Blood Song

Black Arrow. They got the name from the only prisoner they had taken in seven months, an archer brought down by Nortah. He lived long enough to spit hate and defiance at them, calling on his god to accept his soul and begging forgiveness for his failure. He laughed at their questions; there were few threats that could be made to a dying man. In the end Vaelin had sent the others away, sitting down to offer the man his water bottle.

“Drink?”

The man’s eyes were bright with defiance but the maddening thirst as his life blood seeped away made him bite back a refusal. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

“I know.” Vaelin held the bottle to the man’s lips as he drank. “Do you think he will forgive you? Your god.”

“The World Father is great in His compassion.” The dying man spoke fiercely, spitting the words. “He will know my weaknesses and my strengths and love me for both.”

Vaelin watched the man clutch at the arrow in his side, a small whimper escaping his lips.

“Why do you hate us?” he asked. “Why do you kill us?”

The man’s whimper of pain turned into a rasping laugh of bitterness. “Why do you kill us, brother?”

“You came here in defiance of treaty. Your Lord agreed you would not bring word of your god to the other fiefs…”

“His words cannot be bound by borders, nor by the servants of a false faith. Black Arrow brought us here to defend those you would slaughter in service to your heresy. He knew the peace between us was a betrayal, a vile blasphemy…” He choked off, coughing uncontrollably. Vaelin had tried to coax more information from him but the man would only ramble on about his god, his words becoming less coherent as his life ebbed away. He soon slipped into unconsciousness, his breathing faltering to stillness within a few minutes. For some reason Vaelin found himself wishing he had asked his name.

“And you brother Vaelin?” Al Hestian’s question brought him back to the present with a start. “Our King seems to have faith in your judgement. Can you advise a method for bringing this campaign to a close?”

Call an end to the whole bloody farce and go home. He left the thought unsaid. Al Hestian couldn’t leave the forest without victory, or at least a claim to victory.

And the King does not wish him to leave the forest at all, he reminded himself. You have a bargain to keep. Who’s to say his Highness cannot undo what he has done?

“Your men are hunted by Black Arrow’s archers whenever they leave the camp,” he said. “But my brothers and I are not, we are the hunters in this forest and the Cumbraelins fear us. Your men must become hunters also, at least those that can be taught.”

Makril snorted. “This lot couldn’t be taught to piss straight never mind hunt.”

“There must be some men here who can be trained, the Faith teaches us there is worth even in the most wretched. I suggest we select a few, thirty or so. We will train them, they will answer to us. We will organise a raid, find one of Black Arrow’s encampments and destroy it. When they have their first success against the Cumbraelins the rest of the men will be inspired.” He paused, gathering the will for what he had to do. “It would further inspire the men if you were to lead the raid personally, my lord. Soldiers will respect a leader who shares their dangers.” And much can happen in the confusion of a raid, an arrow can easily go astray…

Al Hestian stroked the sparse stubble on his chin. “Brother Makril, you agree with this course of action?”

Makril gave Vaelin a sidelong glance, his heavy brows creased with suspicion. He knows something isn’t right, Vaelin realised. He can smell it, like a hound catching an unfamiliar scent.

“It’s worth a try,” Makril said after a moment. “Finding their encampment though. That’ll be a pretty trick. The scum cover their tracks well.”

“Brothers of the Sixth are considered the finest woodsman in the Realm,” Al Hestian said. “If the camp can be found you will find it, I’m sure.” He slapped his knee, enlivened by the prospect of some resolution to his dilemma. “Thank you, brothers. This plan will do very well.” He rose, sweeping a wolf-fur from the back of his chair and fastening it over his shoulders. “Let’s be about it. We have much to do!”

None of the soldiers seemed to have a family name. They were known mostly by the criminal appellations of their past: Dipper, Red Knife, Fast Hands and so on. They had chosen the thirty trainees by the simple expedient of making the whole regiment run around the stockade and picking those that dropped last. They stood in three ranks of ten, staring balefully at Makril as he set out the rules that would govern their lives from here on.