Blood Song

He rolled the map into a scroll got to his feet. “Five hours sleep then we move out. We’ll march in the dark so their scouts won’t see us. Ten miles is a lot of ground to cover in the snow so we’ll have to press hard. Any man who talks without permission or falls out on the march will have his throat slit. No rum ration until this is done.” He tossed the map to Caenis. “Brother, you’ll lead the way.”

The march was hard, taxing the men to the extreme but the promise of death for any too exhausted to continue was sufficient to keep them moving. The Order was at the head of the column, arrows notched to their bowstrings, eyes peering into the dark for any sign of Cumbraelin scouts. Although Black Arrow’s men sometimes came to harass the camp at night with a fire arrow launched over the stockade their visits had trailed off when Caenis and Makril had taken to hunting after sun down, collecting four bows in as many nights. Now the Cumbraelins rarely ventured close at night and their march was not interrupted.

It took eight hours of hard going before they came to the edge of a clearing where a small slope led up to the mound of rocks behind which the Cumbraelins had made their camp. Off to the right they could glimpse the dark shadow of the gully where Makril would lead the Order contingent. There was little preamble, Makril made the sign of good luck and led the eighteen brothers off across the clearing in a loose skirmish formation.

Need anything? Vaelin signed to Caenis.

His brother shook his head, pulling a cord tight on his sable pelted jerkin. In his captured garments he fitted his role well, the disguise completed by exchanging his strong bow for a long bow and hitching a hatchet into his belt. He opted to keep his sword strapped to his back, their enemies had captured many Asraelin blades from Al Hestian’s soldiers so it was unlikely to look out of place.

Luck to you brother, Vaelin signed, touching his shoulder. Caenis grinned briefly and was gone, covering the distance to the rocks in a dead run. He’ll be fine, Vaelin reassured himself. Their time in the Martishe had given him a new appreciation of Caenis’s skills, the slight boy who had shivered in fear at Master Grealin’s tall tales of monstrous rats was now a lithe, deadly warrior who seemed to fear nothing and killed without hesitation.

There was a crunch of snow as Al Hestian crouched beside him. “How long do you think, brother?” he whispered.

Vaelin fought down a surge of guilt at the sight of the young noble’s earnest face. You hope he won’t realise it was you, his ever present watcher told him. You hope he’ll go into the beyond believing the lie that you were friends…

“An hour or so, my lord,” he whispered back. “Perhaps less.”

“It’ll give the men a chance to rest at least.” He moved away to check on his soldiers, murmuring reassurance and encouragement. Vaelin tried not to listen and concentrated on the dim silhouette of the rocks. The sky was still dark but had taken on the blue tinge heralding the onset of daylight. Makril had favoured a dawn attack when the guards at the mouth of the gully would be tiring at the end of their shift.

Vaelin steadied his breathing, counting the passing seconds, gauging the right moment to set his scheme into motion, forcing away any thought that might deflect him from his course. His hand ached as his grip tightened on his bow. When he was sure at least a half hour had passed he moved to Al Hestian, crouching to whisper in his ear.

“There’s sure to be guards in the rocks,” he said. “My brother will have let them be to avoid raising the alarm. Although there won’t be enough of them to stop our attack their bows are likely to thin our ranks.” He hefted his bow. “I’ll go ahead now, when the attack starts I’ll make sure they don’t trouble us.”

Al Hestian rose. “I’ll come with you.”

Vaelin restrained him with a firm grasp on his forearm. “You must lead the men, my lord.”

Al Hestian cast a glance round at the tense, drawn faces of his men and nodded reluctantly. “Of course.”

Vaelin forced a smile. “We’ll share breakfast in Black Arrow’s tent.” Liar!

“Luck go with you brother.”

He found he couldn’t meet Al Hestian’s eye, nodding and setting off for the rocks at a run, covering the ground in what seemed like a few heartbeats, sheltering amidst the huge boulders that rose out of the snow like slumbering monsters. He cast a quick eye around for any sentries but saw nothing. From the camp came the faint scent of woodsmoke but no sound of any alarm. Caenis had yet to move against the guards at the gully. Vaelin reached for his quiver and extracted a cloth wrapped arrow, discarding the covering to reveal an ash black shaft and raven fletching, a Cumbraelin arrow taken from the archer who had slain poor Lord Al Jelnek, his instrument of murder. A single arrow would claim Lord Al Hestian’s life as he heroically led his men in a charge against an enemy encampment. A fine end indeed, the voice said. His father will be proud, I’m sure. Remember your words? Remember your vow? I’ll kill but I won’t murder…

Leave me be! Vaelin spat back. I do what I must. There is no choice in this. I cannot break a contract with the King.

His hands shook as he notched the arrow to the string, his heart a booming drum in his chest. Enough! He flexed his hands, forcing the tremor away. I do what I must. I’ve killed before. What is one more death?

From behind him came a faint clash of metal on metal followed by the snap of bowstrings and a sudden clamour of alarmed voices. The sounds of battle were soon echoing across the clearing and Vaelin saw Al Hestian’s command emerge from the trees and begin their charge. The young noble was easy to pick out, leading his men by a good few strides, longsword held high, his cloak trailing. Vaelin could hear his calls to the men, urging them forward. He was strangely gratified to see the whole company had followed Al Hestian, having expected many to flee.

He dragged in a deep draught of air, the chill burning his lungs, and raised his bow, drawing he string back to his lips, the raven's feathers in the shaft caressing his check, the bead centred on Al Hestian’s rapidly approaching form. Murder is easy, he realised, the string slipping over his fingers. Like snuffing out a candle.

Something growled in the darkness. Something shifted its weight and scraped at the snow. Something made the hairs on the back of his head prickle.

The familiar sense of wrongness built within him like a fire, the tremor returning to his hands as he lowered the bow and turned.

The wolf’s teeth were bared in a snarl, its eyes bright in the gloom, raised hackles like spikes of silver. As their eyes met its growl subsided and it raised itself from the aggressive crouch it had assumed, regarding him with the same silent intensity he remembered from the Test of the Run all those years ago.

The moment seemed to stretch, Vaelin captured by the animal’s gaze, unable to move, a thought singing in his mind: What am I doing? I am no murderer!

The wolf blinked and turned, sprinting away across the snow, a blur of silver and frost, gone in a heartbeat.

The approaching shouts of Al Hestian’s charging men brought him back to his senses, turning to see they were almost at the rocks. Less than twenty feet away a figure rose, garbed in sable, a drawn long bow aiming a shaft straight at Al Hestian’s chest. Vaelin’s arrow took the archer in the belly. He was on him in seconds, his long-bladed dagger stabbing down to make sure of the kill.

“My thanks, brother!” Al Hestian called, leaping past to charge on to the camp. Vaelin surged after him, tossing his bow aside and drawing his sword.

The camp was a chaos of death and flame. The Cumbraelins could equal the Order’s bow skills but at close quarters they were hopelessly outmatched, bodies littered the snow amidst burning tents. A wounded Cumbraelin stumbled out of the smoke, a bloodied arm hanging useless at his side, his good limb swinging a hatchet wildly Al Hestian. The noble easily side-stepped the blow and hacked the man down with his longsword. Another came at Vaelin, eyes wide with panic and fear, jabbing a long-bladed boar spear at his chest. Vaelin ducked under the weapon, grasping the haft below the blade and pulling its owner onto his sword. One of Al Hestian’s soldiers charged forward and rammed his sword into the Cumbraelin’s chest, his scream of exultant fury merging with the shouts of the other men as they followed Al Hestian onwards, killing all they could find.

Vaelin saw Al Hestian charge off into the smoke and followed, seeing him cut down two men in quick succession. A third leapt onto his back, wrapping his legs around the noble’s chest, dagger raised high. Vaelin’s throwing knife took the Cumbraelin in the back, Al Hestian shrugging him off as he convulsed in pain, the longsword slashing down to cleave his chest. He raised his sword in a silent gesture of thanks and ran on.

The bloodshed became frenzied as the company killed their way through the camp, hacking down the few Cumbraelins still able to offer resistance or knifing those found lying wounded. Vaelin ran past a series of nightmarish tableaux; a soldier raising the severed head of a Cumbraelin to let the blood bathe his face, three men taking turns to slash at a man writhing on the ground, men laughing at a Cumbraelin as he tried to stuff his guts back into the hole in his belly. He had seen men drunk before but never on blood. After months of fear and misery Al Hestian’s soldiers were taking full measure of retribution from their tormentors.