Blood Song

“Any man found drunk without permission will be flogged. Those found drunk more than once will be dismissed from the regiment. Any of you shit heads thinking that means a free passage home should know that dismissed men will have to walk out of the Martishe on their own two feet with no weapons.” Makril paused a moment to let the import of his words sink in. A lone man walking through the Martishe with no means of defence was likely to find himself lashed to a tree and disembowelled in short order.

“Understand this you miserable bunch of thieving scum,” Makril growled. “Lord Al Hestian has given the Sixth Order leave to train you as we see fit. You belong to us now.”

“Didn’t sign up for this,” a sallow faced man in the front row muttered sullenly. “’Sposed to be in the King’s serv-”

Makril’s fist smashed into the man’s jaw, felling him instantly. “Brother Barkus!” he barked, stepping over the prostate soldier. “Ten lashes for this man. No rum for a week.” He glared at the remaining trainees. “Anyone else want to discuss their terms of service?”

Caenis and Dentos slipped into the forest the next day with instructions to find the Cumbraelins’ camp whilst the men were trained. The combined threat of flogging and death proved an excellent stimulus to both discipline and exertion. Their trainees scrambled to obey every order, running for miles through the snow, enduring bruising lessons in swordsmanship or unarmed combat, listening in respectful silence as Makril attempted to teach them the basics of woodcraft. If anything they seemed too respectful, too cowed by fear, and Vaelin knew fearful soldiers made bad soldiers.

“Don’t fret it,” Makril told him. “As long as they’re more scared of us than they are of the scum they’ll do fine.”

Vaelin took charge of the sword lessons whilst Barkus made himself a figure of dread with his rough and tumble approach to unarmed combat. Nortah quickly abandoned attempts to teach the men the bow, none of them had the muscle or the skill for it, and concentrated instead on the crossbow, a weapon even the clumsiest oaf could master in a few days. By the end of the first week their small company could run five miles without complaint, had lost their fear of sleeping outside the stockade, and most could hit a mark at twenty paces with a crossbow. Their sword skills and basic fighting ability were still lacking but Vaelin felt they had at least learned enough to survive an initial encounter with Black Arrow’s men.

As usual Vaelin’s legend had preceded him and the men regarded him with a mixture of awe and fear. They would occasionally exchange a word or two with Nortah and Barkus but maintained a rigid silence in Vaelin’s presence, as if one wrong word could earn a swift death. Their fear was deepened by Vaelin’s black mood, making him short tempered and prone to dishing out painful slaps with the wooden stave he used for sword practice. At times he found himself sounding like Master Sollis. It did nothing to lighten his mood.

Al Hestian had chosen to train with the men, running with them and sharing their bruises in practice. He proved a skilled swordsman and was sufficiently tall and strong to at least compete with Barkus in unarmed combat. All the while he strove to encourage the men, dragging slackers to their feet and pulling them along during the runs, applauding their meagre progress with the sword. Vaelin noticed their growing regard for the young noble, where before he had been “that snot nosed lackwit” behind his back now he was simply “his lordship”. The mood of the men was still sullen, they had no affection for Vaelin and his brothers, but Al Hestian had become a figure worthy of their solidarity. Watching him as he sparred with some of the men Vaelin felt his depression deepen yet further. Murderer.

The voice had begun to plague him the day they began the training, a soft, knowing murmur at the back of his thoughts, whispering awful truths. Assassin. You’re no better than the scum who killed Mikehl. The king has made you his creature…

“What do you think, brother?” Al Hestian was striding towards him through the snow, face flushed with exertion but also bright with optimism. “Will they do?”

“At least another ten days, my lord,” Vaelin replied. “They still have much to learn.”

“But they have improved greatly wouldn’t you say? At least now we can call them soldiers.”

Fodder more like.A mask for your deceit, bait for your trap. “Indeed, my lord.”