irony.

  “I was acquainting Brother Vaelin with our design, Lord Mustor,” Prince Malcius informed him. “He agrees with the intent of our mission.”

  “I’m so glad. Really would rather not inherit a Fief composed mostly of ash and corpses.”

  “Quite,” the prince muttered, moving back to the map. “Fief Lord Mustor has been gracious enough to provide us with what he believes to be sound intelligence regarding the dispositions of his usurping brother. Although the Battle Lord will no doubt expect to find him at the Cumbraelin capital, Lord Mustor is certain we will in fact find him here.” His finger tapped at a point to the north, a narrow pass in the Greypeaks, the mountain range forming the natural border between Cumbreal and Asrael.

  Vaelin peered closely at the map. “There’s nothing there, Highness.”

  Fief Lord Mustor snorted a short laugh. “Won’t find it on any map, brother. My father and all his father’s fathers made sure of that. It’s called the High Keep, with good reason I assure you. The most impregnable fortification in the Fief, if not the Realm. Granite walls a hundred feet high and commanding views over all approaches. It’s never been taken. My poor deluded little brother will be there, no doubt surrounded by a few hundred loyal fanatics. Probably spending their time quoting the Ten Books at the top of their lungs and whipping each other for impious thoughts.” He paused to look hopefully around the tent. “Do you perchance have anything to drink, Prince Malcius? I find myself quite parched.”

  Vaelin saw the prince bite back an irritated retort as he pointed at the wine bottle on a small table. “Ah, most kind.”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Vaelin said. “But if this keep is impregnable, how are we to gain access to the usurper?”

  “By means of my family’s most cherished secret, brother.” Fief Lord Mustor smacked his lips as he tasted a generous sip of wine. “Ah, a fine red from the Werlishe Valley. My compliments on your cellar, Highness.” He took another, more generous sip.

  “Secret, my lord?” Vaelin prompted.

  The Fief Lord’s brows knitted in momentary puzzlement. “Oh, the keep. Yes, the family secret, only entrusted to the firstborn son. The keep’s only weakness. Many years ago, when the keep was the main seat of our house, one of my forebears became somewhat fearful of his own subjects and convinced himself the House Guards were in league with plotters to bring about his downfall. In need of an escape route in a time of crisis, he had a tunnel hewn through the mountain and, having had all the miners who did the hewing quietly poisoned, entrusted the secret of its location to his firstborn son. Ironically, it appears his constant fear of plotters was merely a symptom of the black pox, which can affect a man’s mind as much as his member, and from which he expired a few months later.” He drained his wineglass. “This really is a rather excellent vintage.”

  “So you see,” Prince Malcius said. “The Fief Lord will lead us to the tunnel, your men will storm the keep and the usurper will be taken into custody to face the King’s justice.”

  “Hardly likely, Highness,” Lord Mustor said, reaching for the bottle again. “I’m sure my brother will make every effort to martyr himself in service to the World Father. Still, I daresay Brother Vaelin and his band of cut-throats are more than up to the task.”

  “I am puzzled, Lord Mustor,” Vaelin said. “Your brother has murdered your father in order to claim the Fief as his own, yet he secludes himself in a remote castle whilst the Realm Guard march on his capital.”

  “My brother Hentes is a fanatic,” Lord Mustor replied with a shrug. “When it became clear my father was going to bend the knee to King Janus he called him to a secret meeting and stuck his sword in his heart as a service to the World Father. No doubt the more vehement priests and followers would have approved but Cumbrael is not a land that could tolerate a Fief Lord who ascends by the murder of his own father. Whatever the thoughts of the commoners, the vassals who followed my father would not follow Hentes. They’ll fight your army, they have little choice after all, but only in defence of the Fief. My brother will be at the keep, he can go nowhere else.”

  “And once the usurper is…dislodged?” Vaelin asked Prince Malcius.

  “The reason for this war will have disappeared. But it all depends on time.” He turned his attention back to the map, his finger tracing the route from the Brinewash bridge to the pass where the High Keep waited. “Best guess, the pass is two hundred miles distant. If we are to accomplish our goal, we must get there in sufficient time to allow word to be taken to the Battle Lord.” He reached for a sealed parchment on the table. “The King has already set down a command for the Realm Guard to return to Asrael in the event we are successful.”

  Vaelin quickly calculated the distance between the pass and the Cumbraelin capital. Nearly a hundred miles, two days’ ride for a fast horse. Nortah could do it, maybe Dentos too. Getting to the keep in time, that’s the hard part. The regiment will have to cover at least twenty miles a day.

  “Can it be done, brother?” the prince asked.

  Vaelin’s gaze turned to the Cumbraelin villages laid out on the map in precise, neat lines. He wondered how many people in those hamlets along the Western Road had any notion of the storm that would soon descend. When this war was done perhaps another map would have to be drawn. In Cumbrael you will see many things. Many terrible things. “It will be done, Highness,” he said with flat certainty. I’ll whip them all the way there if I have to.

  And so they marched, four hours at a stretch, twelve hours a day. They marched. On through the grass lands north of the Brinewash, into the hills and valleys beyond and the foothills that signalled entry into border country. Men who fell out on the march were kicked to their feet and hounded into movement, those who collapsed given half a day on the wagon then put back on the road. Vaelin had decreed the only men left behind would be ready to join the Departed and counted on their fear of him to keep them moving. So far it had worked. They were sullen, weighed down by weapons and provisions, their mood soured by his order cancelling the rum ration until further notice, but they were still afraid, and they still marched.

  Every night Vaelin would seek out Alucius Al Hestian for two hours of training. The boy was initially delighted by the attention. “You honour me, my lord,” he said gravely, standing with his long sword held out in front of him as if he were holding a mop. Vaelin slashed it from his grip with a flick of his wrist.

  “Don’t be honoured, be attentive. Pick that up.”

  An hour later it had become obvious that as a swordsman Alucius made a fine poet. “Get up,” Vaelin told him, having sent him sprawling with a flat-bladed blow to the legs. He had repeated the same move four times and the boy had failed to notice the pattern.

  “I, um, need some more practice…” Alucius began, his face flushed, tears of humiliation shining in his eyes.

  “Sir, you have no gift for this,” Vaelin said. “You are slow, clumsy and have no appetite for the fight. I beg you, ask Prince Malcius to release you and go home.”

  “She put you up to this.” For the first time, there was some hostility in Alucius’s tone. “Lyrna. Trying to protect me.
Well I won’t be protected, my lord. My brother’s death demands a reckoning, and I will have it. If I have to walk all the way to the usurper’s keep myself.”

  More boy’s words. But there was a strength to them nonetheless, a conviction. “Your courage does you credit, sir. But proceeding with this will only result in your death…”

  “Then teach me.”

  “I’ve tried…”

  “You have not! You’ve tried to make me leave, that’s all. Teach me properly, then there will be no blame.”

  It was true of course. He had thought an hour or two of humiliation would be enough to convince the boy to go home. Could he really train him in the time left? He looked at the way Alucius held his sword, how he held it close to his body to balance the weight of it. “Your brother’s sword,” he said, recognising the bluestone pommel.

  “Yes. I thought it would honour him if I carried it to war.”

  “He was taller than you, stronger too.” He thought for a moment then went to his tent, returning with the Volarian short sword King Janus had given him. “Here.” He tossed the weapon to Alucius. “A royal gift. Let’s see if you fare any better with it.”

  He was still clumsy, still too easily fooled, but at least had gained some quickness, parrying a couple of thrusts and even managing a counterstroke or two.

  “That’s enough for now,” Vaelin said, noting the sweat on Al Hestian’s brow and his heaving chest. “Best if you strap your brother’s sword to your saddle from now on. In the morning, rise early and practice the moves I showed you for an hour. We’ll train again tomorrow evening.”

  For nine more nights they trained, after an arduous day’s march, Vaelin would try to turn a poet into a swordsman.

  “You don’t block the blade, you turn it,” he told Alucius, annoyed he sounded so much like Master Sollis. “Deflect the force of the blow, don’t absorb it.”

  He feinted a thrust at the boy’s belly then swept the blade up and around, slashing at the legs. Alucius stepped back, the blade missing by inches, and countered with a lunge of his own, it was clumsy, unbalanced and easily parried, but it was quick. Despite his continual misgivings, he was impressed.

  “All right. That’ll do for now. Sharpen your edge and get some rest.”

  “That was better, wasn’t it?” Alucius asked. “I am getting better?”

  Vaelin sheathed his sword and gave the boy a pat on the shoulder. “It seems there’s a warrior in you after all.”

  On the tenth day one of Brother Makril’s scouts reported the pass less than half a day’s march distant. Vaelin ordered the regiment to camp and rode ahead with Prince Malcius and Lord Mustor to locate the tunnel entrance, Makril’s command riding as escort. The green hills soon gave way to boulder-strewn slopes on which the horses could find scant purchase. Spit grew fractious, tossing his head and snorting loudly.

  “Foul-tempered animal you have there, brother,” Prince Malcius observed.

  “He doesn’t like the ground.” Vaelin dismounted, taking his bow and quiver from the saddle. “We’ll leave the horses here with one of Brother Makril’s men, proceed on foot.”

  “Must we?” Lord Mustor asked. “It’s miles yet.” His sagging features showed the signs of yet another night’s indulgence and Vaelin was surprised he had managed to remain in the saddle for the duration of the march.

  “Then we had best not linger, my lord.”

  They struggled upwards for another hour or so, the dark majesty of the Greypeaks an oppressive, dominating presence above. The summits seemed ever shrouded in mist, hiding the sun, the muted light making the landscape uniformly grey. Although it was late summer, the air was chilled, possessed of a cloying dampness that seeped into their clothes.

  “By the Father I hate this place,” Lord Mustor gasped when they had paused for a rest. He slumped against a rocky outcrop and slid to the ground, unstoppering a flask. “Water,” he said, noting the prince’s disapproving glare. “Truth be told, I had hoped I’d never see Cumbrael again at all.”

  “You are the heir to the lordship of this land,” Vaelin pointed out. “It seems an unlikely ambition never to return to it.”

  “Oh, I was never meant to sit on the Chair. That honour would have been afforded Hentes, my murderous sibling, whom my father loved dearly. Must’ve broken the old bastard’s heart when he lost him to the priests. He was always the favoured son, you see. Best with the bow, best with the sword, quick of wit, tall and handsome. Sired three bastards of his own by his twenty-fifth year.”

  “He doesn’t sound like the most devout of men,” Prince Malcius observed.

  “He wasn’t.” Lord Mustor took a long gulp from his flask, causing Vaelin to suspect it contained more than water. “But that was before he took an arrow in the face during a skirmish with some outlaws. My father’s surgeon removed the arrowhead but my brother took a fever and lay near death for several days, at one point it’s said his heart stopped beating. But the Father saw fit to spare him, and once recovered he was a changed man. The handsome carousing, wench-chasing warrior became a scarred, pious devotee of the Ten Books. Hentes Trueblade they called him. He cut himself off from his old friends, shunned his many lovers, sought out the company of the most ardent and radical priests. He began to preach, passionate sermons describing the visions he had seen as he lay dying. He claimed the World Father had spoken to him, shown him the glorious path to redemption. Much of which apparently involves converting you foreign heathens to the teachings of the Ten Books, at sword point if necessary. My father had little choice but to send him away, along with his ever-growing band of followers.”

  “And you say he believes your god told him to assassinate your father?” the prince asked.

  “My brother’s beliefs are not always easily understood, even by his disciples. But the very notion of the Fief Lord of Cumbrael abasing himself to King Janus would have been anathema, especially since it resulted from what he sees as Brother Vaelin’s persecution of the holy warriors in the Martishe. So he invited my father to a meeting, under the pretence of seeking a return from exile, and there, with no guards to protect him, he killed him.”

  He paused to drink again, his gaze lingering on Vaelin. “My sources write that your name is known in Cumbrael now, brother. Hentes may be the Trueblade, but you are the Darkblade. It’s from the Fifth Book, the Book of Prophecy. Centuries ago a seer spoke of a near-invincible heretic swordsman: ‘He will smite the holy and strike down those who labour in the service of the World Father. Know him by his blade for it was forged in an unnatural fire and guided by the voice of the Dark.’”

  Darkblade? Vaelin thought of the blood-song and what Nersus Sil Nin had told him of its origins. Perhaps they have it right. He got to his feet. “We’d best press on.”

  “Well that’s a lot of fucking use!” Brother Commander Makril spat on the ground near Lord Mustor’s feet.

  The Fief Lord drew back, a glimmer of fear in his eyes. “It was open ten years ago,” he said, a faint whine colouring his voice.

  Vaelin peered into the tunnel entrance, a narrow crack in a windswept cliff-face they would have barely noticed if Lord Mustor hadn’t pointed it out. In the gloom of the tunnel entrance he could just make out the source of Makril’s anger; a pile of huge boulders sealed the passage from floor to ceiling. The mass of rock was far too heavy to move with their small force. Makril was right, the tunnel was useless.

  “I don’t understand it,” Lord Mustor was saying. “It was as well built as it could be. No-one save my father and I knew of its existence.”

  Vaelin moved into the tunnel, running a hand over the surface of one of the boulders, feeling how it was smooth in one place and rough in another, his fingers finding the hard edges left by a chisel. “This stone has been worked loose. Recently, if I’m any judge.”

  “It appears your greatest secret has been betrayed, my lord,” Prince Malcius observed. “If, as you say, your father favoured your brother over you, he may have felt it appropriat
e to share the secret with him.”

  “What are we to do?” Lord Mustor asked plaintively. “There is no other way into the High Keep.”

  “Except by siege,” the prince said. “And we have not the time, men or engines for that.”

  Vaelin emerged from the tunnel. “Is there a vantage point nearby where we can view the keep without being seen?”

  It was a perilous climb up a narrow, rock-strewn path but they made good time, despite Lord Mustor’s constant grumbling about his blistered feet. Eventually they came to a ledge shielded from the wind by a large outcrop of rock.

  “Best stay low,” Lord Mustor advised. “I doubt any sentry will have eyes keen enough to see us, but we shouldn’t trust to chance.” He crept to the shoulder of the outcrop and pointed. “There, hardly the most elegant of architecture, is it?”

  The High Keep was hard to miss, its walls rose from the mountain like a blunted spear-point thrust up through the rock. Lord Mustor was right in noting the building’s lack of elegance. It was devoid of any decoration, unadorned by statuary or minarets, the smooth plane of the walls broken only by a scattering of arrow slits. A single banner bearing the holy white flame of the Cumbraelin god snapped atop a tall lance on the bastion above the gate. The only approach to the keep was a single narrow road rising steeply from the floor of the pass. They were level with the top of the wall and Vaelin could see the black specks of sentries atop the battlements.