by Anthony Ryan
“Seems fitting,” Caenis said. “Those who have besmirched the King’s peace should be obliged to make recompense. What better way than through service in war? And I have to say, former outlaws do make excellent soldiers.”
“No illusions,” Barkus agreed. “No expectations. When you live your whole life in hardship, a soldier’s life doesn’t seem so bad.”
“Ask those poor bastards we left behind at the Bloody Hill how much they liked a soldier’s life,” Dentos said.
Barkus shrugged. “Soldier’s life often means a soldier’s death. Least they get paid, what do we get?”
“We get to serve the Faith,” Frentis put in. “It’s enough for me.”
“Ah, but you’re still young, in mind and body. Give it another year or two and you’ll be reaching for Brother’s Friend to silence those pesky questions, like the rest of us.” Barkus tipped the wine bottle into his mouth, grimacing in disappointment as the last drops dribbled out. “Faith, I wish I were drunk,” he grumbled, hurling the bottle into the darkness.
“Don’t you believe it then?” Frentis went on. “What we’re fighting for?”
“We’re fighting so the King can double his tax income, oh innocent urchin.” Barkus pulled a flask of Brother’s Friend from his cloak and took a long pull. “That’s better.”
“That can’t be right,” Frentis protested. “I mean, I know all that stuff about Alpirans stealing children was so much horse-dung, but we’re bringing the Faith here, right? These people need us. That’s why the Aspect sent us.” His gaze swivelled to Vaelin. “Right?”
“Of course that’s right,” Caenis told him with his accustomed certainty. “Our brother sees the basest motives in the purest actions.”
“Pure?” Barkus gave a long and hearty laugh. “What’s pure about any of this? How many corpses are lying out there in the desert because of us? How many widows and orphans and cripples have we made? And what about this place? You think the Red Hand appearing here after we seize the city is just some huge coincidence?”
“If we brought it with us, then it would have laid us low as well,” Caenis snapped back. “You speak such nonsense sometimes, brother.”
Vaelin glanced back at the mansion as they continued to bicker. A dim light was burning in one of the upstairs windows, vague shadows moving behind the blinds. Sherin at work, most probably. He felt a sudden lurch of concern, feeling her vulnerability. If her curative failed to work, she was naked before the Red Hand, like Sister Gilma. He would have sent her to her death…and she was so angry.
He rose and went to the gate, eyes locked on the yellow square of the window, helplessness and guilt surging in his breast. He found he was already turning the key in the lock. If it works, then there is no danger, if it doesn’t, then I can’t linger here whilst she dies…
“Brother?” Caenis, voice heavy with warning.
“I have to…” The blood-song surged, a scream in his mind, sending him to his knees. He clutched at the gate to keep from falling, feeling Barkus’s strong hands bear him up.
“Vaelin? Is it the falling sickness again?”
Despite the pain throbbing in his head, Vaelin found he could stand unaided, and there was no tang of blood in his mouth. He wiped at his nose and eyes, finding them dry. Not the same, but it was Ahm Lin’s song. A sudden, sick realisation struck him, and he tore away from Barkus’s grasp, eyes scanning the dark mass of the city, finding it quickly, a bright beacon of flame shining in the artisan’s quarter. Ahm Lin’s shop was burning.
The flames were reaching high into the sky when they arrived, the roof of the shop was gone, the blackened beams wreathed in fire. The heat was so intense they couldn’t go within ten yards of the door. A line of townsfolk relayed buckets from the nearest well, although the water they cast at the inferno had little effect. Vaelin moved among the crowd, searching frantically. “Where’s the mason?” he demanded. “Is he inside?”
People shrank from him, fear and animosity on every face. He told Caenis to ask them for the mason and a few hands pointed to a cluster of people nearby. Ahm Lin lay on the street, his head cradled in his wife’s lap as she wept. Livid burns glistened on his face and arms. Vaelin knelt next to him, gently touching a hand to his chest to check he still drew breath.
“Get away!” His wife lashed out, catching him on the jaw, pushing his hand away. “Leave him alone!” Her face was blackened with soot and livid with grief and fury. “Your fault! Your fault, Hope Killer!”
Ahm Lin coughed, lurching on the ground as he fought for breath, eyes blinking open. “Nura-lah!” his wife sobbed, pulling him close. “Erha ne almash.”
“Thank the Nameless, not the gods,” Ahm Lin rasped. His eyes found Vaelin and he beckoned him closer, whispering in his ear. “My wolf, brother…” His eyelids flickered and he lost consciousness, Vaelin sighing in relief at the sight of his swelling chest.
“Get him to the guild house,” he ordered Dentos. “Find a healer.”
Caenis came to him as they carried Ahm Lin away, his wife clutching his hand. “They found the man who did this,” he said, gesturing at another knot of people. Vaelin rushed over, pushing through the cordon and finding a battered corpse lying on the cobbles. He kicked the body onto its back, seeing a bruised and completely unfamiliar face. An Alpiran face.
“Who is he?” Vaelin asked, his gaze tracking the crowd as Caenis translated. After a moment a swarthy man stepped forward and spoke a few words, glancing uneasily at Vaelin.
“The mason is well thought of,” Caenis related. “The work he does is considered sacred. This man shouldn’t have expected mercy.”
“I asked who he is,” Vaelin grated.
Caenis relayed the question to the man in his halting but precise Alpiran, receiving only a blank shake of the head. Questions to the rest of the crowd elicited only meagre information. “No-one seems to know his name, but he was a servant in one of the big houses. He took a blow to the head when they tried to break out a few weeks ago, hasn’t been the same since.”
“Do they know why he did this?”
This produced a babble of seemingly unanimous responses. “He was found standing in the street with a flaming torch in his hand,” Caenis said. “Shouting that the mason was a traitor. It seems the mason’s friendship with you caused some bad talk, but no-one expected this.”
Vaelin’s scrutiny of the crowd intensified under the blood-song’s guidance. The threat lingers. Someone here had a hand in this.
The sound of falling masonry made him turn back to the shop. The walls were crumbling as the fire ate the timbers inside. With the walls gone the many statues inside were revealed, gods, heroes and emperors serene and unmoving amidst the flames. The murmur of the crowd fell to hushed reverence, a few voices uttering prayers and supplications.
It’s not there, Vaelin realised, sweat beading on his brow as he moved closer to scan the blaze. The wolf is gone.
In the morning he searched amidst the wreckage, sifting ash under the impassive gaze of the blackened but otherwise undamaged marble gods. It had taken hours for the fire to subside, despite the countless water buckets heaved at it by the townsfolk and gathered soldiery. Eventually, when it became clear the surrounding houses were in no danger, he called a halt and let it burn. As dawn lit the city he sought out the block with its vital secret, finding nothing but ash and a few shattered pieces of marble that might have been anything. The blood-song was a constant mournful throb at the base of his skull. Nothing, he thought. This has all been for nothing.
“You look tired.” Sherin stood nearby, grey-cloaked and pale in the lingering smoke rising from the charred ruin. Her face was still guarded but he saw no anger there, just fatigue.
“As do you, sister.”
“The curative worked. The girl will be fully recovered in a few days. I thought I should let you know.”
“Thank you.”
She gave a barely perceptible nod. “It’s not quite over yet. We need to keep watch for
more cases, but I’m confident any outbreak can be contained. Another week and the city can be opened once more.”
Her eyes surveyed the ruins then seemed to notice the statues for the first time, her gaze lingering on the massive form of the man and the lion locked in combat.
“Martual, god of courage,” he told her. “Battling the Nameless great lion that laid waste to the southern plains.”
She reached up to caress the god’s unfeasibly muscled forearm. “Beautiful.”
“Yes, it is. I know you’re tired, sister, but I would be grateful if you could look at the man who carved it. He was badly burned in the fire.”
“Of course. Where do I find him?”
“At the guild house near the docks. I’ve had quarters prepared for you there. I’ll show you.”
“I’m sure I can find it.” She turned to go then paused. “Governor Aruan told me about the night you took the city, how you secured his cooperation. I feel my words may have been overly harsh.”
She held his gaze and he felt the familiar ache in his chest, but this time it warmed him, dispelling the blood-song’s sorrowful dirge and bringing a smile to his lips, though the Departed knew he had little to smile about.
“You have been released on the King’s orders,” he said. “Brother Frentis brought a royal command.”
“Really?” She arched an eyebrow. “May I see it?”
“Sadly, it has been lost.” He gestured at the smoking mess around them by way of explanation.
“Unusually clumsy of you, Vaelin.”
“No, I’m often clumsy, in my deeds and my words.”
A brief answering smile lit Sherin’s face before she looked away. “I should see to this artistic friend of yours.”
The gates were opened seven days later. Vaelin also ordered the sailors released, though only one crew at a time. It provoked little surprise when most chose to leave port with the earliest tide, the Red Falcon amongst the first to depart, Captain Nurin hounding his crew with desperate urgency as if afraid Vaelin would attempt a last-minute retrieval of the bluestone.
Some of the richer citizens also chose to leave, fear of the Red Hand did not fade quickly. Vaelin managed to intercept the onetime employer of the man who had set fire to Ahm Lin’s shop, a richly attired if somewhat bedraggled spice merchant, chafing under guard at the eastern gate as Vaelin questioned him. His family and remaining servants lingered nearby, packhorses laden with assorted valuables.
“His name was Carpenter, as far as I knew,” the merchant said. “I can’t be expected to remember every servant in my employ. I pay people to remember for me.” The man’s knowledge of the Realm tongue was impeccable, but there was an arrogant disdain to his tone Vaelin didn’t like. However, the fellow’s evident fear made him suppress the urge to deliver an encouraging cuff across the face.
“He had a wife?” he asked. “A family?”
The merchant shrugged. “I think not, seemed to spend most his free time carving wooden effigies of the gods.”
“I heard he was injured, a blow to the head.”
“Most of us were that night.” The merchant lifted a silken sleeve to display a stitched cut on his forearm. “Your men were very free with their clubs.”
“The carpenter’s injury,” Vaelin pressed.
“He took a blow to the head, a bad one it seems. My men carried him back to the house unconscious. In truth we thought him dead, but he lingered for several days, barely breathing. Then he simply woke up, showing no ill effects. My servants thought it the work of the gods, a reward for all his carvings. The next morning he was gone, having said no words since his awakening.” The merchant glanced back at his waiting family, impatience and fear showing in the tremble of his hands.
“I know you were not complicit in this,” he told the merchant, stepping aside. “Luck to you on your journey.”
The man was already moving away, shouting commands to put his household on the road.
He lingered for days, Vaelin mused and the blood-song stirred, sounding a clear note of recognition. He felt the familiar sense of fumbling for something, some answer to the many mysteries of his life, but once again it was beyond his reach. Frustration seized him and the blood-song wavered. The song is you, Ahm Lin had said. You can sing it as well as hear it. He sought to calm his feelings, trying to hear the song more clearly, trying to focus it. The song is me, my blood, my need, my hunt. It swelled within him, roaring in his ears, a cacophony of emotion, blurred visions flicking through his mind too fast to catch. Words spoken and unspoken rose in an incomprehensible babble, lies and truth mingling in a maelstrom of confusion.
I need Ahm Lin’s counsel, he thought, trying to focus the song, forcing harmony into the discordant din. The song swelled once more, then calmed to a single, clear note and there was a brief glimpse of the marble block, the chisel resuming its impossibly rapid work, guided by an unseen hand, the face emerging, features forming…Then it was gone, the block blackened and shattered amidst the wasted ruin of the mason’s home.
Vaelin moved to a nearby step and sat down heavily. It appeared there had been but one chance to know what message the block contained. This verse was over and he needed a new tune.
CHAPTER EIGHT
He was called to the gate at midnight, Janril Norin limping to his room in the guild house to wake him.
“Scores of horsemen on the plain, my lord,” the minstrel said. “Brother Caenis requested your presence.”
He quickly strapped on his sword and mounted Spit, galloping to the gatehouse in a few minutes. Caenis was already there, ordering more archers onto the walls. They climbed the stairs to the upper battlements, where one of Count Marven’s Nilsaelins pointed to the plain. “Near five hundred of the buggers, my lord,” the man said, voice shrill with alarm.
Vaelin calmed him with a pat to the shoulder and moved to the battlement, looking down on a small host of armoured riders, steel gleaming a faint blue in the dim light from the crescent moon. At their head a burly figure in rust-stained armour glared up at them. “You ever going to open this bloody gate?” Baron Banders demanded. “My men are hungry and I’ve got blisters on my arse.”
Shorn of his armour, the baron was smaller in stature but no less bullish. “Pah!” He spat a mouthful of wine onto the floor of the guild-house chamber which served as their meal hall. “Alpiran piss. Don’t you have any Cumbraelin to offer an honoured guest, my lord?”
“I regret my brothers and I are guilty of exhausting our reserves, Baron,” Vaelin replied. “My apologies.”
Banders shrugged and reached for the roasted chicken on the table, tearing off a leg and chomping into the flesh. “I see you managed to leave most of this place standing,” he commented around a mouthful. “Locals couldn’t have put up much of a fight.”
“We were able to effect a stealthy seizure of the city. The governor has proved a pragmatic man. There was little bloodshed.”
The baron’s face became sombre, and he paused for a moment before washing down his food and reaching for more. “Couldn’t say the same about Marbellis. Thought the place was going to burn forever.”
Vaelin’s disquiet deepened. The baron’s unexpected appearance was unsettling, and it seemed he had dark news to impart. “The siege was difficult?”
Banders snorted, pouring himself more wine. “Four weeks of pounding with the engines before we had a practical breach. Every night they’d sally out, small parties of dagger men, sneaking through our lines to cut throats and hole the water barrels. Every bloody night a sleepless trial. The Departed know how many men we lost. Then the Battle Lord sent three full regiments into the breach. Maybe fifty men made it out again, all wounded. The Alpirans had set traps in the breach, spiked pits and so forth. When the Realm Guard got held up by the pits they sent bundles of kindling rolling in, all soaked in oil. Their archers set them blazing with fire arrows.” He paused, eyes closed, a small shudder ran through him. “You could hear the screams a mile away.”
/> “The city is not taken?”
“Oh it’s taken. Taken and taken again like a cheap whore.” Banders belched. “Blood Rose licked his wounds and drew his plan well. In truth I think his assault on the breach was a grand ruse, a sacrifice to convince the Alpirans they were facing a fool. Two nights later he drew up four regiments opposite the breach, making ready to assault. At the same time he sent the entire remaining Realm Guard infantry against the eastern wall with scaling ladders. He gambled the Alpirans were concentrating their strength at the breach and didn’t leave enough men to defend the walls. Turns out he was right. Took all night and the cost was high but by morning the city was ours, what was left of it.”
Banders lapsed into silence, concentrating on his meal. Vaelin let him eat and found his gaze lingering on the baron’s perennially rust-stained armour. On seeing it up close for the first time, he noticed that those parts of steel plate not besmirched with corrosion gleamed with a polished sheen and the rust itself had an odd, waxy texture.
“It’s paint,” he said aloud.
“Mmmm?” Banders glanced over at his armour and grunted. “Oh that. A man should try to live up to his legend, don’t you think?”
“The legend of the rusty knight?” Vaelin asked. “Can’t say I’ve heard it, my lord.”
“Aha, but you’re not Renfaelin.” Banders grinned. “My father was a boisterous, kindhearted fellow, but overfond of dice and harlots and consequently unable to leave me much more than a crumbling hold-fast and a rusty suit of armour, which I was obliged to wear when answering the Lord’s call to war. Luckily my father had managed to pass on something of his skill with the lance and so my standing grew with every battle and tourney. I was famed as the Rust Knight, loved by the commons for my poverty. The armour became my banner, made me easy to find in the melee, something for the peasants to cheer and my men to rally to, once I had fortune enough to hire some of course.”
