Blood Song

by Anthony Ryan

  “You see, Lord Vaelin?” Mustor said. “It’s unassailable.”

  Vaelin edged closer, peering down at the base of the keep; irregular rock giving way to smooth walls. The rocks aren’t a problem, but the wall? “How tall did you say the walls are, my lord?”

  “Are you sure you can do this?”

  Gallis the Climber lifted the coil of rope over his head, settling the weight on his shoulders, and glanced up at the towering keep above. “I do like a challenge, milord.”

  Vaelin pushed his doubts to the recess of his mind and handed the man a dagger. “Do this for me and I might forget I’m angry with you.”

  “I’ll settle for that flagon of wine you promised me.” Gallis grinned, pushing the dagger into his boot and turning to the rock face, his hands exploring the granite for holds, dextrous fingers tracing over the irregular surface with intuitive precision. After a few seconds he took hold and began to climb, his body moving fluidly over the cliff, his hands and feet finding purchase seemingly of their own volition. Ten feet or so off the ground he paused to look down at Vaelin, smiling broadly. “Easier than a merchant’s house by far.”

  Vaelin watched him ascend from the cliff to the wall, growing smaller the higher he climbed until he seemed like an ant struggling on the trunk of a great tree. He never faltered, never slipped. Satisfied he wasn’t actually going to fall, Vaelin turned to the brothers and soldiers crouched in the darkness about him. They were a mixture of Nortah’s best archers and brothers from Makril’s command, twenty men in all. It was scant force against the numbers guarding the usurper but any more would increase the risk of detection. The rest of the regiment was waiting at the foot of the long uphill road to the keep’s gate, Brother Makril had the command and would lead a mounted charge with Prince Malcius when the gate was opened. Caenis would follow with the main body on foot. Vaelin had endured strenuous objections against leading the assault on the gate, Caenis stating flatly that his place was with the men.

  “I was sent for the usurper,” Vaelin replied. “I intend to get him, alive if possible. Besides, I’d like the chance to talk to him. I’m sure he has many interesting things to say.”

  “You mean you want to test his sword,” Makril said. “His lordship’s tales made you wonder, did they? Want to know if he’s as good as you.”

  Is that it? Vaelin wondered. In truth he felt no hunger for matching steel with the Trueblade. In fact he harboured no doubts that he could defeat the man when he found him. But he did want to confront him, hear his voice. Lord Mustor’s story had indeed made him curious. The usurper believed he was doing the work of his god, like the Cumbraelin he had watched die in the Martishe. What drives them to this? What makes a man murder for his god? But there was something more, ever since he had first glimpsed the High Keep, the blood-song. It was faint at first, but grew in power as night fell. It was not a note of warning exactly, more an urgency, a need to discover what waited inside.

  He beckoned Nortah and Dentos closer, his whispered words misting the air in the dark mountain chill. “Nortah, take your men along the battlements. Kill the sentries and cover the courtyard. Dentos, take the brothers to the gatehouse, get the gate raised and hold it until the regiment arrives.”

  “And you, brother?” Nortah asked with a raised eyebrow.

  “I have business in the keep.” He glanced up at Gallis’s shrinking form. “Nortah, tell your men not to scream if they fall. The Departed won’t accept a coward into the Beyond. Luck to you, brothers.”

  He was first to follow Gallis up the rope, the wind a howling, unseen monster threatening to tear him from the wall at any moment. His arms were burning with the effort and his hands gripped the rope with ice-numb fingers by the time he came upon Gallis. The onetime thief was perched just below the lip of the battlement, his fingertips clamped on the edge of the stone, legs braced against the wall. Vaelin could only marvel at the strength it must have taken to remain in such a position for so long. As Vaelin dragged himself level with the iron grapple lodged on the battlement, Gallis nodded, his “Milord” of greeting lost to the wind. Vaelin took a one-handed grip on the grapple and flexed the fingers of his right hand to regain some feeling. He turned to Gallis with a questioning glance.

  “One,” Gallis mouthed, inclining his head at the battlement. “Looks bored.”

  Vaelin inched himself up for a quick glance over the wall. The guard was a few yards away, huddled in his cloak in the shelter of a small alcove in the battlements, a flaming torch guttered in the wind above his head, scattering sparks into the black void. The sentry’s spear and bow were propped against the wall as he rubbed his hands vigorously, breath steaming in the air. Vaelin reached over his shoulder to draw his sword, breathed deeply then hauled himself over the wall in a single fluid motion. He had counted on surprise to prevent the guard calling out the alarm but was surprised himself when the man failed even to reach for his weapons, simply standing in shocked immobility as the star-silver blade took him in the throat.

  Vaelin lowered the body to the rampart floor and beckoned Gallis over the wall. “Here,” he whispered, stripping the blood-sodden cloak from the corpse and tossing it to the climber. “Put this on and walk around a bit. Try to look Cumbraelin. If any of the other guards talk to you, kill them.”

  Gallis grimaced at the blood dripping from the cloak but pulled it about his shoulders without complaint, tugging the hood over his head so his face was concealed in shadow. He strolled slowly out of the shelter of the small alcove and moved along the battlements, rubbing his hands beneath his cloak, giving every impression of being nothing more than a bored sentry walking a wall on a cold night.

  Vaelin moved to the grapple and tugged hard on the rope, once then twice. It took an age before Nortah’s head appeared above the wall and even longer before the men followed him. Dentos was the last, struggling over the battlement and sinking slowly to the floor, the tremble in his hands not only a symptom of the cold, he had never liked heights.

  Vaelin did a head count, grunting in satisfaction that there had been no fallers. “No time for rest, brother,” he whispered to Dentos, tugging him to his feet. “You know what to do. Keep it as quiet as you can.”

  The two parties separated to pursue their missions, Nortah leading his bowmen along the battlements to the left, arrows notched, Dentos taking the brothers in the opposite direction towards the gatehouse. Soon there came the hard snap of bowstrings as Nortah’s men dealt with the sentries. There were a few stifled shouts of alarm but no screams and no answering clamour from the keep. Vaelin found the steps to the courtyard and hurried downwards. Lord Mustor’s description of the keep had been vague, the man’s memory for detail was somewhat dulled, but he had been clear on one thing: his brother would be in the Lord’s Chamber, the hub of the High Keep, which could be reached by the door directly opposite the main gate.

  Vaelin moved quickly, the blood-song louder now, an edge of warning colouring the tune: find him. He encountered two men upon opening the door, burly fellows leaning close to one another as they shared a candle flame, pipe smoke billowing. They were seated at a small table, a half-empty bottle of brandy and an opened book between them. The first died as he surged to his feet, the sword sweeping across his chest, slicing through flesh and bone in a silver blur. The second managed to get a hand to the dagger in his belt before Vaelin cut him down with a slash to the neck. It was an untidy blow and the man lingered for a moment, a scream rising from his ruined throat. Vaelin clamped his hand over the man’s mouth to smother the sound, blood gouting through his fingers, punching the sword blade hard into the man’s guts. He held him down as he twitched, watching the life fade from his eyes.

  He wiped his bloodied hand on the man’s jerkin and took stock of his surroundings. A small room with a passage leading deeper into the keep and a stairway off to the left. Lord Mustor had told him the Lord’s Chamber was at ground level so he took the passage, moving slower now, each shadowed corner a potential threat.
Soon he found himself before a large oaken door, slightly ajar, outlined by the torchlit chamber beyond.

  How many guards with him? he wondered, his hand already reaching out to push the door open. This is foolish. I should wait for the others… But the blood-song was so loud now, forcing him forward. FIND HIM!

  There were no guards, just a large stone chamber, the walls shrouded in shadow beyond the six stone pillars that supported the ceiling. The man seated on a dais at the far end of the chamber was tall and broad-shouldered, his handsome face marred by a deep scar on his left cheek. A naked sword lay across his knees, a plain, narrow-bladed weapon Vaelin recognised as Renfaelin from the absence of a guard; Cumbraelins were renowned bowsmiths but reputedly knew little of forging steel. The man said nothing as Vaelin entered, remaining seated and regarding him with silent intent, his eyes empty of fear.

  Now he stood confronted by his quarry the blood-song lost its shrillness, diminishing to a soft but steady murmur at the back of his mind. Am I where it wants me to be? he thought. Or where I need to be? In either case, he saw little reason for preamble.

  “Hentes Mustor!” he said, striding forward. “You are called by the King’s Word to answer charges of treason and murder. Give up your sword and stand ready to be shackled.”

  Hentes Mustor remained seated as Vaelin approached, neither speaking nor reaching for his weapon. It was only when Vaelin came within the last few yards that he noticed a chain coiled around his left wrist and traced the dark links of iron from his hand to the shadows between the pillars. Mustor’s hand jerked in a quick, skilful motion, the chain snapping like a whip, striking sparks from the flagstones as a figure was dragged from the darkness, a slender figure, gagged with wrists shackled. She stumbled to her knees before Mustor, and Vaelin had time to note the grey robe she wore and the dark tumble of her hair before the usurper was on his feet with his sword at her throat.

  “Brother,” he said in a soft, almost sorrowful voice. “I believe this young woman is known to you.”

  Her eyes were bright, fearful, pleading. Her shouts stopped by the gag but the meaning was clear in the emphatic, frantic shake of her head. Her eyes locked onto his and he read them clearly. Do not sacrifice yourself for me! The gag and the passage of years meant nothing. He would have known her anywhere. Sherin!

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Your sword, brother,” Hentes Mustor said in his soft voice.

  There should have been rage, desperate, bloody rage sending a throwing knife into Mustor’s arm and a sword cleaving deep into his neck. But something choked it off as it rose in his breast. It wasn’t just caution, although the man was quick, far quicker than Gallis the climber had been all those years ago, it was something more. For a second he was lost in confusion then it came to him: the blood-song’s tune hadn’t changed. The same soft, steady murmur still sang in his head, devoid of the warning or wrongness he knew so well.

  His sword landed with a clatter at Mustor’s feet, the sound mingling with Sherin’s muffled sob of despair.

  “And so.” Mustor kicked the sword away into the shadows, his tone heavy with reverence. “The truth of His word is shown again.” His eyes fixed on Vaelin. “Your other weapons, throw them away. Slowly.”

  Vaelin did as he was bid, his knives and the dagger in his boot tossed into the shadows. “Now I am disarmed,” he said. “Is there any reason to threaten my sister so?”

  Mustor glanced at Sherin’s reddened face, as if remembering she was there. “Your sister. He told me that’s not how you think of her. She is your love, is she not? The key by which your faith can be unlocked.”

  “My faith cannot be unlocked, my lord. I’ve given you my sword, that’s all.”

  “Yes.” Mustor nodded, his voice flat with certainty. “As He said you would.”

  Is he mad? Vaelin wondered. The man was a patent fanatic but did that make him insane? He recalled Sentes Mustor’s story of his brother’s conversion. He claimed the World Father had spoken to him… “Your god? He told you I would come here?”

  “He is not my god! He is the World Father, who created all and knows all in His love, even heretics like you. And I am blessed by His voice. He warned me of your coming and that your Dark skill with the blade would undo me, though in my sinful pride I longed to face you without this trickery. He guided me to the mission where this woman could be found. And it was all as He foretold.”

  “Did he foretell that you would kill your father?”

  “My father…” The certainty faded from Mustor’s eyes and he blinked, his expression guarded. “My father lost his way. He turned away from the World Father’s love.”

  “He didn’t turn away from you. He gave you this keep, did he not? Gave you letters of safe passage to ensure you could travel here unmolested. He even told you the most cherished secret of your family: the passage through the mountain. He did all this to ensure you would be safe. You are to be envied to have been so loved. And you repaid him with a blade in his heart.”

  “He strayed from the law of the Ten Books. His toleration of your heretic dominion could not be borne forever. I had no choice but to act…”

  “A strange god that loves you so much he makes you murder your own father.”

  “SHUT UP!” Mustor screamed in a voice that almost sobbed with sorrow, flinging Sherin away as he advanced on Vaelin, sword levelled. “Shut your mouth! I know what you are. Don’t think He did not tell me. You are a practitioner of the Dark. You shun the Father’s love. You know nothing.”

  Still the blood-song’s tune failed to change, even as the usurper’s blade came within a handsbreadth of his chest. “Are you ready?” Mustor asked. “Are you ready to die, Darkblade?”

  Vaelin noted the way Mustor’s sword tip trembled, the moist redness of his eyes and the hard clench of his jaw. “Are you ready to kill me?”

  “I will do what I must.” His voice was grating now, forced out through clenched teeth. His whole body appeared to tremble, his chest heaving, seeming to Vaelin like a man at war with himself. The sword tip wavered but did not move, neither forward nor back.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Vaelin said. “But I doubt you have any killing left in you.”

  “Just one more,” Mustor whispered. “Just one more, He told me. Then at last I could rest. The Eternal Fields would finally be opened to me where I was denied before.”

  From beyond the door came the first sounds of battle, many voices raised in alarm soon drowned in the clatter of iron-shod hooves and the hard ring of clashing steel.

  “What?” Mustor seemed bewildered, his gaze flicking continually between Vaelin and the door. “What is this? Do you seek to distract me with some Dark illusion?”

  Vaelin shook his head. “My men are storming the keep.”

  “Your men?” His face took on an expression of deep confusion. “But you came alone. He said you would come alone.” His sword fell to his side as he stumbled back a few steps, his gaze distant, unfocused. “He said you would come alone…”

  Kill him now! A voice shouted in Vaelin’s mind, a voice he had thought lost in the Martishe, the voice that had endlessly mocked his preparations for Al Hestian’s murder. He’s within reach, take his sword away and break his neck!

  The voice was right, it would be an easy kill. Whatever madness or disturbance clouded Mustor’s thoughts had left him defenceless. But the blood-song’s tune was unchanged…And his words raised so many questions.

  “You have been deceived, my lord,” Vaelin told Mustor softly. “Whatever voice speaks in your mind has played you false. I came here with a full regiment of foot and a company of mounted brothers. And I doubt my death, or any death, would buy you a place in the Beyond.”

  Mustor staggered, almost falling to the floor. He froze, only for a moment, but it was a moment of complete stillness, standing as if carved from ice. When he moved again the depth of confusion marring his features had vanished, replaced by the face of a man in full possession of his faculties, one eyebro
w raised in amused consternation, but the eyes cold with hatred. A voice Vaelin had heard before issued from Mustor’s lips in a tone of calm certainty. “You do continue to surprise me, brother. But this ends nothing.”

  Then it was gone, Mustor’s face once again the mask of confusion from a second before. It was clear to Vaelin that Mustor had no knowledge of what had just transpired. Something lives in his mind, he realised. Something that can speak with his voice. And he doesn’t know.

  “Hentes Mustor,” he said. “You are called by the King’s Word to answer charges of treason and murder.” He held out his hand. “Your sword, my lord.”

  Mustor looked down at the sword in his hand, turning the blade so it gleamed in the torchlight. “I washed it and washed it. Ground the blade on the stone for hours. But I can still see it, the blood…”

  “Your sword, my lord,” Vaelin repeated, stepping closer, hand outstretched.

  “Yes…” Mustor said faintly. “Yes. Best if you take it…” He reversed his hold on the hilt and lifted the sword towards Vaelin’s hand.

  There was a sound like the beating of a hawk’s wing, a soft rush of air on Vaelin’s cheek, and a blur of spinning steel. The blood-song roared, full of wrong and warning, making him stagger with the force of it. He found himself instinctively reaching for the empty scabbard on his back and felt an instant of complete and utter helplessness as Hentes Mustor took the axe full in the chest. The impact lifted him off his feet, laying him arms outstretched on the chamber floor.

  “Got the bastard!” Barkus exclaimed, advancing from the shadows. “A fine throw, if I say so—”

  Vaelin’s blow caught him on the jaw, spinning him to the floor. “He was giving up!” Anger boiled in him, stoked by the blood-song, making his hands itch for his weapons. “He was surrendering, you stupid bloody oaf!”