Blood Song

Linden Al Hestian moved to the corpse, his face stricken with grief, and gently touched his dead friend’s hair. “Did he go down fighting?” he asked after a moment, voice thick with emotion.

Vaelin saw Nortah open his mouth to reply and cut in quickly. Nortah had a tendency to indulge his cruel streak where Lord Al Hestian was concerned, voicing barely concealed insults and criticism without hesitation. “He was very brave, my Lord.”

Martil Al Jelnek had wept like a child with the arrow buried in his gut, his hands clutched at Vaelin in brief, desperate spasms as the light of life faded from his eyes and effluent spouted from his mouth. He had tried to say something at the end, Vaelin was sure of it, his mouth stumbling over a torrent of bile choked gibberish. Perhaps some message for his beloved. They would never know.

“Brave,” Al Hestian repeated with a faint smile. “Yes, he was always that.”

“His men ran,” Nortah said. “One arrow and they ran. This regiment of yours is no more than a rabble of criminal scum.”

“Enough!” Brother Makril barked.

Sergeant Krelnik approached, snapping a smart salute at Al Hestian. He was a stocky man nearing his fiftieth year with a heavily scarred face and a fearsome disposition towards the men. One of the few experienced soldiers to enlist in the regiment, having served in the Realm Guard since the age of sixteen, Al Hestian had wisely made him Master Sergeant, responsible for discipline. But despite his best efforts Nortah’s description was accurate, the regiment remained a rabble.

“I’ll order the pyre built, my lord,” Sergeant Krelnik said. “We should give him to the flames tonight.”

Al Hestian nodded, stepping back from the corpse. “Yes. Thank you sergeant. And you brothers, for bringing him back.” He moved back to his tent. “Brother Makril, Brother Vaelin, may I have a moment?”

Al Hestian’s tent was free of the luxuries found in the quarters of the other nobles, the available space taken up with his weapons and armour which he cleaned and maintained himself. Most of the other nobles had brought along a servant or two but apparently Lord Al Hestian was capable of seeing to his own needs.

“Please brothers.” He gestured for them to take a seat and moved to the small portable desk where he dealt with the numerous administrative tasks that beset regimental commanders. “A Royal missive,” he said, lifting an opened envelope from the desk. Vaelin’s heart began to beat a little faster at the sight of the King’s seal.

“‘To Lord Linden Al Hestian, commander of the Thirty-Fifth Regiment of Foot, from his Highness Janus Al Neiren,’” Al Hestian read. “‘My lord, please accept my congratulations for keeping a regiment in the field for such a protracted period. Lesser commanders would no doubt have opted for the more obvious course of concluding the Realm’s business in the Martishe forest with the utmost dispatch. You, however, clearly have a more subtle stratagem in mind, so subtle in fact that I am unable to discern its substance from this distance. You will recall Aspect Arlyn’s gracious provision of a contingent from the Sixth Order, brothers for whom the Aspect is keen to find other employment. I hear my former Battle Lord’s son is among them and I feel sure he has inherited his father’s appreciation for urgency in carrying out his King’s commands. Perhaps you should discuss your plans with these brothers, who may be of sufficiently generous disposition to offer some advice.’”

Vaelin was appalled to find his hands trembling and hid them in his cloak hoping they assumed he was feeling the chill.

“So brothers,” Al Hestian said, regarding them with an expression of honest despair. “I must seek your counsel, it seems.”

“I’ve given you my counsel several times, my lord,” Makril said. “Flog some men, force the laziest and most cowardly through the gates without weapons and allow Sergeant Krelnik a free hand in discipline.”

Al Hestian massaged his temples, fatigue evident in his brows. “Such measures would hardly win the men’s hearts, brother.”

“Bugger their hearts. It’s a rare commander that can win the love of his men. Most rule by fear. Make them fear you and they’ll respect you. Then perhaps they’ll start killing some Cumbraelins.”

“I suspect from the tone of his Highness’s letter we may have little more than a few weeks to conclude matters here. And, despite the King’s assumption, I confess I have no stratagem for bringing down Black Arrow and his cohorts. Even if I adopt the measures you recommend it will take more time than we have to win victory in this blighted forest.”