by Anthony Ryan
“There was a battle,” Dentos said, a cup of brandy-laced warm milk clutched in his hands as he sat by the fire in the meal hall. Vaelin had called Barkus and Caenis to hear his story along with Prince Malcius and Sister Sherin who had applied a balm to his bruise. “The Cumbraelins had gotten together about five thousand men to oppose the Realm Guard at Greenwater Ford. Not much’ve a force to stand against so many but I guess they were trying to buy time for their city to muster its defences. Could’ve cut down many guardsmen as they forded the river but the Battle Lord was too wily for ’em. Drew up all his cavalry on the south bank to fix their sight and sent half his infantry downstream to ford in deep water in the early hours of the morning, lost fifty men to the current doing it but they got across. Fell on the Cumbraelin right flank whilst they were still unwrapping their arrows. It was all but over by the time me and Nortah got there, place looked like a charnel house, the river was red with it.”
Dentos paused to sip some milk, his face more sombre than Vaelin had ever seen it. “They’d captured a few hundred in the final rout,” he went on. “We found the Battle Lord reading sentence of death over them. Don’t think he was pleased to hear our news.”
“You gave him the King’s signed order?” Prince Malcius asked.
“That we did, Highness. He looked at the seal then called us into his tent. When he read it he wanted to know if we’d seen the usurper’s body ourselves, was his death certain and such. Nortah assured him it was but the Battle Lord cut him off. ‘The words of a traitor’s son mean no more than pig shit to me,’ he said.”
“Nortah tried to kill him for that?” Barkus asked.
Dentos shook his head. “Nortah was angry right enough, looked ready to kill the bastard right there, but he didn’t. Just gritted his teeth and said ‘I’m no-one’s son, my lord. The King’s Word is given to you that this war is over. Will you abide by it?’” Dentos fell silent, his eyes distant.
“Brother?” Caenis prompted. “What is it?”
“The Battle Lord said he needed no advice in how to serve the King. Before he marched the Realm Guard home across this Faithless land he had justice to administer to those who had risen in arms against the crown.”
“He meant to continue with the execution of the prisoners,” Vaelin said. He recalled Nortah after their return from the Martishe, the weary despair in his eyes as he drank to dull the pain in his heart. We’ll bring the Faith to them all, the Denier bastards.
“Yeh,” Dentos sighed. “Nortah told him he couldn’t. Told him it was against the King’s word. The Battle Lord laughed and said the King’s message said nothing about how best to deal with captured Denier scum. Told Nortah to take himself off or he’d send him to the Beyond along with his traitor father, brother or not.”
Vaelin closed his eyes, forcing himself to ask. “How badly was the Battle Lord injured?”
“Well,” said Dentos. “He’ll have to wipe his arse with his left hand from now on.”
“Faith!” breathed Caenis.
“Shit!” said Barkus.
“Why didn’t he finish him?” Vaelin asked.
“Stopped him, didn’t I?” Dentos replied. “Managed to block his next swing. I was pleading with him, begging him to give up his sword. I don’t think he even heard me. Nortah was out of his mind, I could see it in his eyes, like a dog gone rabid, desperate to get at the Battle Lord. That bugger was on his knees, just staring at the stump where his hand used to be, watching the blood spurt. Nortah and me fought.” He rubbed at the bruise on his cheek. “I lost. Lucky for the Battle Lord his guards came in to see about the ruckus. Nortah killed two and wounded the others. More came running. He killed a couple more and ran for his horse. Managed to ride through the whole of the Realm Guard encampment, after all who’d think a brother had just hacked off the Battle Lord’s hand? I snuck off in the confusion. Didn’t think I’d be too popular when the dust settled. Spent a day or so hiding in woodland then struck out for the keep. I heard rumours on the road about the mad brother, how half the Realm Guard was hunting him. Last seen heading west, so they said.”
“Which means he’ll really be heading anywhere else,” Barkus said. “They’ll never catch him.”
“This is a bad business, brother,” Prince Malcius said to Vaelin, his face grave. “The Order affords great protection to its brothers but this…” He shook his head. “The King will have no choice but to issue a death warrant.”
“Then let’s hope our brother finds his way quickly to safer lands,” Caenis said. “He’s possibly the finest rider in the Order, and has great skill in the wild. He won’t be easily caught by the Realm Guard…”
“He won’t be caught by the Realm Guard at all,” Vaelin said. He went to the table where his sword rested and buckled it on quickly, tugging the straps tight before pulling his cloak over his shoulders. He could feel Sherin’s eyes following him but found himself unable to look at her. “Brother Caenis, the regiment is yours. You will send a messenger to Aspect Arlyn informing him I am in pursuit of Brother Nortah and will bring him to justice. The regiment will wait here for orders from the King.”
“You’re going after him?” Barkus seemed astonished. “You heard the prince. If you bring him back they’ll hang him. He’s our brother…”
“He’s a fugitive from the King’s justice and a disgrace to the Order. And I doubt he’ll give me the chance to bring him back.” He forced himself to look at Sherin, searching for some words of farewell but nothing came. Her eyes were bright and he could tell she was close to tears. I’m sorry, he wanted to say, but couldn’t, the weight of what he had to do pressed down too heavily.
“What makes you think you could hunt him down anyway?” Barkus demanded. “He’s a better rider than you by far, better in the wild too.”
He doesn’t have a blood-song to guide him. It had begun as soon as Dentos began his story, a flat tone flaring whenever Vaelin’s thoughts turned to the north. “I’ll find him.”
He turned and bowed to Prince Malcius. “By your leave, Highness.”
“You’re not going alone?” the Prince asked.
“I’m afraid I must insist on it.” He looked in turn at his brothers. Barkus angry, Caenis confused, Dentos sorrowful, and wondered if they would ever forgive him. “Take care of the men,” he said and walked from the chamber.
Chapter 7
The Renfaelin city of Cardurin had been built on one of the foothills to the northern mountains. Approaching the walls with Spit at a sedate walk Vaelin was struck by the complexity of its construction, every cobbled street sloping upwards in what seemed tighter and ever steeper curves. Tall rectangular sandstone buildings topped by clay-tiled roofs rose on each side. The town was an interconnected whole, each block joined to another by a walk-way, high arches curving elegantly between the walls. It felt as if he were staring up at a forest of stone.
He was waved through the gate by a spearman who favoured him with a respectful nod. The Order had always been held in high esteem in Renfael, a regard which had remained undiminished despite the wars of unification when the Aspects had taken the King’s part. People in the streets beyond the gate gave him a few curious glances but there was none of the open staring or recognition he dreaded when traversing the streets of Varinshold.
He left Spit with a stableman near the gate who gave him directions to the Sixth Order mission. “It’s a bit of a climb, brother,” the man said, taking hold of Spit’s reins and making to give him a scratch on the nose.
“Don’t!” Vaelin pulled the man’s hand away, Spit’s teeth chomping on empty air. “He’s got a temper and we’ve ridden a long way this past two weeks.”
“Oh.” The stableman moved back a little, grinning at Vaelin. “Bet you’re the only one can handle him eh?”
“No, he bites me too.”
The Sixth Order mission house was near the summit of the city and the stableman hadn’t exaggerated the climb, his legs were aching with the effort by the time he jangled th
e bell suspended next to the door. The brother who opened it was broad and heavily bearded, staring at Vaelin with shrewd blue eyes beneath his bushy brows.
“Brother Vaelin?” he asked.
Vaelin frowned in surprise. “I am expected, brother?”
“A galloper arrived from the capital two days ago. The Aspect gave notice of your mission and ordered me to give any assistance you require should you call here. I expect similar missives were sent to missions throughout the Realm. Unfortunate business.” He stepped aside, “Please, you must be hungry.”
Vaelin was led along a dimly lit corridor and up a flight of stairs, then another flight, and another after that. “Brother Commander Artin,” the bearded man introduced himself as they climbed. “Sorry about the stairs. Renfaelins call Cardurin the city of many bridges. Really should call it the city of countless stairs.”
“May I ask why you have no guard on the door, brother?” Vaelin enquired.
“Don’t need one. Safest city I’ve ever been to. No outlaws in the wilds either, Lonak won’t tolerate them.”
“But don’t the Lonak themselves pose a danger?”
“Oh they never come here. Don’t like the stink of the town apparently, bad smell means bad luck. When they raid, they go for the smaller settlements near the border. Every couple of years one of the War Chiefs will get a few thousand of them worked up enough for a large scale raid, but even then they rarely come close to the city walls. Not much for siege craft, the Lonak.”
He was led to a large room which served as the mission’s meal hall and ate a plate of stew Brother Artin had brought up from the kitchens. After the meal the Brother Commander unfurled a large map on the table. “The most recent effort from our brother map-makers in the Third Order,” he explained. “A detailed rendering of the borderlands. Here,” he pointed to a pictogram of a walled city. “Cardurin. Directly north will take you to the Skellan Pass, fortified and permanently manned by three companies of brothers. A truly unassailable barrier for any fugitive. The Lonak gave up on it decades ago.”
“How do they make their way south?” Vaelin asked.
“The foothills to the west and east. It’s a long journey and makes them vulnerable to pursuit but they’ve little choice if they want to keep raiding. How can you be sure your brother will venture into Lonak lands?”
He’s my brother no longer, Vaelin wanted to say but held his tongue. He felt a profound anger whenever he thought of Nortah and it would do no good to voice it. “Is there a safe way in?” he asked the Brother Commander, avoiding his question. “A way a man travelling alone wouldn’t be seen?”
Brother Artin shook his head. “The Lonak know whenever we venture into their lands, alone in the dead of winter or in a full company of brothers in high summer, it makes no difference. They always know. Something Dark about it, I reckon. Make no mistake, brother, if you follow him in there you’ll meet them, sooner or later.”
Vaelin scanned the map, from the solid mass of jagged peaks that formed the northern mountains and the heart of Lonak lands to the Skellan pass, fortified a century ago when the Renfaelin Lord decided the Lonak were a real threat rather than a continual nuisance. It was when he turned his attention to the western foothills that the blood-song flared. His finger picked out a small, unfamiliar pictogram on the map. “What’s this?”
“The fallen city? He won’t go there. Even the Lonak don’t go there.”
“Why?”
“It’s a bad place, brother. All ruins and bare rock. Only ever seen it from a distance and it gave me the frights. Something in the air…” He shook his head. “Just feels bad. The Lonak call it Maars Nir-Uhlin Sol, the Place of Stolen Souls. They have plenty of stories about people going there and never coming back. There was a party of brothers from the Fourth Order about a year ago, come in search of deniers fleeing north. It was after the appointment of their new Aspect and our Order’s refusal to assist any longer in the Fourth’s denier hunting. They insisted on going to the fallen city, claimed they had intelligence leading them there, although from where they wouldn’t say. They were deaf to my warnings, ‘Servants of the Faith need fear no savage superstition,’ they said. We only ever found one of them, or rather part of him, frozen solid in the snow three months later. Something had been at him. Something hungry.”
“Perhaps they simply got lost and froze to death. A wolf or a bear could have come upon the body.”
“The man’s face was frozen, brother, in a scream. Never seen such a look on any man, alive or dead. He was eaten alive, by something bigger and far meaner than any wolf. And bears don’t leave marks like these.”
Vaelin turned back to the map. “How many day’s ride to the fallen city?”
Brother Artin’s shrewd eyes regarded Vaelin closely. “You really think he’s there?”
I know he’s there. “How many day’s ride?”
“Three, if you push hard. I’ll send a bird to the wall for a party to accompany you. May take a few days. You can rest here…”
“I’ll be travelling alone, brother. In the morning.”
“Alone into Lonak lands? Brother, to say that is unwise is a gross understatement.”
“Did the Aspect’s missive contain any injunction against me travelling alone?”
“No. It merely ordered that you be given every assistance.”
“Well,” Vaelin moved back from the table and clapped Brother Artin on the shoulder, “a good night’s sleep, provisions for the journey and you will have assisted me very well.”
“If you go in there alone, you will die,” Brother Artin stated flatly.
“Then let’s hope I complete my mission before I do.”
The western foothills were rocky and barren, broken by a seemingly unending series of gullies through which Vaelin was obliged to navigate his way north. Winter was coming on quickly and a hard, chill rain swept the hills with dreary regularity. Spit was more fractious than ever, tossing his head and snorting every time Vaelin mounted him, his mood unleavened a regular supply of candies from the mission house stores. He covered barely fifteen miles the first day and made camp beneath an overhang of rock, huddling in his cloak and resisting the urge to ignore Brother Artin’s stern warning against lighting a fire. Sleep, when it came, was fitful and troubled by dreams he could barely recall on waking to the dull glimmer of dawn. The blood-song was more muted now but still clear, still leading him on to the fallen city where he knew Nortah would be waiting.
Nortah… The anger returned, fierce and implacable. How could he do this? HOW COULD HE? It had been building ever since Dentos related the tale, ever since the sickening realisation that he would have to hunt down and kill his brother. He found himself unable to muster much regret over Battle Lord Al Hestian’s severed hand, it was hard to pity a man intent on venting his grief on helpless captives. But Nortah…He’ll fight, he knew with a dread certainty. He’ll fight, and I’ll kill him.
He ate a breakfast of dried beef and set off through a light morning drizzle, leading Spit on foot as the ground was too rocky for riding. He had gone only a few miles when the Lonak attacked.
The boy leapt from the rocks above in an impressive display of acrobatics, turning over in mid air and landing nimbly on his feet in front of Vaelin, war-club in one hand and a long curved knife in the other. He was bare-chested and lean as a greyhound, Vaelin guessing his age at somewhere between fourteen and sixteen. His head was shaven with an ornate tattoo above his left ear. His smooth angular face tensed in anticipation of combat as he voiced a harsh challenge in a tongue Vaelin had never heard.
“I’m sorry,” Vaelin said. “I don’t know your language.”
The Lonak boy evidently took this as an either insult or an acceptance of his challenge since he attacked without further delay, leaping in the air, war club above his head, his knife hand drawn back for a slash. It was a practised move performed with elegant precision. Vaelin side-stepped the club as it came down, caught the knife hand in mid-slash and k
nocked the boy unconscious with an open-handed blow to the temple.
His hand went to his sword as he looked around for further enemies, eyes scanning the rocks above. Where there’s one, there’s more, Brother Artin had warned him. There’s always more. There was nothing, no sound or scent on the wind, nothing to disturb the faint patter of rain on rock. Spit clearly sensed nothing either as he began to nibble at the unconscious boy’s leather-clad feet.
Vaelin pulled him away, earning a near-miss kick from a fore hoof, and crouched to check on the boy. His breathing was regular and there was no blood coming from his ears or nose. Vaelin positioned him so he wouldn’t choke on his tongue and tugged Spit onwards.
After another hour the gullies gave way to what Brother Artin had called the Anvil of Stone. It was the strangest and most unfamiliar landscape he had seen, a broad expanse of mostly bare rock, pocked by small pools of rain water and rocky tors rising from the undulating surface like great deformed mushrooms. He could only marvel at whatever design of nature had produced such a scene. The Cumbraelins claimed their god had made the earth and all it held in a blinking of his eye, but seeing the weather fashioned channels in the tors rising above he knew this place had taken many centuries to reach such a state of profound strangeness.
He remounted Spit and headed north at a walk, covering another ten miles before nightfall. He camped in the shelter of the largest tor he could find, his cloak once again tight around him as he sought sleep. His eyelids were drooping when the Lonak boy attacked again.
The boy raged in his unfathomable language as Vaelin tied the rope around his chest, his hands already bound behind his back. A livid bruise marred his temple and another was forming beneath his nose where Vaelin’s forenuckles had found the nerve cluster which sent him senseless.