Blood Song

“What letters?” Frentis asked. Barkus threw a half-eaten chicken leg at him.

“Did he say where we going next?” Dentos asked, passing him a cup of wine.

Vaelin shook his head. “I’m to accompany him to the palace tomorrow.”

Nortah snorted and gulped a mouthful of wine. “You don’t need the Dark to see the future for us.” His words were loud and slurred, chin stained red with spilled drink. “On to Cumbrael!” He got to his feet, raising his cup to the air. “First the forest then the Fief. We’ll bring the Faith to them all, the Denier bastards. Whether they like it or not!”

“Nortah-” Caenis reached up to pull him down but Nortah shrugged him off.

“It’s not as if we’ve slaughtered enough Cumbraelins already, is it? Only killed ten of them myself in that bloody forest. How about you, brother?” He swayed towards Caenis. “Bet you can beat that, eh? At least twice as many, I’d say.” He swung towards Frentis. “Should’ve been there, m’boy. We bathed in more blood than your friend One Eye ever did.”

Frentis’s face darkened and Vaelin gripped his shoulder as he tensed. “Have another drink, brother,” he told Nortah. “It’ll help you sleep.”

“Sleep?” Nortah slumped back to the ground. “Haven’t done much of that recently.” He held up his cup for Caenis to pour more wine, staring morosely into the fire.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, Vaelin grateful for the distraction provided by one of the soldiers at a neighbouring fire. The man had found a mandolin somewhere, probably looted from a Cumbraelin corpse in the forest, and played it with considerable skill, the tune melodious but sombre, the whole camp falling quiet to listen. Soon the player had an audience clustered around him and began to sing a tune Vaelin recognised as the Warrior’s Lament:

“A warrior’s song is a lonely tune

Full of fire and gone too soon

Warriors sing of fallen friends

Lost battles and bloody ends…”

The men applauded loudly when he finished, calling for more. Vaelin made his way through the small crowd. The player was a thin faced man of about twenty years. Vaelin recognised him as one of the thirty chosen men who had taken part in their final battle in the forest, the stitched cut on his forehead testified that he had done some fighting. Vaelin struggled to remember his name but realised with shame that he hadn’t bothered to learn the names of any of the men they had trained. Perhaps, like the king, he hadn’t expected any to live.

“You play very well,” he said.

The man gave a nervous smile. The soldiers had never lost their fear of Vaelin and few made any effort to speak to him, most taking care to avoid catching his eye.

“I was apprenticed to a minstrel, brother,” the man said. His accent differed to that of his comrades, the words precisely spoken, the tone almost cultured.

“Then why are you a soldier?”

The man shrugged. “My master had a daughter.”

The gathered men laughed knowingly.

“I think he taught you well, in any case,” Vaelin said. “What’s your name?”

“Janril, brother. Janril Norin.”

Vaelin spied Sergeant Krelnik in the crowd. “Wine for these men, sergeant. Brother Frentis will take you to Master Grealin in the vaults. Tell him I’ll meet the expense, and make sure he gives you the good stuff.”

There was an appreciative murmur from the men. Vaelin fished in his purse and dropped a few silvers into Janril’s hand. “Keep playing, Janril Norin. Something lively. Something fit for a celebration.”

Janril frowned. “What are we celebrating, brother?”

Vaelin clapped him on the shoulder. “Being alive man!” He raised his cup, turning to the assembled men. “Let’s drink to being alive!”

The King convened his Council of Ministers in a large chamber with a polished marble floor and ornate ceiling decorated in gold leaf and intricately moulded plaster, the walls adorned with fine paintings and tapestries. Immaculately turned out soldiers of the Palace Guard stood to attention in a wide circle around the long rectangular table where the Council sat. King Janus himself was markedly different from the ink spattered old man with whom Vaelin had made his bargain, seated at the centre of the table, an ermine lined cloak about his shoulders and a band of gold on his brow. His ministers were seated on either side, ten men dressed in varying degrees of finery, all staring intently at Vaelin as he finished his report with Aspect Arlyn at his side. At a smaller table nearby two scribes sat writing down every word spoken. The King insisted on precise recording of every meeting and each council member had been required to state his name and appointed role before sitting down.

“And the man who carried these letters,” the King said. “His identity remains unknown?”

“There were no captives to name him, Highness,” Vaelin replied. “Black Arrow’s men were not given to surrender.”