“War is bad for trade, Captain,” Vaelin replied.

“Ships came and went at their leave over the past month and now they sit empty with their crews imprisoned. And yet the Falcon alone is permitted to sail…”

“We can’t be too careful,” Vaelin clapped him on the back affably, provoking a shudder of fearful repugnance. “Plenty of spies about. When do you sail, Captain?”

“Another hour when the tide’s right.”

“Then don’t allow me to delay your preparations.”

Nurin suppressed a sneering response and nodded, walking up the gangplank to assail his crew with a barrage of curse ridden orders.

“Do you think he knows?” Frentis asked.

“He suspects something, but he doesn’t know.” He gave Frentis an apologetic smile. “I’d send more men with you, but it might arouse even more suspicion. Sister Gilma’s orderlies told you what to look for?”

Frentis nodded. “Swelling in the neck, sweats, dizziness and rashes on the arms. If any of them have it they’ll start showing within three days.”

“Good. You understand, brother, that if any of the crew, including yourself, shows signs of the Red Hand this ship cannot land in Varinshold, or anywhere else?”

Frentis nodded. Vaelin could detect no fear or reluctance in him. The blood-song spoke of only a basic and unshakeable trust, an almost unreasoning loyalty. The thin, ragged boy who had pleaded for his support all those years ago in the Aspect’s room was gone now, forged into a seasoned and fearfully skilled warrior who would never question his orders. There were times when having command of Frentis felt more of a burden than a blessing. He was a weapon to be used only with great care, for there was no sheathing him once unleashed.

“I… regret the necessity of this, brother,” he said. “If there was any other course…”

“You never gave me that lesson,” Frentis said.

Vaelin frowned. “Lesson?”

“The throwing knife, you said you’d teach me. Thought I’d learned enough myself. Was wrong about that.”

“You’ve been taught much since.” Vaelin felt a sudden surge of guilt. All the battles fought by this blindly trusting young man, the wounds suffered. All the lives he had taken. “You wanted to be a brother,” he said, failing to keep the guilt from his voice. “Did we do right by you?”

To his surprise Frentis laughed. “Do right by me? When did you ever do wrong?”

“One Eye scarred you. The Tests hurt you. You followed me here to war and pain.”

“What else was there for me? Hunger and fear and a knife in an alley to leave me bleeding in a gutter.” Frentis gripped his shoulder. “Now I have brothers who would die in my defence, as I would die for them. Now I have a Faith.” His smile was fierce, unwavering, complete in its conviction. “What is Faith, brother?”

“The Faith is all. The Faith consumes us and frees us. The Faith shapes my life, in this world and in the Beyond.” As he spoke the words Vaelin was struck by the conviction in his own voice, the depth of his own belief. He had seen so much of the world now, so many gods, yet the words came from his lips with absolute conviction. I heard my mother’s voice…

Chapter 6

The days following the departure of the Red Falcon quickly took on a tense monotony. Every morning Vaelin went to speak to Sister Gilma at the mansion gate. So far the only new case had been the daughter’s maid, a woman of middle years who wasn’t expected to last the week. The girl herself, aided by her youth, was suffering the symptoms with great fortitude but was unlikely to live out the month.

“And you, sister?” he asked every morning. “Are you well?”

She would smile her bright smile and give a small nod. He dreaded the day he climbed the path to the gate and found she wasn’t there to greet him.

Once word of the outbreak spread the mood in the city became palpably fearful, although reactions varied. Some, mainly the richer citizens, collected their valuables and close relatives together before proceeding immediately to the nearest gate, demanding to be allowed to leave and resorting to threats or bribes when refused. When the bribes failed some conspired to rush the gates at nightfall in company with armed bodyguards and servants. The Wolfrunners had easily repulsed the assault, clubbing them back with the staves Caenis had had the foresight to issue when the crisis arose. Luckily, there had been no deaths but the mood of the city’s elite remained resentful and often desperately fearful. Some had barricaded themselves into their houses, refusing all visitors and even loosing arrows or crossbow bolts at trespassers.

The less well-off were equally fearful but more stoic in facing their fear and so far there had been no riots. For the most part people went about their normal business, albeit spending as little time on the streets or in the company of neighbours as possible. All submitted to the regular inspections for signs of the sickness with a resigned trepidation. As yet there had been no cases in the city itself, though Sister Gilma seemed certain it was only a matter of time.

“The Red Hand always started in the port towns,” she said one morning. “Carried by ships from across the sea. No doubt that’s how it came here. Governor Aruan tells me the girl liked to go to the docks and watch the ships coming and going. If you find another case it’ll most likely be a sailor.”

Fearful as the townspeople were, he found himself more worried by his own soldiers. The Wolfrunner’s discipline was holding well but the others were more restive. There had been several ugly brawls between Count Marven’s Nilsaelins and the Cumbraelin archers producing some serious injuries on both sides and forcing him to flog the worst offenders. The only desertions had been from the Realm Guard, five of Lord Al Cordlin’s Blue Jays slipping over the wall with looted provisions in the hope of making it to Untesh. Vaelin had been tempted to let them perish in the desert but knew an example had to be made so sent Barkus after them with the scout troop. Two days later he returned with the bodies, Vaelin having instructed him to administer sentence on the spot to spare the spectacle of a public hanging. He had the corpses burned within sight of the main gate to ensure the guards on the wall got the message and spread it to their comrades: no-one was going anywhere.

In the afternoons he toured the walls and the gates, forcing conversation on the men despite their obvious discomfort. The Realm Guard were rigidly respectful but scared, the Nilsaelins sullen and the Cumbraelins clearly detested the very sight of the Darkblade, but he spent time with all of them, asking questions about their families and their lives before the war. The answers were the standard, clipped responses soldiers always gave to the ritual pleasantries of their commanders but he knew his distance from them was immaterial, they needed to see him and know he was unafraid.

One day he found Bren Antesh near the western gate, a hand shielding his eyes from the sun as he gazed up at a bird hovering overhead.

“Vulture?” Vaelin asked.

As was his custom the Cumbraelin leader gave no formal greeting, something Vaelin found irked him not at all. “Hawk,” he replied. “Of a type I haven’t seen before. Looks a little like the swift-wing from home.”

Of all the captains Antesh had reacted with the greatest calm to the crisis, placating his men and assuring them they were in no danger. His word clearly held considerable sway as there had been no attempts at desertion by any of the archers.

“I wanted to thank you,” Vaelin said. “For the discipline of your men. They must trust you greatly.”

“They trust you too, brother. Almost as much as they hate you.”

Vaelin saw little reason to argue the point. He moved next to Antesh, resting against a battlement. “I have to say I was surprised the King was able to recruit so many men from your fief.”

“When Sentes Mustor took the Fief Lord’s chair his first act was to abolish the law requiring daily practice with the longbow, and the monthly stipend that came with it. Most of my men are farmers, the stipend helped supplement their income, without it many couldn’t feed their families. They may hate King Janus with a passion, but hatred doesn’t put food in the mouth of your children.”

“Do they really believe I’m this Darkblade from your Ten Books?”

“You slew Black Arrow, and the Trueblade.”

“Actually, Brother Barkus killed Hentes Mustor. And to this day I still don’t know if the man I killed in the Martishe was really Black Arrow.”

The Cumbraelin captain shrugged. “In any case, the Fourth Book relates how no godly man can kill the Darkblade. I have to say, brother, you do seem to fit the description quite well. As for the use of the Dark… Well, who can say?” Antesh’s face was cautious, as if expecting some sort of rebuke or threat.

Vaelin decided a change of subject was appropriate. “And you, sir. Did you enlist to feed your children?”

“I have no children. No wife either. Just my bow and the clothes I’m wearing.”

“What of the King’s gold? Surely, you have that too.”

Antesh seemed agitated, looking away, his eyes searching the sky once again for the hawk. “I… lost it.”

“As I understand it, every man was paid twenty golds up front. That’s a lot to lose.”