Blood Song

“Many things. None of them for your ears, Merim Her.” He tossed the beef and water skin back to Vaelin. “It’s ill luck for a man to seek the death of his brother. Why do you do it?”

Vaelin was tempted to ignore the question and sit in silence until the Lonak left, there seemed little left to talk about and he certainly didn’t cherish the man’s company, but something made him voice the feelings that pained him so much. Easier to unburden yourself to a stranger. “He’s not my brother in blood, but in the Faith. We are of the same Order and he has committed a great offence.”

“And so you will kill him?”

“I will have to. He will not let me take him back to face judgement. Did the High Priestess tell you to let him pass also?”

The Lonak nodded. “The yellow hair rode through seven days ago, making for the Maars Nir-Uhlin Sol. You intend to follow him there?”

“I have to.”

“Then you’ll most likely find a yellow haired corpse waiting for you. There is only death in those ruins.”

“I’ve heard. Do you know what it is that deals death in the fallen city?”

The Lonak's face twitched in annoyance. Fear was clearly a touchy subject. “Our people do not go there, haven’t for more than five winters, even before then we didn’t like the place, there’s a weight to the air that bears down on a man’s soul. Then the bodies started appearing. Seasoned hunters and warriors torn and rent by something unseen, their faces frozen in fear. A shameful end to be taken by a beast, even a beast of magic.” He glanced up at Vaelin. “You go there you’ll soon be as dead as your brother.”

“My brother isn’t dead.” He knew it, felt it in the constant note of the blood-song. Nortah was still alive. Waiting.

Abruptly the Lonak reached for his weapons and rose to his feet, fixing Vaelin with a hostile glare. “We’ve talked long enough, Merim Her. I’ll soil myself no longer with your company.”

“Vaelin Al Sorna,” Vaelin said.

The Lonak squinted at him suspiciously. “What?”

“My name. Do you have one?”

The Lonak regarded him in silence for a long time, the hostility fading from his gaze. Eventually he shook his head. “That is not your name.”

Then he was gone, into the blackness beyond the fire without a sound.

The tower must have stood over two hundred feet high and Vaelin could only imagine how impressive it once looked; an arrow of red marble and grey granite pointing straight to the heavens. Now it was a broken and cracked road of weed dotted rock leading him to the heart of the fallen city. Looking closer he noticed the rubble was adorned with fine relief carvings showing a myriad collection of beasts and frolicking naked humans. The stone friezes which decorated the older buildings of the capital were all martial in character, warriors fighting forgotten battles with archaic weaponry. But there were no battles here, the carvings seemed joyous, often carnal, but never violent.

The morning sun had dawned behind a thick layer of cloud bringing flurries of snow driven by a stiff wind he knew would only gain in strength as the day wore on. He closed his cloak against the chill and urged Spit onwards. Although less fractious than usual there was a tension in the animal he hadn’t sensed before, his eyes were wide and he nickered nervously at the slightest sound. It was the city, he knew. The Lonak and Brother Artin hadn’t exaggerated the oppression in the air. It thickened as he drew closer to the jagged outline of the ruins ahead, a dull ache building at the base of his skull. The blood-song was different too, less constant in its tone, more urgent in its warning.

He began to guide Spit towards a central archway near to where the fallen tower appeared to have had its base. They had only gone a few paces when Spit began to tremble, his eyes widening further, rearing and casting his head about in alarm.

“Easy!” Vaelin tried to calm him with a soft stroke to the neck but the horse was uncontrollable with fear, giving a shrill whinny and tipping Vaelin from his back with a sudden lurch then thundering away before Vaelin could grab at the reins.

“Come back you bloody nag!” he raged. The only answer was the distant drum of hooves. “Should’ve cut his throat years ago,” Vaelin muttered.

“Don’t move, brother.”

Nortah stood beneath the part collapsed archway. His blonde hair was longer, reaching nearly to his shoulders, and the beginnings of a youthful beard showed on his chin. Instead of his brother’s garb he wore a set of buckskin trews and a leather jerkin. Apart from the hunting knife in his belt he was unarmed. Vaelin had expected defiance, plus a modicum of the usual scorn and mockery, so was surprised that Nortah’s expression was one of grave concern.

“Brother,” he addressed Nortah formally, “Aspect Arlyn commands your immediate return…”

Nortah barely seemed to hear him, edging closer with his hands raised, and Vaelin noticed how his eyes kept flicking to the side, focusing on something to the rear…