Blood Song

“Life in a dungeon doesn’t do much for a man’s fitness,” the Chief Gaoler replied, checking the seal on the King’s order and briefly reading the contents. “But we always endeavour to do the best for his Highness, especially since he’s sent the Realm’s most famous warrior.” He gave Vaelin a smile which was either intended as ingratiating or ironic, it was difficult to tell under the grime. He had initially taken the Chief Gaoler as a prisoner from the meanness of his garb and the dirt that covered his flesh, but the width of his girth and the extensive set of keys jangling at his belt bespoke his rank.

The Royal Dungeons were a set of old, inter-connected forts near the harbour that would have fallen into disuse with the construction of the city walls two centuries ago. However, succeeding rulers had found their cavernous vaults an ideal storage space for the city’s criminal element. The exact number of prisoners was apparently unknowable. “They die so often, you can’t keep count,” the Chief Gaoler explained. “Biggest and meanest last the longest, can fight for the food, y’see.”

Vaelin peered into the darkness beyond the solid iron grate secured over the entrance to the vaults, resisting the urge to hide his face in his cloak against the almost overpowering stench. “Do you give many to the Realm Guard?” he asked.

“Depends on how troubled the times are. When the Meldenean war was on the place was almost empty.” The Chief Gaoler’s keys jangled as he moved forward to unlock the grate, gesturing at the four burly guards nearby to follow. “Well, let’s see how rich the pickings are today.”

The pickings consisted of a little under a hundred men, all in varying stages of emaciation, dressed in rags and soiled with a thick layer of dirt, blood and filth. They blinked in the sunlight, casting wary glances at the guards on the walls above the main courtyard, each aiming a loaded crossbow at the knot of prisoners.

“This really the best you could do?” Sergeant Krelnik asked the Chief Gaoler sceptically.

“Hanging day yesterday,” the man replied with shrug. “Can’t keep ‘em forever.”

Sergeant Krelnik shook his head in stoic disgust and started whipping the men into line. “Let’s have some order here, scum! No use to the Realm Guard if you can’t stand up straight.” He continued to abuse them until they were arrayed in two uneven lines then turned to Vaelin, snapping off a salute. “Recruits for your inspection, my lord.”

My lord.

The title still sounded strange to his ears. He didn’t feel like a lord, he felt and looked like a brother of the Sixth Order. He had no lands, no servants, no wealth and yet the King had proclaimed him a lord. It felt like a lie, one of many.

He nodded to Sergeant Krelnik and walked along the line, finding it hard to meet the many frightened eyes that tracked his progress. Some men stood straighter than others, some were cleaner, some so thin and wasted it was remarkable they could still stand upright. And they all stank, a thick cloying stench he knew so well. These men stank of their own death.

He continued down the line until something made him pause, one set of eyes that didn’t follow him but remained fixed on the ground. He stopped and moved closer to the man. He was taller than most of the prisoners, broader too, the sagging flesh on his chest indicating a once muscular torso weakened by a long period of malnutrition. Just visible under the filth covering his forearm was the deep indentation of a badly healed scar.

“Still climbing?” Vaelin asked him.

Gallis looked up, reluctantly meeting his eyes. “On occasion, brother.”

“What was it this time? Another sackful of spice?”

There was a faint tick of amusement in Gallis’s haggard face. “Silver. From one of the big houses. Would’ve made it too if my look-out had kept his head.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Month or two. Can’t really keep track of time in the vaults. Was s’posed to get hung yesterday but the cart was full.”

Vaelin nodded at his scarred arm. “Does that give you any trouble?”

“Aches a little in the winter months. But I can still scale a wall better than any man. Don’t you worry.”

“Good. I can find a use for a climber.” Vaelin took a step closer, holding the man’s gaze. “But you should know I’m still unhappy at what you tried to do to Sister Sherin, so if you run…”

“Wouldn’t think of it, brother. I may be a thief but my word is iron.” Gallis made an effort to look soldierly, puffing out his chest and pulling his shoulders back. “Why, it’d be an honour to march with…”