Blood Song

“Brothers!” he greeted them with a broad smile as they approached his tent, the smile fading as he saw the body slung over the horse. Clearly none of the fleeing men had bothered to tell him the news.

“My condolences, my Lord,” Vaelin said. He knew the two men had been friends since childhood.

Linden Al Hestian moved to the corpse, his face stricken with grief, and gently touched his dead friend’s hair. “Did he go down fighting?” he asked after a moment, voice thick with emotion.

Vaelin saw Nortah open his mouth to reply and cut in quickly. Nortah had a tendency to indulge his cruel streak where Lord Al Hestian was concerned, voicing barely concealed insults and criticism without hesitation. “He was very brave, my Lord.”

Martil Al Jelnek had wept like a child with the arrow buried in his gut, his hands clutched at Vaelin in brief, desperate spasms as the light of life faded from his eyes and effluent spouted from his mouth. He had tried to say something at the end, Vaelin was sure of it, his mouth stumbling over a torrent of bile choked gibberish. Perhaps some message for his beloved. They would never know.

“Brave,” Al Hestian repeated with a faint smile. “Yes, he was always that.”

“His men ran,” Nortah said. “One arrow and they ran. This regiment of yours is no more than a rabble of criminal scum.”

“Enough!” Brother Makril barked.

Sergeant Krelnik approached, snapping a smart salute at Al Hestian. He was a stocky man nearing his fiftieth year with a heavily scarred face and a fearsome disposition towards the men. One of the few experienced soldiers to enlist in the regiment, having served in the Realm Guard since the age of sixteen, Al Hestian had wisely made him Master Sergeant, responsible for discipline. But despite his best efforts Nortah’s description was accurate, the regiment remained a rabble.

“I’ll order the pyre built, my lord,” Sergeant Krelnik said. “We should give him to the flames tonight.”

Al Hestian nodded, stepping back from the corpse. “Yes. Thank you sergeant. And you brothers, for bringing him back.” He moved back to his tent. “Brother Makril, Brother Vaelin, may I have a moment?”

Al Hestian’s tent was free of the luxuries found in the quarters of the other nobles, the available space taken up with his weapons and armour which he cleaned and maintained himself. Most of the other nobles had brought along a servant or two but apparently Lord Al Hestian was capable of seeing to his own needs.

“Please brothers.” He gestured for them to take a seat and moved to the small portable desk where he dealt with the numerous administrative tasks that beset regimental commanders. “A Royal missive,” he said, lifting an opened envelope from the desk. Vaelin’s heart began to beat a little faster at the sight of the King’s seal.

“‘To Lord Linden Al Hestian, commander of the Thirty-Fifth Regiment of Foot, from his Highness Janus Al Neiren,’” Al Hestian read. “‘My lord, please accept my congratulations for keeping a regiment in the field for such a protracted period. Lesser commanders would no doubt have opted for the more obvious course of concluding the Realm’s business in the Martishe forest with the utmost dispatch. You, however, clearly have a more subtle stratagem in mind, so subtle in fact that I am unable to discern its substance from this distance. You will recall Aspect Arlyn’s gracious provision of a contingent from the Sixth Order, brothers for whom the Aspect is keen to find other employment. I hear my former Battle Lord’s son is among them and I feel sure he has inherited his father’s appreciation for urgency in carrying out his King’s commands. Perhaps you should discuss your plans with these brothers, who may be of sufficiently generous disposition to offer some advice.’”

Vaelin was appalled to find his hands trembling and hid them in his cloak hoping they assumed he was feeling the chill.

“So brothers,” Al Hestian said, regarding them with an expression of honest despair. “I must seek your counsel, it seems.”

“I’ve given you my counsel several times, my lord,” Makril said. “Flog some men, force the laziest and most cowardly through the gates without weapons and allow Sergeant Krelnik a free hand in discipline.”

Al Hestian massaged his temples, fatigue evident in his brows. “Such measures would hardly win the men’s hearts, brother.”

“Bugger their hearts. It’s a rare commander that can win the love of his men. Most rule by fear. Make them fear you and they’ll respect you. Then perhaps they’ll start killing some Cumbraelins.”

“I suspect from the tone of his Highness’s letter we may have little more than a few weeks to conclude matters here. And, despite the King’s assumption, I confess I have no stratagem for bringing down Black Arrow and his cohorts. Even if I adopt the measures you recommend it will take more time than we have to win victory in this blighted forest.”

Black Arrow. They got the name from the only prisoner they had taken in seven months, an archer brought down by Nortah. He lived long enough to spit hate and defiance at them, calling on his god to accept his soul and begging forgiveness for his failure. He laughed at their questions; there were few threats that could be made to a dying man. In the end Vaelin had sent the others away, sitting down to offer the man his water bottle.

“Drink?”

The man’s eyes were bright with defiance but the maddening thirst as his life blood seeped away made him bite back a refusal. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

“I know.” Vaelin held the bottle to the man’s lips as he drank. “Do you think he will forgive you? Your god.”

“The World Father is great in His compassion.” The dying man spoke fiercely, spitting the words. “He will know my weaknesses and my strengths and love me for both.”

Vaelin watched the man clutch at the arrow in his side, a small whimper escaping his lips.

“Why do you hate us?” he asked. “Why do you kill us?”

The man’s whimper of pain turned into a rasping laugh of bitterness. “Why do you kill us, brother?”

“You came here in defiance of treaty. Your Lord agreed you would not bring word of your god to the other fiefs…”

“His words cannot be bound by borders, nor by the servants of a false faith. Black Arrow brought us here to defend those you would slaughter in service to your heresy. He knew the peace between us was a betrayal, a vile blasphemy…” He choked off, coughing uncontrollably. Vaelin had tried to coax more information from him but the man would only ramble on about his god, his words becoming less coherent as his life ebbed away. He soon slipped into unconsciousness, his breathing faltering to stillness within a few minutes. For some reason Vaelin found himself wishing he had asked his name.

“And you brother Vaelin?” Al Hestian’s question brought him back to the present with a start. “Our King seems to have faith in your judgement. Can you advise a method for bringing this campaign to a close?”

Call an end to the whole bloody farce and go home. He left the thought unsaid. Al Hestian couldn’t leave the forest without victory, or at least a claim to victory. And the King does not wish him to leave the forest at all, he reminded himself. You have a bargain to keep. Who’s to say his Highness cannot undo what he has done?

“Your men are hunted by Black Arrow’s archers whenever they leave the camp,” he said. “But my brothers and I are not, we are the hunters in this forest and the Cumbraelins fear us. Your men must become hunters also, at least those that can be taught.”

Makril snorted. “This lot couldn’t be taught to piss straight never mind hunt.”

“There must be some men here who can be trained, the Faith teaches us there is worth even in the most wretched. I suggest we select a few, thirty or so. We will train them, they will answer to us. We will organise a raid, find one of Black Arrow’s encampments and destroy it. When they have their first success against the Cumbraelins the rest of the men will be inspired.” He paused, gathering the will for what he had to do. “It would further inspire the men if you were to lead the raid personally, my lord. Soldiers will respect a leader who shares their dangers.” And much can happen in the confusion of a raid, an arrow can easily go astray…

Al Hestian stroked the sparse stubble on his chin. “Brother Makril, you agree with this course of action?”

Makril gave Vaelin a sidelong glance, his heavy brows creased with suspicion. He knows something isn’t right, Vaelin realised. He can smell it, like a hound catching an unfamiliar scent.

“It’s worth a try,” Makril said after a moment. “Finding their encampment though. That’ll be a pretty trick. The scum cover their tracks well.”

“Brothers of the Sixth are considered the finest woodsman in the Realm,” Al Hestian said. “If the camp can be found you will find it, I’m sure.” He slapped his knee, enlivened by the prospect of some resolution to his dilemma. “Thank you, brothers. This plan will do very well.” He rose, sweeping a wolf-fur from the back of his chair and fastening it over his shoulders. “Let’s be about it. We have much to do!”

None of the soldiers seemed to have a family name. They were known mostly by the criminal appellations of their past: Dipper, Red Knife, Fast Hands and so on. They had chosen the thirty trainees by the simple expedient of making the whole regiment run around the stockade and picking those that dropped last. They stood in three ranks of ten, staring balefully at Makril as he set out the rules that would govern their lives from here on.