by Anthony Ryan
“Another sweeping of shit, Master Grealin,” he told the large man with an air of resignation.
Grealin’s fleshy face formed a brief smile. “How fortunate they are to have your guidance.”
There was a moment’s silence and Vaelin sensed the tension between the two men, finding it noteworthy that Sollis spoke first. “They need gear.”
“Of course.” Grealin moved closer to inspect them, he seemed strangely light of foot for such an enormous man, appearing to glide across the flagstones. “Little warriors must be armed for the battles to come.” He still smiled but Vaelin noticed his eyes showed no mirth as he scanned them. Once again he thought of his father, of the way he looked when they visited the horse traders’ fair and one of the breeders tried to interest him in a charger. His father would walk around the animal, telling Vaelin how to spot the signs of a good war horse, the thickness of muscle that indicated whether it would be strong in the melee but too slow in the charge, how the best mounts needed some spirit left after breaking. “The eyes, Vaelin,” he told him. “Look for a horse with a spark of fire in its eyes.”
Was that what Master Grealin was looking for now, fire in their eyes? Something to gauge who would last, how they would do in the charge or the melee.
Grealin paused next to a slightly built boy named Caenis who had endured some of Sollis’s worst insults. Grealin looked down at him intently, the boy shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “What’s your name, little warrior?” Grealin asked him.
Caenis had to swallow before he could answer. “Caenis Al Nysa, master.”
“Al Nysa.” Grealin looked thoughtful. “A noble family of some wealth, if memory serves. Lands in the south, allied by marriage to the House of Hurnish. You are a long way from home.”
“Yes master.”
“Well, fret not. You have new home in the Order.” He patted Caenis on the shoulder three times, making the boy flinch a little. Sollis’s cane had no doubt left him fearing even the gentlest touch. Grealin moved along the line, asking various questions of the boys, offering reassurances, all the while Master Sollis beat his cane against his booted calf, the tack, tack, tack of stick on leather echoing through the vaults.
“I think I know your name already, little warrior.” Grealin’s bulk towered over Vaelin. “Al Sorna. Your father and I fought together in the Meldenean war. A great man. You have his look.”
Vaelin saw the trap and didn’t hesitate. “I have no family, Master. Only the Order.”
“Ah, but the Order is a family, little warrior.” Grealin gave a short chuckle as he moved away. “And Master Sollis and I are your uncles.” This made him laugh even more. Vaelin glanced at Sollis, now glaring at Grealin with undisguised hatred.
“Follow me, gallant little men!” Grealin called, his lamp raised above his head as he moved deeper into the vaults. “Don’t wander off, the rats don’t like visitors, and some of them are bigger than you.” He chuckled again. Beside Vaelin, Caenis let out a short whimper, wide eyes staring into the fathomless blackness.
“Ignore him,” Vaelin whispered. “There’re no rats down here. The place is too clean, there’s nothing for them to eat.” He wasn’t at all sure it was true but it sounded vaguely encouraging.
“Shut your mouth, Sorna!” Sollis’s cane snapped the air above his head. “Get moving.”
They followed Master Grealin’s lamp into the black emptiness of the vaults, footsteps and the fat man’s laughter mingling to form a surreal echo punctuated by the occasional snap of Sollis’s cane. Caenis’s eyes darted about constantly, no doubt searching for giant rats. It seemed an age before they came to a solid oak door set into the rough brickwork. Grealin bade them wait as he unclasped his keys from his belt and unlocked the door.
“Now little men,” he said, swinging the door open wide. “Let us arm you for the battles to come.”
The room beyond the door seemed cavernous, endless racks of swords, spears, bows, lances and a hundred other weapons glittered in the torchlight and barrel after barrel lined the walls along with uncountable sacks of flour and grain. “My little domain,” Grealin told them. “I am the Master of the Vaults and the keeper of the armoury. There is not a bean or an arrowhead in this store that I have not counted, twice. If you need anything it is provided by me. And you answer to me if you lose it.” Vaelin noted that his smile had disappeared.
They lined up outside the store room as Grealin fetched their bundles, ten grey muslin sacks bulging with various items. “These are the Order’s gifts, little men,” Grealin told them brightly, moving along the line to deposit a sack at each boy’s feet. “Each of you will find the following in your bundle: one wooden sword of the Asraelin pattern, one hunting knife twelve inches in length, one pair of boots, two pairs of trews, two shirts of cotton, one cloak, one clasp, one purse, empty of course, and one of these…” Master Grealin held something up to the lantern, it shone in the glow, twisting gently on its chain. It was a medallion, a circle of silver inset with a figure Vaelin recognised as the skull-headed warrior that sat atop the gate outside the Order House. “This is the sigil of our Order,” Master Grealin went on. “It represents Saltroth Al Jenrial, first Aspect of the Order. Wear it always, when you sleep, when you wash, always. I’m sure Master Sollis has many punishments in mind for boys who forget to keep it on.”
Sollis kept quiet, the cane still tapping his boot said it all.
“My other gift is but a few words of advice,” Master Grealin continued. “Life in the Order is harsh and often short. Many of you will be expelled before your final test, perhaps all of you, and those who win the right to stay with us will spend your lives patrolling distant frontiers, fighting endless wars against savages, outlaws or heretics during which you will most likely die if you are lucky or be maimed if you are not. Those few left alive after fifteen years service will be given their own commands or return here to teach those who will replace you. This is the life to which your families have given you. It may not seem so, but it is an honour, cherish it, listen to your masters, learn what we can teach you and always hold true to the Faith. Remember these words and you will live long in the Order.” He smiled again, spreading his plump hands. “That is all I can tell you, little warriors. Run along now, no doubt I’ll see you all soon when you lose your precious gifts.” He chuckled again, disappearing into the store room, the echo of his laughter following them as Sollis’s cane hounded them from the vaults.
The post was six feet tall and painted red at its top, blue in the middle and green at the base. There were about twenty of them, dotted around the practice field, silent witnesses to their torment. Sollis made them stand in front of a post and strike at the colours with their wooden swords as he called them out.
“Green! Red! Green! Blue! Red! Blue! Red! Green! Green…”
Vaelin’s arm began to ache after the first few minutes but he kept swinging the wooden sword as hard as he could. Barkus had momentarily dropped his arm after a few swings earning a salvo of cane strokes, robbing him of his habitual smile and leaving his forehead bloody.
“Red! Red! Blue! Green! Red! Blue! Blue…”
Vaelin found that the blow would jar his arm unless he angled the sword at the last instant, letting the blade slash across the post rather than thump into it. Sollis came to stand behind him, making his back itch in expectation of the cane. But Sollis just watched for a moment and grunted before moving off to punish Nortah for striking at the blue instead of the red. “Open your ears, you foppish clown!” Nortah took the blow on his neck and blinked away tears as he continued to fight the post.
He kept them at it for hours, his cane a sharp counterpoint to the solid thwack of their swords against the posts. After a while he made them switch hands. “A brother of the Order fights with both hands,” he told them. “Losing a limb is no excuse for cowardice.”
After another interminable hour or more he told them to stop, making them line up as he swapped his cane for a wooden sword. Like theirs
it was of the Asraelin pattern: a straight blade with a hand and a half long hilt and pommel and a thin metal tine curving around the hilt to protect the fingers of the wielder. Vaelin knew about swords, his father had many hanging above the fireplace in the dining hall, tempting his boy’s hands although he never dared touch them. Of course they were larger than these wooden toys, the blades a yard or more in length and worn with use, kept sharp but showing the irregular edge which came from the smith’s stone grinding away the many nicks and dents a sword would accumulate on the battlefield. There was one sword which always drew his eye more than the others, hung high on the wall well out of his reach, its blade pointed down straight at his nose. It was a simple enough blade, Asraelin like most of the others, and lacking the finely wrought craftsmanship of some, but unlike them its blade was unrepaired, it was highly polished but every nick, scratch and dent had been left to disfigure the steel. Vaelin dare not ask his father about it so approached his mother but with only marginally less trepidation; he knew she hated his father’s swords. He found her in he drawing room, reading as she often did. It was in the early days of her illness and her face had taken on a gauntness which Vaelin couldn’t help but stare at. She smiled as he crept in, patted the seat next to her. She liked to show him her books, he would look at the pictures as she told him stories about the Faith and the Kingdom. He sat listening patiently to the tale of Kerlis the Faithless, cursed to the ever-death for denying the guidance of the Departed, until she paused long enough for him to ask: “Mother, why does father not repair his sword?”
She stopped in mid page, not looking at him. The silence stretched out and he wondered if she was going to adopt his father’s practice of simply ignoring him. He was about to apologise and ask permission to leave when she said, “It was the sword your father was given when he joined the King’s army. He fought with it for many years during the birth of the Realm and when the war was done the King made him a Sword of the Realm, which is why you are called Vaelin Al Sorna and not just plain Vaelin Sorna. The marks on its blade are a history of how your father came to be who he is. And so he leaves it that way.”
“Wake up, Sorna!” Sollis’s bark brought him back to the present with a start. “You can be first, rat-face,” he told Caenis, gesturing for the slight boy to stand a few feet in front of him. “I will attack, you defend. We will be at this until one of you parries a blow.”
It seemed that he blurred then, moving too fast to follow, his sword extended in a lunge that caught Caenis squarely on the chest before he could raise his sword, sending him sprawling.
“Pathetic, Nysa,” Sollis told him curtly. “You next, what’s your name, Dentos.”
Dentos was a sharp faced boy with lank hair and gangling limbs. He spoke with a thick west-Renfaelin brogue which Sollis found less than endearing. “You fight as well as you speak,” he commented after the ash blade of his sword had cracked against Dentos’s ribs, leaving him winded on the ground. “Jeshua, you’re next.”
Barkus managed to dodge the first lightning lunge but his riposte failed to connect with the master’s sword and he went down to a blow that swept his legs from under him.
The next two boys went down in quick succession as did Nortah, although he came close to side-stepping the thrust, which did nothing to impress Sollis. “Have to do better than that.” He turned to Vaelin. “Let’s get it over with, Sorna.”
Vaelin took his position in front of Sollis and waited. Sollis’s gaze met his, a cold stare that commanded his attention, the pale eyes fixing him… Vaelin didn’t think, he simply acted, stepping to the side and bringing his sword up, the blade deflecting Sollis’s lunge with a sharp crack.
Vaelin stepped back, sword ready for another blow. Trying to ignore the frozen silence of the others, concentrating on Master Sollis’s next likely avenue of attack, an attack no doubt fuelled with the fury of humiliation. But no attack came. Master Sollis simply packed up his wooden sword and told them to gather their things and follow him to the dining hall. Vaelin watched him carefully as they walked across the practice ground and into the courtyard, searching for a sudden tension that could signal another swipe of the cane, but Sollis’s dour demeanour remained unchanged. Vaelin found it hard to believe he would swallow the insult and vowed not to be taken unawares when the inevitable punishment came.
Meal time proved to be something of a surprise. The hall was crowded with boys and the tumult of voices engaging in the habitual ridicule and gossip of youth. The tables were arranged according to age, the youngest boys near the doors, where they would enjoy the strongest draft, and the oldest at the far end next to the masters’ table. There seemed to be about thirty masters altogether, hard eyed, mostly silent men, many scarred, a few showing livid burns. One man, sitting at the end of the table quietly eating a plate of bread and cheese, appeared to have had his entire scalp seared away. Only Master Grealin seemed cheerful, laughing heartily, a drumstick gripped in his meaty fist. The other masters either ignored him or nodded politely at whatever witticism he had chosen to share.
Master Sollis led them to the table closest to the door and told them to sit down. There were other groups of boys about their own age already at table. They had arrived a few weeks earlier and been in training longer under other masters. Vaelin noted the sneering superiority some exhibited, the nudges and smirks, finding that he didn’t like it at all.
“You may talk freely,” Sollis told them. “Eat the food, don’t throw it. You have an hour.” He leaned down, speaking softly to Vaelin. “If you fight, don’t break any bones.” With that he left to join the other Masters.
The table was crammed with plates of roasted chicken, pies, fruit, bread, cheese, even cakes. The feast was a sharp contrast with the stark austerity Vaelin had seen so far. Only once before had he seen so much food in one place, at the King’s palace, and then he had hardly been allowed to eat anything. They sat in silence for a moment, partly in awe at the amount of food on the table, but mostly out of simple awkwardness; they were strangers after all.
“How did you do it?”
Vaelin looked up to find Barkus, the hefty Nilsaelin boy, addressing him over the mound of pastries between them. “What?”
“How did you parry the blow?”
The other boys were looking at him intently, Nortah dabbing a napkin at the bloody lip Sollis had given him. He couldn’t tell if they were jealous or resentful. “His eyes,” he said, reaching for the water jug and pouring a measure into the plain tin goblet next to his plate.
“What about his eyes?” Dentos asked, he had taken bread roll was cramming pieces into his mouth, crumbs fountaining from his mouth as he spoke. “Ye tellin’ us it was the Dark?”
Nortah laughed, so did Barkus, but the rest of the boys seemed chilled by the suggestion, except Caenis who was concentrating on a modest portion of chicken and potatoes, apparently indifferent to the conversation.
Vaelin shifted in his seat, disliking the attention. “He fixes you with his eyes,” he explained. “He stares, you stare back, you’re fixed, then he attacks while you’re still wondering what he’s planning. Don’t look at his eyes, look at his feet and his sword.”
Barkus took a bite from an apple and grunted. “He’s right you know. I thought he was trying to hypnotise me.”
“What’s hypnotise?” asked Dentos.
“It’s looks like magic but really it’s just a trick,” Barkus replied. “At last year’s Summertide fair there was a man who could make people think they were a pig. He’d get them to root in the ground and oink and roll in shit.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, some kind of trick. He’d wave a bauble in front of their eyes and talk quietly to them for a while, then they’d do whatever he said.”
“Do you think Master Sollis can do such things?” asked Jennis, the boy Sollis said looked like a donkey.
“Faith, who knows? I’ve heard the masters of the Orders know many Dark things, especially in the Sixth Order.”
Barkus held up a drumstick appreciatively before taking a large bite. “It seems that they know cookery as well. They make us sleep on straw and beat us every hour of the day, but they want to feed us well.”
“Yeh,” Dentos agreed. “Like my uncle Sim’s dog.”
There was a puzzled silence. “Your uncle Sim’s dog?” Nortah enquired.
Dentos nodded, chewing busily on a mouthful of pie. “Growler. Best fightin’ hound in the western counties. Ten victories ‘fore he ‘ad ‘is throat torn out last winter. Uncle Sim loved that dog, ‘ad four kids of ‘is own, to three diff’rent women mind, but he loved that dog better’n any of ‘em, feed Growler ‘fore the kids he would. Best of stuff too, mind. Give the kids gruel and the dog beef steak.” He chuckled wryly. “Rotten old bastard.”
Nortah was unenlightened. “What does it matter what some Renfaelin peasant feeds his dog?”
“So it would fight better,” Vaelin said. “Good food builds strong muscles. That’s why war horses are fed best corn and oats and not set to grazing pasture.” He nodded at the food on the table. “The better they feed us, the better we’ll fight.” He met Nortah’s eyes. “And I don’t think you should call him a peasant. We’re all peasants here.”
Nortah stared back coldly. “You have no right to lead, Al Sorna. You may be the Battle Lord’s son…”
“I’m no-one’s son and neither are you.” Vaelin took a bread roll, his stomach was growling. “Not any more.”
They lapsed into silence, concentrating on the meal. After a while a fight broke out at one of the other tables, plates and food scattering amidst a flurry of fists and kicks. Some boys joined in right away, others stood by shouting encouragement, most simply stayed at their tables, some not even glancing up. The fight raged for a few minutes before one of the masters, the large man with the seared scalp, came over to break it up, swinging a hefty stick with grim efficiency. The boys who had been in the thick of the fight were checked for serious injury, blood mopped from noses and lips, and sent back to the table. One had been knocked unconscious and two boys were ordered to carry him to the infirmary. Before long the din of conversation returned to the hall as if nothing had happened.