Blood Song

Vaelin knelt down next to his friend, checking the pulse in his neck. “I’m sorry brother,” he whispered before sheathing his sword and gathering him up, hoisting his inert form over his shoulder with difficulty. He was bigger than Nortah but still his brother’s weight was a substantial burden as he moved towards the cordon of stunned spectators. Not one of them said a word as he gestured for them to make way.

“Hold there!” a shouted command breaking the silence like glass, the crowd’s shock giving way to sudden babble of incomprehension and amazement.

“Beat five Blackhawks, just the two of them…”

“Never seen the like…”

“It’s treason to strike a soldier. King’s edict said so…”

“HOLD!” the voice again, cutting through the noise. Looking round Vaelin saw a mounted figure kicking his horse forward through the crush, occasionally laying about himself with a riding crop to speed progress. “Make way!” he commanded. “King’s business. Make way!”

Emerging from the throng he drew his mount up and Vaelin saw him clearly. A tall man on a black war horse, a thoroughbred of Renfaelin stock. He wore a ceremonial uniform with a black feather in his tunic and the short-plumed helmet of an officer on his head, beneath the visor the rider’s lean, clean-shaven face was hard with fury. The single four pointed star on his breast-plate depicted his rank: Lord Marshal of the Realm Guard. Behind the mounted man a troop of Blackhawks on foot emerged and fanned out, swords drawn, pushing the crowd back with the aid of a few kicks and punches. Some of them tended to their fallen comrades, casting vengeful glances at Vaelin as they did so. The man with Vaelin’s knife through his wrist was weeping openly in pain.

Seeing no avenue of escape, Vaelin gently laid Nortah on the earth and stepped away, careful to keep himself between his friend and the man on the horse.

“What is this?” the marshal demanded.

“I answer to the Order,” Vaelin replied.

“You’ll answer to me, Order whelp or I’ll string you from the nearest tree by your guts.”

Vaelin resisted the impulse to draw his sword as some of the Blackhawks moved closer. He knew he couldn’t fight them all, not without killing a few which was unlikely to help Nortah.

“Might I know your name, my lord?” he enquired, desperately playing for time and hoping his voice didn’t tremble.

“I’ll know your name first, whelp.”

“Vaelin Al Sorna. Brother of the Sixth Order, awaiting confirmation.”

The name ran through the crowd like a wave. “Sorna…”

“Battle lord’s boy…”

“Should’ve known, spitting image…”

The rider’s eyes narrowed at the name but his furious expression remained firmly in place. “Lakrhil Al Hestian,” he said. “Lord Marshal of the Twenty-Seventh Regiment of Horse and Sword of the Realm.” He nudged his mount closer, peering down at Nortah’s inert form. “And him?”

“Brother Nortah,” Vaelin said.

“I’m told he tried to rescue the traitor. Why would a brother of the Order do such a thing, I wonder?”

He knows, Vaelin realised. He knows who Nortah is. “I couldn’t say, Lord Marshal,” he replied. “I saw my brother about to be murdered and prevented it.”

“Murdered my arse!” one of the Blackhawks spat, face flushed with anger. “He was resisting lawful arrest.”

“He is of the Order,” Vaelin spoke to Al Hestian. “Like me. We answer to the Order. If you believe we have transgressed you must take the matter to our Aspect.”

“All are subject to King’s Law, boy,” Al Hestian replied evenly. “Brothers, soldiers and Battle Lords.” He stared hard into Vaelin’s eyes. “And you and your brother will answer to it.” He motioned his men forward. “Keep you hands clear of your weapons, boy, or you’ll be answering to the Departed.”

Vaelin reached back to grasp his sword hilt as the Blackhawks advanced. Perhaps if he wounded a few he could create enough confusion to escape into the crowd with Nortah. There could be no return to the Order after this, no welcome for those that fought the Realm Guard. Life as an outlaw, Vaelin pondered. Can’t be that bad.

“Easy now, lad,” one of the Blackhawks warned, a veteran sergeant with a weather beaten face. He advanced slowly, his sword held low, a dagger in his left hand. Seeing the way his feet moved and the easy balance of his stance Vaelin judged him to be the most dangerous of his opponents. “Leave the sword where it is,” the sergeant continued. “No need for any more blood here. You let us take you in and it’ll all get sorted out, nice and civilised.”

Seeing the wary fury in the faces of the other Blackhawks, Vaelin judged that the treatment he and Nortah would receive would be anything but civilised.

“I’ve no wish to spill any blood,” he told the sergeant, drawing his sword. “But I will if you make me.”

“The hour drags ever onwards, sergeant,” Al Hestian drawled, leaning forward in his saddle. “End this…”

“Well here’s a pretty picture!” a voiced boomed from the crowd, the throng parting amidst shouts of protest as three figures forced their way through.

Vaelin felt a tug at his heart. It was Barkus, flanked by Caenis and Dentos. Barkus was smiling at the Crows, a picture of affability. By contrast Caenis and Dentos stared at them with the flat concentrated aggression they had learned through years of hard training. They all had their swords drawn.

“A pretty picture indeed!” Barkus went on as the three of them fell in beside Vaelin. “A brace of Hawks all lined up for plucking.”

“Get out of here boy!” Al Hestian spat at Barkus. “This is not your concern.”

“Heard the commotion,” Barkus told Vaelin, ignoring Al Hestian. He glanced back at Nortah’s inert form. “Snuck out did he?”

“Yes. They’re going to execute his father.”

“We heard,” Caenis said. “Bad business. They say he was a good man. Still, the King is just and must have his reasons.”

“Tell that to Nortah,” Dentos said. “Poor bastard. Did they do that to him?”

“No,” Vaelin said. “Couldn’t think of another way to stop him.”

“Master Sollis is going to beat us for week,” Dentos grumbled.

They fell silent, watching the Blackhawks who stared back, faces full of malevolent anger, but making no move to advance.

“They’re afraid,” Caenis observed.

“They should be,” Barkus said.

Vaelin risked a glance at Al Hestian. Clearly not a man used to being balked the marshal was visibly shaking with fury. “You!” He stabbed a finger at one of the cavalrymen. “Find Captain Hintil. Tell him to bring his company.”

“A whole company!” Barkus sounded cheerful at the prospect. “You do us much honour, my lord!”

A few people in the crowd laughed making Al Hestian’s rage even more palpable. “You’ll all be flayed for this!” he shouted, his voice nearly a scream. “Don’t imagine the King will grant you an easy death!”

“Speaking for my father again, Lord Marshal?”

A tall, red haired young man had emerged from the mass of onlookers. His clothes were modest but finely made and there was something strange about the way the crowd parted before him, each citizen’s eyes averted, heads bowed, a few even dropping to one knee. Vaelin was shocked when he turned back and found Caenis and the Crows all doing the same.

“Kneel brothers!” Caenis hissed. “Honour the prince.”

Prince? Looking at the tall man again Vaelin recalled the serious youth he had seen at the King’s palace so many years before. Prince Malcius had grown almost as tall and broad as his father. Vaelin looked for soldiers of the Royal Guard but saw no-one accompanying the prince. A prince who walks alone amongst his people, he thought, puzzled.

“Vaelin!” Caenis whispered insistently.

As he made to kneel the prince waved his hand. “No need brother. Please rise, all of you.” He smiled at the kneeling multitude. “The ground is muddy. Now then my lord,” he turned to Al Hestian. “What manner of disturbance is this?”

“A traitorous outrage, Highness,” Al Hestian said forcefully, rising from a bow, his left knee caked in mud. “These boys attacked my men in an effort to rescue the prisoner.”

“You bloody liar!” Barkus exploded. “We came to help our brothers when they had been attacked…” He fell silent as the prince held up his hand. Malcius paused and surveyed the scene, taking in the wounded Blackhawks and Nortah’s unconscious form.

“You brother,” he said to Vaelin. “Are you a traitor as the Lord Marshal claims?” Vaelin noted his eyes barely left Nortah.

“I am no traitor, Highness,” Vaelin replied, trying to keep any trace of fear or anger from his voice. “Neither are my brothers. They are here only in my defence. If an answer must be given for what has happened here then it is mine alone to make.”

“And your fallen brother.” Prince Malcius moved closer, staring down at Nortah with an odd intensity. “Should he make an answer too?”