Blood Song

The cheer surprised him, a ragged yell punctuated with a small forest of upraised wooden swords. He joined in, waving his sword and yelling and feeling silly. Incredibly, they yelled even louder, some of them even began shouting his name.

He kept it going as they began to advance, walking at first. The hundred yards to the enemy seemed to shrink in a few heart beats.

“Vaelin! Vaelin!”

He took the pace up to a jog, hoping to save as much energy as possible for the fight.

“Vaelin! Vaelin!”

Some of the boys were almost screaming now, Caenis amongst them. The pace began to quicken as they covered more than half the distance to the enemy. Seemingly his small army was eager to get at their foes. Some of them breaking into a run.

“Steady!” Vaelin shouted. “Keep together!”

“Vaelin! Vaelin!” He glanced around seeing faces distorted with rage. Fear, he understood. They hide fear in rage. He didn’t feel enraged. In fact, his overriding concern was that he didn’t get another scar. He had only just had the stitches removed from his last one, a deep cut on his thigh earned from a nasty fall when riding.

“Vaelin! Vaelin!”

They were all running now, their formation starting to break up. Dentos, despite instructions, was out in front, yelling with manic fervour.

Oh for Faith’s sake! Vaelin broke into a sprint, pointing his sword at the centre of the enemy line. “Charge! CHARGE…”

The two groups met with bone crunching force, Vaelin’s shoulder feeling like he had rammed it into a tree although he did manage to knock over two defenders. At first it seemed the shock of their charge would force a path straight through to the lance as five or six defenders went down under the combined weight, with Barkus trampling over their prone forms to charge for the pennant. However, their foes quickly gathered their wits and soon both sides were thrashing at each other with a savagery none had known before. Vaelin found himself assailed by two boys at once, both swinging their ash swords with a ferocity that made them forget their many lessons. He parried a blow, dodged another then hit back with a swipe at one boy’s legs, sending him to the ground. The other thrust at Vaelin but over-extended, allowing Vaelin to trap his sword arm beneath his own and send him reeling with a headbutt.

As the battle raged and the air filled with the mingled cacophony of cracking wood and grunted pain it became harder to follow the chain of events, time seemed to fragment, the struggle becoming a series of confused, bruising fights in which he caught only the vaguest glimpses of his comrades. Barkus was laying about with his sword, two handed blows landing with sickening thwacks on those who made the mistake of venturing too close. Dentos, forehead bloodied, had lost his sword and was exchanging punches with a boy a foot or more taller, he seemed to be winning. Caenis leapt on an opponent’s back and proceeded to choke him with his sword, forcing him to the ground before one of the defender’s boots caught him on the head, sending him sprawling. Vaelin fought his way through to him, hacking through the press of struggling boys, finding Caenis on his back desperately parrying blows from the boy he had tried to choke. Vaelin kicked him in the stomach and brought his sword up to connect with his temple, dropping him to the earth where he stayed for the rest of the battle.

“Enjoying the glory of it, brother?” he asked Caenis, leaning down and offering a hand to help him up.

“Duck!” Caenis yelled.

Vaelin went down on one knee and felt the wind rush of a sword narrowly missing his head. He twisted, bringing his leg round to sweep the attacker off his feet, smacking his sword against his nose as he fell. They fought together after that, back to back, stumbling over unconscious or wounded comrades and enemies until they were within a few yards of the lance. One of the defenders, seeing a final chance to display his courage, charged at them wildly, screaming and hacking. Caenis parried his first slash and Vaelin sent him to the ground with a blow to the shoulder that made him wince at the audible crack of breaking bone.

Then it was done, no more enemies, no one to fight. Just groaning boys stumbling around and rolling on the ground amidst their immobile brothers and Nortah standing with the lance in his hands, blood streaming from wounds on his head and face. He smiled as Vaelin approached, a thick crimson bead swelling on the cut in his lip. “It was a good plan, brother.”

Vaelin steadied him as he swayed, feeling more tired than he could remember, his arms felt like lead and the aftermath of violence left a ball of sickness in the pit of his stomach. He found he had no real idea how long it had lasted. It could have been an hour or a few minutes. It was like waking from a particularly draining nightmare. He was relieved to see Barkus and Dentos were among the ten boys still left standing, although Dentos could only remain upright by virtue of Barkus’s meaty hand on his neck. “What’s that, brother?” he said loudly for the benefit of the masters, leaning close as if to listen to Dentos’s words although speech seemed to be beyond him at present. “Yes! A fine fight indeed!”

“The Test is concluded!” Master Sollis was striding across the field. “Help the wounded to the infirmary. Leave the senseless ones lying, the masters will see to them.”

“Come on,” Vaelin told Nortah. “Let’s get you patched up.”

“I’d like that,” Nortah said. “But I’m not too sure I can walk.” He swayed again and Vaelin had to catch him. Together he and Caenis helped him from the field, still clinging to the lance. Barkus followed with Dentos dangling in his arms, feet dragging on the earth.

“Brother Vaelin,” it was the Aspect, standing alongside the three strangers.

Vaelin halted, struggling to keep Nortah from falling. “Aspect.”

“Our guests have requested to meet you.” The Aspect gestured at the three strangers. Vaelin could see the smallest figure clearly now, a girl, wrapped in black furs like the large man to whose arm she clung. She was about his own age but small, pale skin and black hair... and very pretty. She barely seemed to notice him, her eyes staying fixed on Nortah’s barely conscious form. He wasn’t sure if her expression was one of admiration or fear.

“Brother Vaelin, this is Vanos Al Myrna,” the Aspect said. The large man came forward and offered his hand. Vaelin shook it awkwardly, narrowly avoiding letting Nortah fall over. Caenis stiffened at the mention of the large man’s name but it meant little to Vaelin. He had a dim memory of his father mentioning it to his mother, it was not long before he had been made Battle Lord but Vaelin couldn’t recall what the discussion was about.

“I knew your father,” Vanos Al Myrna told Vaelin.

“I have no father,” Vaelin replied automatically.

“Show Lord Vanos some respect, Vaelin,” the Aspect said, a thin smile on his lips. “He is a Sword of the Realm and Tower Lord of the Northern Reaches. He honours us with his presence.”

Vaelin saw the ghost of a smile play on Vanos Al Myrna’s lips. “You fought well,” he said.

Vaelin nodded at Nortah. “My brother fought better, he got the lance.”

Al Myrna studied Nortah for a second and Vaelin realised he had known his father too. “This boy fights without fear. Not always a desirable trait in a soldier.”

“We are all fearless in service of the Faith, my lord.” That was a good answer, he decided. I wish it wasn’t a lie.

The Tower Lord turned and gestured at the wiry, long haired man. He had similar colouring to the girl, pale skin and dark hair, but his face was different, high cheek bones and a hawk nose. “This is my friend Hera Drakil of the Seordah Sil.”

Seordah. Vaelin had never thought to see a Seordah with his own eyes. They were a truly mysterious people who, it was said, never ventured from the shelter of the great northern forest and shunned outsiders. It was the Seordah Sil that made the forest a place of dark mystery for Realm folk who rarely attempted to walk beneath its trees. Stories abounded of hapless travellers who had gone into the forest and never returned.

Hera Drakil nodded at Vaelin, his expression unreadable.

“And this,” Lord Vanos pulled the girl at his side forward a little, provoking a rueful smile, “is my daughter Dahrena.”

She turned her smile on Vaelin who wondered why his palms were suddenly sweating. “Brother. You appear to be the only one uninjured.”

Vaelin realised she was right, he ached all over, and would no doubt ache worse in the morning, but he didn’t have a cut. “Luck smiles on me, my lady.”

She looked at Nortah again, her expression concerned. “Will he be all right?”

“He’s fine,” Caenis said, his tone sounding a little curt to Vaelin.

Nortah’s head came up and he gazed blearily at the girl, frowning in confusion. “You’re Lonak,” he said, his head swivelling towards Vaelin. “Are we in the north?”

“Easy brother.” Vaelin patted him on the shoulder and was relieved when Nortah’s head slumped forward again. “My brother is not himself,” he told the girl. “My apologies.”

“For what? I am Lonak.” She turned to the Aspect. “I have some small healing skill. If I can be of any assistance…”

“We have a very capable physician, my lady,” the Aspect replied. “But I thank you for your concern. Now, we must repair to my chambers and allow these brothers to see to their comrades.”