Blood Song

“The bastard who left me with this,” Al Hestian raised his right arm, the barbed spike protruding from the leather cap covering the stump glinted in the bright midday sun. His gaze was fixed on Vaelin, seemingly oblivious to the advancing Alpiran host. “Al Sendahl, I know you didn’t find him taken by some imaginary beast.”

Vaelin had been surprised the Battle Lord had chosen to place himself on the rise, although he supposed it gave him a good view of the field. But he was more surprised at the man’s choice of time to pursue a grievance. “My lord, perhaps this discussion can wait…”

“I know my son’s death was no mercy killing,” the Battle Lord continued. “I know who wished him ill and I know you were their instrument. I will find Al Sendahl, be assured of that. I will settle accounts with him. I’ll win this war for the king, then I’ll settle with you.”

“My lord, if you hadn’t been so intent on slaughtering helpless captives you would still have your hand and I would still have my brother. Your son was my friend and I took his life to spare him pain. The king is satisfied with my account in both cases and as a servant of the crown and the Faith I have nothing else to say on either subject.”

They regarded each other in cold silence, the Battle Lord’s rage making his features tremble. “Hide behind the Order and the king if you wish,” he said through clenched teeth. “It will not save you when this war is won. You or any of your brothers. The Orders are a blight on the Realm, setting up gutter born scum to lord it over their betters...”

“Father!” A tall, fine featured young man stood nearby, his expression strained with embarrassment. He wore the uniform of a captain in the Twenty-seventh cavalry, a crow’s feather fluttering from the top of his breastplate, a longsword with a bluestone pommel strapped across his back. At his belt he wore a Volarian short sword. “The enemy,” Alucius Al Hestian said, inclining his head at the host advancing across the plain, “doesn’t seem inclined to dally.”

Vaelin expected the Battle Lord to explode at his son but instead he almost seemed chagrined, biting his anger back, nostrils flaring in frustration. With a final baleful glance at Vaelin he strode off to stand beneath his own standard, an elegant scarlet rose at odds with the character of its owner, his personal guard of Blackhawks closing protectively on either side, casting suspicious glances at the Wolfrunners surrounding them. The two regiments shared a mutual detestation and were like to turn taverns and streets into battlefields when encountering one another in the capital. Vaelin was keen to ensure they were kept well apart in the line of march.

“Hot day’s work ahead, my lord,” Alucius said, Vaelin noting the forced humour in his voice. He had been disappointed to find Alucius had taken a commission in his father’s regiment, hoping the young poet had seen enough slaughter at the High Keep. They had met infrequently in the years since, exchanging pleasantries at the palace when the king called him there for some meaningless ceremony or other. He knew Alucius had recovered his gift, that his work was now widely read and young women were eager for his company. But the sadness still lingered in his eyes, the stain of what he had seen in the High Keep.

“Your breastplate should be tighter,” Vaelin told him. “And can you even draw that thing on your back?”

Alucius forced a smile. “Ever the teacher, eh?”

“Why are you here, Alucius? Has your father forced you to this?”

The poet’s false smile faded. “Actually my father said I should stay with my scribblings and my high-born strumpets. Sometimes I think I owe my way with words to him. However, he was persuaded that a chronicle of his glorious campaign, penned by the Realm’s most celebrated young poet no less, would add greatly to our family’s fortunes. Don’t concern yourself with me, brother, I’m forbidden from venturing more than an arm’s length from his side.”

Vaelin looked at the oncoming Alpiran army, the myriad flags of their cohorts rising from the throng like a forest of silk, their trumpets and battle chants a rising cacophony. “There will be no safe place on this field,” he said, nodding at the short sword on Alucius’s belt. “Still know how to use that?”

“I practice every day.”

“Good, stay close to your father.”

“I will.” Alucius offered his hand. “An honour to serve with you once again, brother.”

Vaelin took the hand, more firmly than he intended, meeting the poet’s eyes. “Stay close to your father.”

Alucius nodded, gave a final sheepish smile and walked back to the Battle Lord’s party.

Design within design, Vaelin concluded, pondering the Battle Lord’s words. Janus promises him my death in return for victory. I get to save my sister, the Battle Lord gets vengeance for his son. He calculated the many bargains and deceits the king must have spun to bring them to these shores. The entreaties made to Fief Lord Theros to bring so many of his finest knights. The unnamed price agreed with the Meldeneans to carry the army across the sea. He wondered if Janus ever lost track of the web he wove, if the spider ever mislaid one of his threads, but the notion was absurd. Janus couldn’t forget his designs any more than Princess Lyrna could forget the words she read. He thought about the Aspect again, about the orders he had been given and how, for all its complexity, the old man’s web amounted to nothing.

“ERUHIN MAKHTAR!”

The shout went up from every man in the regiment, loud enough to carry to the oncoming Alpirans, loud enough to be heard above their own chants and exhortations.

“ERUHIN MAKHTAR!” The men brandished their pole-axes, steel catching the sun, shouting as one the words they had been taught. “ERUHIN MAKHTAR!” On the summit of the rise Janril was waving the standard on a pole twenty feet high, the running wolf rippling in the wind for the whole plain to see. “ERUHIN MAKHTAR!”

Already the Alpiran cohorts nearest the hill were beginning to react, the ranks wavering as soldiers increased their pace, their drummers’ steady beat unheeded as the Wolfrunners’ taunt drew them on. “ERUHIN MAKHTAR!”

The Battle Lord was right, Vaelin decided seeing the discipline of the leading Alpiran cohort give way completely, ranks dissolving as the men broke into a run, charging the hill, their own shouts a burgeoning growl of rage. The guardsman gave us a weapon. The words and the banner. Eruhin Makhtar. The Hope Killer is here, come and get him.

And they came. The cohorts on either side of the charging men broke ranks and followed suit, the madness spreading rearwards as more and more formations forgot their discipline and charged headlong for the hill.

“Little point waiting,” Vaelin told Dentos. He had stationed himself with the archers, his own bow ready, arrow notched. “Loose as soon as they’re in range. Might make them run faster.”

Dentos lifted his bow, sighted carefully, his men following his lead, then drew and let fly, the shaft arching down on the charging Alpirans, a cloud of two hundred arrows close behind. Men fell, some rose and charged on, others lay still. Vaelin fancied he saw a few still trying to crawl forward despite shafts buried deep in chest or neck. He loosed off four arrows in quick succession as the archers’ arrow storm began in earnest, all the time the regiment maintaining its taunt. “ERUHIN MAKHTAR!”

At least a hundred Alpirans must have fallen by the time they were halfway up the hill but they showed no sign of faltering, if anything their charge had gathered pace, the base of the hill now thick with men struggling to climb the rise and slay the Hope Killer. Vaelin saw how the whole Alpiran line had been disrupted by the charge, how the flanking cohorts were wavering, undecided as to whether to assault the Realm Guard before them or turn and try for the hill. This battle is already won, he realised. The Alpiran army was like an ox tempted into the killing pen with a bale of fresh hay. All that remains is the slaughter. Whatever his faults it was plain the Battle Lord had a gift for tactics.

When the tide of onrushing Alpirans had come to within two hundred paces the Battle Lord had his own flag-men give the signal for the Cumbraelin archers to move to the summit. They came at a run, longbows ready, reaching into the thicket of arrows already thrust into the sandy soil on the summit, notching and loosing without preamble as they had been ordered.

Vaelin had fought Cumbraelins on many occasions, acquiring an intimate knowledge of their deadly skills with the longbow, but he had never seen their massed arrow storm before. Air hissed like the breath of a great serpent as five thousand shafts arched into the charging mass, producing a huge groan of shock and pain as they struck home. It seemed as if all the Alpirans in the lead companies fell at once, five hundred men or more, driven to the sand by the mass of arrows. The air above Vaelin’s head became thick with arrows as the Cumbraelins continued to loose, glancing back he marvelled at the speed with which they plucked shafts from the soil, notched and loosed, seeing one man put five arrows in the air before the first fell to earth.

In the face of the storm the Alpiran rush slowed as men fought to climb over the bodies of dead and wounded comrades, arms and shields raised to ward off the rain of deadly shafts, although these seemed to offer scant protection. But still they came on, fuelled by rage, some still stumbling forward over the thickening carpet of dead with multiple arrows protruding from their mail. When they had struggled to within fifty paces of the summit the Battle Lord signalled the command for the Realm Guard regiments flanking the hill to advance. They moved forward at the double, spears levelled, pushing the disrupted Alpiran line back. The Alpiran cohorts wavered but soon rallied, their line holding as horse borne archers to their rear responded, galloping along the line of battle to loose their shafts at the Realm Guard over the heads of their embattled comrades.