by Anthony Ryan
Vaelin mounted Spit and drew his sword. “Ride for the city!” he called to the scout troop.
“And you brother?” Frentis asked.
Vaelin nodded at the battle. “The baron needs some help. I’ll be along presently.”
“Let me -”
He fixed Frentis with a look that brooked no argument. “Take your men home, brother.”
Frentis bit down on no doubt bitter words and nodded. “If you’re not back in two days…”
“Then I’m not coming back and you will look to Brother Caenis for command.” Vaelin spurred Spit into a gallop and hurtled towards the battle, feeling the mustang tense beneath him in anticipation of combat. He skirted the edge of the throng, lashing out to strike down unwary tribesmen, wheeling away as they swarmed at him, galloping on then repeating the process, seeking to divert their fury enough to allow the knights some relief. “Eruhin Mahktar!” he shouted repeatedly, hoping they knew what it meant. “I am the Eruhin Mahktar! Come and kill me!”
The words were clearly understood by at least some of the tribesmen, judging by the ferocity with which they pursued him, hurling spears and hatchets with sometimes unnerving accuracy. One showed a remarkable turn of speed, sprinting after Vaelin as he wheeled away from another pass, leaping onto Spit’s back with his war-club raised then tumbling to the sand with an arrow speared through his torso.
“I don’t think we should linger much longer, brother!” Dentos called, notching and releasing another shaft as he galloped alongside, a tribesman spinning to the ground a short distance away.
“Thought I sent you back to the city,” Vaelin called.
“No, you sent Frentis.” Dentos loosed another arrow and ducked a spear. “We really need to go!”
Vaelin glanced at the main throng, seeing a broad figure in red stained armour riding away from the fight, the Baron choosing to be the last to leave. He pointed to the west and they turned away, spurring their mounts to even greater speed, the still burning engines casting long shadows over the sands, fading as they were swallowed by the desert.
They rode on through the night, keeping a westward course until sunrise then turning to the north, only dismounting to walk the horses when the heat began to make them stagger. They stripped the mounts of all excess weight, throwing their mail away but keeping their weapons and the remaining canteens of water.
“No sign of ‘em,” Dentos said, shielding his eyes as he scanned the southern horizon. “Not yet anyway.”
“They’ll be along,” Vaelin assured him. He held a canteen to Spit’s mouth, the animal snatching it between his teeth and tipping the contents down his throat in a few gulps. Vaelin wasn’t sure how much longer the mustang could last in the heat, the desert was a cruel environment for a north-born animal, evidenced by the foam that covered his flanks and the weary blink of his normally bright and suspicious eye.
“With any luck they’re following the Baron’s trail,” Dentos went on. “More of ‘em to follow after all.”
“I think we used up our share of luck last night, don’t you?” Vaelin waited until Spit had finished drinking then took hold of his reins. “We keep walking. If we can’t ride in this heat, neither can they.”
It was early evening when they saw it, small and faint in the distance, but undeniably real.
“Fifteen miles, maybe?” Dentos wondered, eyeing the dust cloud.
“Closer to ten.” Vaelin hauled himself into the saddle, wincing at Spit’s weary snort of annoyance. “Seems they can ride in the heat after all.”
They kept to a canter for most of the night, wary of pushing the horses to collapse, glancing continually to the south, seeing only the desert and the star rich sky but knowing their pursuers were gaining with every mile.
The northern shore came into sight with the dawn, the desert sands giving way to scrub and, six miles to the east, the white walls of Linesh gleaming in the morning light.
“Brother,” Dentos said softly.
Vaelin turned his gaze southward, the dust cloud was larger now, the riders raising it clearly visible. He leaned forward to pat Spit’s neck, whispering in his ear. “Sorry.” Leaning back he kicked his heels against the mustang’s flanks and they spurred into a gallop. He had expected Spit to have lost much of his speed, but if anything he seemed to find some kind of relief in the gallop, tossing his head and snorting either in pleasure or anger. His hooves churned the dusty ground and they quickly outdistanced Dentos and his struggling mount, so much so that Vaelin was forced to rein in after four miles. They had crested a small rise overlooking the plain before the city walls. The gates were open and a line of horsemen were making their way inside, sunlight gleaming on their armour.
“Seems the Baron made it back,” Vaelin observed as Dentos reined in.
“Glad someone did.” Dentos upended a canteen and let the water bathe his face. Behind him Vaelin could see their pursuers were closing fast, barely a mile behind. He was right, they weren’t going to make it.
“Here,” he said making to dismount. “I have the faster horse. It’s me they want.”
“Don’t be fucking stupid, brother,” Dentos said wearily. He unhitched his bow from the saddle and notched an arrow, wheeling his horse around to face the oncoming horsemen. Vaelin knew there was no dissuading him.
“I’m sorry, brother,” he said, voice laden with guilt. “This fool’s war, I…”
Dentos wasn’t listening, looking off to the south, a puzzled frown on his brow. “Didn’t know they had them here. Big bugger too, isn’t he?”
Vaelin followed his gaze and felt the blood-song surge in a fiery tumult of recognition as his eyes picked out the form of a large grey wolf sitting a short distance away. It regarded him with the impassive, green eyed stare he remembered so well from that first meeting in the Urlish. “You can see him?” he asked.
“’Course, he’s hard to miss.”
The blood-song was raging now, a piercing cacophony of warning. “Dentos, ride for the city.”
“I’m not going anywhere…”
“Something’s going to happen! Please, just go!”
Dentos was going to argue further but his gaze was drawn by something else, a great dark cloud rising above the southern horizon, ascending from the desert to at least a mile into the sky, swallowing sunlight in its billowing fury as it swept towards the city, dunes disappearing as it gathered them to its hungry breast.
An arrow thumped into the ground a few feet away. Vaelin turned to see their pursuers now barely fifty yards distant, at least a hundred men, preceded by a swarm of arrows launched at the gallop, a desperate attempt to end the chase before the sand storm bore down.
“RIDE!” Vaelin shouted, taking hold of Dentos’s reins and pulling him along as he kicked Spit into a gallop, arrows raining down as they descended the rise and rode for the city. The storm hit before they had covered a third of the distance, the sand blasting into face and eyes like a cloud of vicious needles. Dentos’s mount reared in the fury of it and Vaelin lost his grip on the reins, horse and rider disappearing in the whirling red mist. He tried to call for him but instantly choked on the sand which sought to fill his mouth. He could only do his best to shield his face and cling on as Spit ran blindly through the storm.
In desperation he turned to the blood-song, trying to calm it, master it enough to guide its music, to sing. At first there was only the discordant shriek of wrongness and alarm that had erupted at the sight of the wolf, but as he exerted his will the confusion began to calm, a few clear notes forming amongst the storm raging in his mind. Dentos! he called, seeking to cast the song into the storm like a grapple. Find him!
The song changed again, more notes forming, the music becoming more melodious, almost serene but tinged with something more, a tone so strange as to be vastly unknowable. The realisation dawned like a blow. This is not my song! This is not the song of any man!
Who? he sang. Who are you?
The other song changed again, all music
fading to be replaced by a single impatient growl.
Please! he begged. My brother…
The wolf’s growl became a shout in his mind, strong enough to make him reel in the saddle. Spit whinnied and reared in alarm as he heaved himself upright, feeling blood begin to pour from his nose. NO! he screamed back with every fibre of strength he could force into the song. I DO NOT WANT YOUR HELP!
Instantly the wind dropped, the harsh blast of grit on his face dissipating to a faint breeze, the wind-tossed sands slowly descending with a sound like a thousand whispering voices. Through the fading mist he saw the dark shape of a rider, no more than ten yards away, Dentos clearly recognisable from the sword on his back. Relief flooded Vaelin as he trotted over, reaching out to clasp his brother’s shoulder.
“Not a good time to linger, brother…”
Dentos pitched from the saddle and fell heavily to the ground. His eyes were open, face pale with a familiar pallor, the arrow that had killed him jutting from his chest, the steel barb wet with blood.
They told him later how he had sat there, still and frozen, like one of Ahm-Lin’s creations appearing out of the ebbing sandstorm, raising shouts from the sentries on the walls and compelling Caenis to frantic efforts to re-open the gate. The Alpiran pursuers, scattered by the storm, were quick to recover their wits and close in on the immobile Hope Killer. One galloped to within twenty yards, leaning low over his stallion’s neck, bow drawn and shaft ready, teeth bared with hate and triumph. Bren Antesh leapt atop the gatehouse battlements, put an arrow clean through the rider’s chest then barked an order at his archers. A thousand arrows rose from the walls and descended on the Alpirans in a black hail. Near a hundred riders cut down by a single volley.
Vaelin had no knowledge of any of it. There was only Dentos, his slack, empty face, and the arrowhead, gleaming metal shining amongst the red gore. Voices called to him from the walls but he heard nothing. Caenis and Barkus sprinted through the re-opened gate, stumbling to a halt in shock. Vaelin couldn’t hear their grief or their questions. Dentos and the arrow…
“Vaelin.”
It was the only voice he could have heard. Sherin was at his side, reaching up to clasp his wrist, his knuckles white as they gripped the reins. “Vaelin, please.”
He looked down at her, drinking in the sight of her compassion, the familiar ache dispelling his numbness with a desperate need and hopeless shame. “I am a murderer,” he said, forming each word with cold precision.
“No…”
“I am a murderer.” He gently pulled her hand away and kicked Spit into a walk, guiding him through the gate and into the city.
Chapter 9
He stayed in his room for two days, slumped fully clothed on his bunk. Janril knocked and left food outside his door but he ignored it. Caenis, Barkus and Frentis each came in turn to call through the door but he barely heard them. He felt no need of sleep, no hunger, no thirst. There was only Dentos and the arrowhead, and the song, the great unknowable song of the wolf like a deafening echo in his mind. And the truth of course, the hateful truth. I am a murderer.
He remembered when he had gone to Dentos to ask for his presence on the mission. “You’re the best horse archer we have…” he had begun but Dentos was already packing his kit.
“Nortah was better,” he said, stringing his bow.
“Nortah’s dead.”
Dentos had simply smiled and for the first time Vaelin realised he had never believed his lie about Nortah’s fate. How much more had he known? What other secrets had he kept? All of his knowledge gone in an instant, stolen by an arrow loosed by a stranger who probably thought he had felled the Hope Killer himself. Vaelin wondered if the man had died happy under the hail of Cumbraelin arrows, perhaps expecting a hero’s welcome from the gods. It must have been a terrible disappointment.
Towards evening of the second day his attention was finally drawn by a scratching at the door, accompanied by an plaintive whine. He blinked, gazing at the dim room with blurred eyes, fingers scraping the stubble on his chin, smelling his own stink. “I need a bath,” he muttered, rising to open the door.
Scratch’s weight bore him down effortlessly, his harsh tongue scraping over face and chin with desperate affection. “Alright daft dog!” he groaned, pushing the slave-dog away with some difficulty. “I’m alright.”
“Really?” Sherin was standing in the doorway, arms folded, her expression an echo of the severity he remembered from their first meeting. “Because you look terrible.”
She turned and descended the steps, returning a few minutes later with a cloth and a steaming bowl of water. She closed the door and sat on the bed as he stripped to the waist and washed, Scratch’s head in her lap as she rubbed the fur behind his ears. He could feel her gaze on his torso, knowing her eyes lingered on his scars, sensing her sorrow. “Nothing I didn’t earn, sister,” he told her, reaching for his razor. “All of it, and more besides.”
“So you hate yourself now?” There was an edge of anger to her tone. Clearly her bitterness at his beating of Brother Commander Iltis was taking a while to fade.
“The things I’ve done. This war…” He trailed off, closing his eyes briefly before lathering his face and lifting the razor to his skin.
“Here.” Sherin rose and moved to his side, taking the razor from him. “You haven’t slept, your hands are unsteady.” She pulled over a stool and made him sit. “Relax, I’ve done this more times than I can remember.” He had to admit many barbers would envy the skill with which she wielded the razor, sliding the blade over his skin with deft precision, her healer’s hands gentle and soothing. For a moment he was lost in the scent and the closeness of her, the grief and self-loathing vanished by this new intimacy. He knew he should tell her to stop, that this was inappropriate, but found himself too intoxicated to care.
“There.” She moved back, smiling down at him, a finger tracing over his chin. “Much better.”
Possessed by a sudden and nearly irresistible impulse to pull her close again, he reached instead for the cloth to wipe away the remaining soap. “Thank you sister.”
“Brother Dentos was a good man,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“He was the son of a whore who grew up in a place where everyone hated him. For him there was no other role in this world than to fight and die in service to the Order. But you’re right, he was a good man, and he deserved a longer life and a better death.”
“Why did you come here, Vaelin?” Her voice was soft, the anger gone now, her tone merely sorrowful. “You detest this war, I can see it. Your skills, like mine, were not meant for this. We are supposed to serve a Faith that defends against greed and cruelty. What are we defending here? What did the king promise or threaten to force you to this?”
The impulse to lie, to continue to wallow in secrets as he had for years, was only the faintest whisper now, a nagging sense of stepping too far on an uncharted path, easily overridden by the need to tell her. If he couldn’t hold her at least he could find some comfort in confidence. “He discovered my father has become a Denier. The Ascendant sect, I believe. Whatever that is.”
“We leave our ties of blood behind when we give ourselves in service to the Faith.”
“Do we? Did you? Your compassion was born somewhere, sister. In those streets you came from, amongst those beggared people you try so hard to save. Do we ever really leave anything behind?”
She closed her eyes, face downcast, unspeaking.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Your past is your own. I don’t mean to…”
“My mother was a thief,” she said, eyes open now, meeting his gaze, a harsh unfamiliar accent colouring her tone. “Finest dipper the quarter ever saw. Hands like lightning, could have a ring off a merchant’s finger quicker than a snake takes a rat. Never knew my father, she said he was a soldier, lost to the wars, but I knew she done some whorin’ before she learned the trade. She taught me, y’see, said I had the hands for it.” She looked down at her hands, the de
ft, slender fingers clenching. “I was her darlin’ little thief, she said, and a thief never needs to be a whore.
“Turns out I wasn’t quite the thief she thought I was. Fat old rich man with a fat old wife managed to corner me when I lifted her brooch. Was beating on me with his walking stick when my mum knifed him. ‘No-one hits my Sherry!’ she said. She could’ve run but she stayed.” She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “She stayed for me. She was still stabbin’ away when the Guard came. They hanged her the next day. I was eleven years old.
“After the hanging I sat down and waited to die. Couldn’t steal any more y’see, just couldn’t. And it was all I knew how to do. No mum, no trade. I was done. Next morning a pretty lady in a grey robe asked if I needed help.”
He couldn’t recall standing or pulling her close, but found her head was on his chest, breath catching as she fought down tears. “I’m sorry sister…”
She breathed deeply, her sobs fading, lifting her face, a small wry smile on her lips, whispering “I’m not your sister,” before she pressed them against his.
“You taste,” Sherin’s tongue played over his chest, “of sand and sweat.” She wrinkled her nose. “And you smell of smoke.”
“I’m sorry...”
She giggled a little, raising herself up to kiss his cheek before pressing her nakedness against him, her head resting on his chest. “I’m not complaining.”
His hands played over the slim smoothness of her shoulders, drawing a sigh of pleasure. “I had heard that one had to be experienced at this to find it truly enjoyable,” he said.
“I heard that true devotion to the Faith would blind me to the lure of such pleasures.” She kissed him again, longer this time, tongue probing his lips. “It appears you can’t believe all you hear.”
They had lain together for hours, making love with urgent whispered intimacy, Scratch posted outside the door to discourage visitors. The wonderful, electrifying feel of her against him, the caress of her breath on his neck as he moved in her, was overpowering, amazing. Despite the grief and the guilt and knowledge of what waited beyond this room, for now he was, perhaps for the first time he could remember, truly happy.