Blood Song

Brak or Brax forced the extra effort into his muscles and let fly, the shaft striking home a few inches higher than the bulls eye. “Not bad,” Nortah told him. “But you’re still letting the stave swing out after you loose. Remember this is a war bow, you’re not hunting game with it. Get that string back as quick as you can.” He noticed Vaelin’s approach and clapped his hands to get the attention of his company. “All right. Move the butts back another ten paces. First man to hit the bull gets an extra inch of rum tonight.”

He turned to give Vaelin an extravagant bow as his men went to move the butts. “Greetings, my lord.”

“Don’t do that.” Vaelin glanced at the men, joking and laughing as they worked their shafts from the butts. “They’re in good humour.”

“With good reason. Plenty of food, rum every day and cheap harlots a short walk through the forest. More than most of them could ever hope for.”

Vaelin took a close look at his brother, seeing the familiar haunted look that had continued to cloud his eyes ever since their time in the Martishe. He seemed tired and distant when off duty, taking an excessive interest in the various rum-based concoctions the men would brew of an evening. Not for the first time Vaelin found himself on the verge of telling him the fate of his family but as ever the King’s order stilled his tongue. He seems so aged, Vaelin thought. Not yet twenty and he has the eyes of an old man.

“Where’s Barkus?” Vaelin asked him. “He’s supposed to be teaching the pole-axe.”

“In the smithy, again. Hardly away from the place these days.”

Since their return from the Martishe Barkus had lost his reluctance to work metal, presenting himself to Master Jestin and spending many an hour in the smithy helping to fashion the new weapons needed by the regiment. Master Grealin’s armoury was extensive but even the racks of weapons in the vaults were insufficient to arm every man and still provide for the Order’s needs. Vaelin did not object to Barkus taking up the hammer once again, especially since it seemed to make him so happy, but found it irksome that it took him away from his duties with the regiment. He would have to speak to him, as he had to speak to Nortah.

“How much did you have last night?”

Nortah shrugged. “Stopped counting after my sixth cup. Slept well though.”

“I’ll bet.” He sighed, hating the necessity of saying what he had to say. “I don’t begrudge a man a drink, brother, but you are an officer in this regiment. If you must get drunk, please do so out of sight of the men.”

“But the men like me,” Nortah protested with mock sincerity. “‘Come sup with us, brother,’ they say. ‘You’re not like the Young Hawk. We’re not scared shitless of you, oh no.’ They even invited me to come roger some whores with them. I was touched.” He laughed at Vaelin’s appalled expression. “Don’t worry, I’ve not quite sunk that far. Besides, from what I hear a visit to the camp will most likely leave a man with a fire raging in his britches.”

Vaelin decided it best not to enlighten Nortah with the news that the pox outbreak was now under control. He nodded at the bowmen. “How long till they’re ready?”

“In about seven years they’ll be as good as we are. Think the Cumbraelins will give us that long?”

“I can only hope so. I meant will they stand? Will they fight?”

Nortah looked at his men, his haunted eyes distant, no doubt picturing them in battle, hacked and bloodied. “They’ll fight,” he said eventually. “Poor bastards. They’ll fight all right.”

Chapter 5

He was dreaming of the Martishe when Frentis came to wake him, back in the clearing listening to the maddening enigma woven by Nersus Sil Nin. But now the red marble pattern of her eyes was jet black, like the stone that sat in the empty socket of the one-eyed man. The warm summer sun that had bathed the clearing in his vision was gone now, the ground thick with snow, the air cutting with its chill. And her words, whilst still mysterious, were cruel.

“You will kill and kill again, Beral Shak Ur,” she told him with a sickening smile, small points of light gleaming in the black orbs of her eyes. “You will witness the harvest of death under a blood-red sun. You’ll kill for your faith, for your King and for the Queen of Fire when she arises. Your legend will cover the world and it will be a song of blood.”

He was kneeling in the snow, his hands entwined on the hilt of his dagger, the blade slick with blood that shone black in the moonlight. Behind him there was a corpse, he could feel its heat seeping away into the snow. He knew the face of the corpse, he knew it was someone he loved. And he knew he had killed them. “I didn’t ask for this,” he said. “I never wanted it.”

“Want is nothing. Destiny is everything. Your are a plaything of fate, Beral Shak Ur.”

“I’ll choose my own fate,” he said, but the words were faint, empty, a child’s defiance to an indifferent parent.