by Anthony Ryan
No, Erlin replied. He is a child. Brave and clever, but a child. They are taught to fight. The Order tells them nothing of other faiths.
She cast a brief, guarded glance in Vaelin’s direction. He grinned back, licking grease from his fingers.
Will he kill us if he knows? she asked Erlin.
He saved us, don’t forget. Erlin paused and Vaelin got the impression he was trying not to look at him. And he’s different, his hands said. Other brothers of the Sixth Order are not like him.
Different how?
There is more in him, more feeling. Can’t you sense it?
She shook her head. I sense only danger. It’s all I’ve felt for days. She paused for a moment, a frown creasing her smooth brow. He has the Battle Lord’s name.
Yes. I think this is his son. I heard he gave him to the Order after his wife died.
Her movements became frantic, insistent. We have to leave now!
Erlin forced a smile in Vaelin’s direction. Calm down or you’ll make him suspicious.
Vaelin got up and went to the stream to wash the grease from his hands. Fugitives, he thought. But from what? And what was this talk of other faiths? Not for the first time he wished one of the masters were here to guide him. Sollis or Hutril would know what to do. He wondered if he should try to hold them here somehow. Overpower them and tie them up. He wasn’t sure he could do it. The girl didn’t present a problem but Erlin was a grown man, and strong. And Vaelin suspected he knew how to fight even if he wasn’t a warrior by trade. All he could do was keep watching their conversation to learn more.
He caught it by chance, the wind shifted and brought it to him, faint but unmistakable: horse sweat. Must be close if I can smell it. More than one. Coming from the south.
He hurriedly climbed the south side of the gully, scanning the southern hills. He spotted them quickly, a dark knot of riders a half a mile or so to the southeast. Five or six of them, plus a trio of hunting dogs. They had halted, it was difficult to make out what they were doing from this distance but Vaelin surmised they were waiting for the dogs to pick up a scent.
He forced himself to stroll slowly back to the camp, finding the girl sullenly prodding the fire with a stick and Erlin retying one of the straps on his pack.
“We’ll be on our way soon,” Erlin assured him. “We’ve put you to enough trouble.”
“Heading north?” Vaelin asked.
“Yes. The Renfaelin coast. Sella has family there.”
“You’re not her family?”
“Just a friend and travelling companion.”
Vaelin went to the shelter and fetched his bow, feeling the girl’s mounting tension as he strung the bowstring and slung the quiver over his shoulder. “I have to hunt.”
“Of course. I wish we could give you some of our food.”
“It’s not permitted to take aid from others during this test. Besides I’m sure you can’t spare any.”
The girl’s hands moved irritably: True.
“I suppose we should take our leave now,” Erlin said, coming over to offer his hand. “Once again, my thanks, young sir. It’s unusual to meet such a generous soul. Trust me, I know…”
Vaelin moved his hands, the shapes he made clumsy compared to theirs but the meaning was clear enough: Riders to the south. With dogs. Why?
Sella’s hand went to her mouth, her pale face nearly white with fear. Erlin’s hand inched closer to the curve-bladed knife at his belt.
“Don’t do that,” Vaelin instructed him. “Just tell me why you’re running. And who’s hunting you.”
Erlin and the girl exchanged frantic glances. Her hands fidgeted as she fought the impulse to communicate. Erlin took her hand, Vaelin wasn’t sure if he was trying to calm or silence her.
“So they teach you the signs,” he said, his tone neutral.
“They teach us many things.”
“Did they teach you about Deniers?”
Vaelin frowned, remembering one of his father’s infrequent explanations. It had been the first time he saw the city gate and the bodies rotting in the cages that hung from the wall. “Deniers are blasphemers and heretics. Those who deny the truth of the Faith.”
“And do you know what happens to Deniers, Vaelin?”
“They are killed and hung from the city walls in cages.”
“They are hung from the walls whilst still alive and left to starve to death. Their tongues are cut out so their screams will not disturb passersby. This is done purely because they follow a different faith.”
“There is no different Faith.”
“Yes there is, Vaelin!” Erlin’s tone was fierce, implacable. “I told you I had been all over this world. There are countless faiths, countless gods. There are more ways to honour the divine than there are stars in the sky.”
Vaelin shook his head, finding the argument irrelevant. “And that’s what you are? Deniers?”
“No. I follow the same Faith as you.” He gave a short bitter laugh. “I’ve little choice after all. But Sella has a different path. Her belief is different, but just as true as yours and mine. But if she’s taken by the men hunting us, they will torture and kill her. Do you think that’s right? Do you think all Deniers deserve such a fate?”
Vaelin studied Sella. Fear dominated her face, her lips trembling, but her eyes were untouched by her terror. They stared into his, unblinking, magnetic, questing, making him think of Master Sollis during that first sword lesson. “You can’t trick me,” he told her.
She took a deep breath, gently disentangled her hands from Erlin’s and signed: I am not trying to trick you. I’m looking for something.
“And what’s that?”
Something I didn’t see before. She turned to Erlin. He will help us.
Vaelin opened his mouth to retort but found the words dying on his lips. She was right: he would help them. There was no complexity to the decision. It was right, he knew it. He would help them because Erlin was honest and brave and Sella was pretty and had seen something in him. He would help them because he knew they didn’t deserve to die.
He went into the shelter and returned with the yallin root. “Here.” He tossed it to Erlin. “Cut it in half and smear the juice on your feet and hands. Whose scent do they have?”
Erlin sniffed the root uncertainly. “What is this?”
“It’ll mask your scent. Which of you do they follow?”
Sella patted her chest. Vaelin noted the silk scarf around her neck. He pointed at it, motioning for her to hand it over.
My mother’s, she protested.
“Then she’ll be glad it saved your life.”
After a moment’s hesitation she undid the scarf and gave it to him. He tied it around his wrist.
“This is disgusting!” Erlin complained, smearing the yallin juice on his boots, face contorted at the pungent stench.
“Dogs think so too,” Vaelin told him.
After Sella had anointed her own boots and hands he led them into the densest part of the surrounding woodland. There was a hollow a few hundred yards from the camp, deep enough to hide two people but offering little protection against expert eyes. Vaelin was hoping whoever hunted them wouldn’t get close enough to see it. When they had settled into the hollow he took the yallin root from Sella and smeared as much juice as he could squeeze from it on the surrounding ground and foliage.
“Stay here, keep quiet. If you hear the dogs, lie still, don’t run. If I don’t return in an hour, head south for two days then circle west, follow the coast road north, stay out of the towns.”
He made to leave when Sella reached out to him, her hand hovering close to his. She seemed wary of touching him. Her eyes met his again, not questing this time, just bright with gratitude. He smiled back briefly and was gone, running full pelt towards the hunters. The sparse woods blurred around him, his body aching from the effort. He pushed his pains away and ran on, the scarf on his wrist trailing in the wind.
It took five long minutes of hard
running before he heard the dogs, distant, high-pitched yelps growing into sharp, threatening barks as they drew closer. Vaelin chose a defensible position atop a fallen birch trunk and quickly took the scarf from his wrist, tying it around his neck and tucking it out of sight. He waited, arrow notched tight to his bowstring, breath steaming as he dragged air into his lungs and fought the tremble from his limbs.
The dogs were on him quicker than he expected, three dark forms bursting from the undergrowth twenty yards away, snarling, yellow teeth flashing, churning snow as they sped towards him. Vaelin was momentarily shocked by the sight of them, they were an unfamiliar breed. Larger, faster and more thickly muscled than any other hunting dog he had seen. Even the Renfaelin hounds in the Order’s kennels seemed like pets in comparison. The worst thing was their eyes, glaring yellow, filled with hate, they seemed to glow with it as they closed on him, drool trailing from snarling maws.
His arrow took the first one in the throat, sending it tumbling into the snow with a surprised, piteous whine. He tried for another arrow but the second dog was on him before the shaft was clear of the quiver. It leapt, sharp-nailed paws scrabbling at his chest, head angled to fix the flashing teeth on his neck. He rolled with the force of the lunge, letting his bow slip away, his right hand pulling the knife free from his belt to stab upwards as his back connected with the ground, the dog’s momentum helping bury the blade in its chest, punching through ribs and cartilage to find the heart, blood gouting from the mouth in a thick black spray. Fighting nausea, Vaelin put his boots under the twitching body and heaved it away, rolling upright, knife levelled at the third dog, ready for the charge.
It didn’t come.
The dog sat, ears flattened, head lowered near the ground, eyes averted. Whining, it raised its muscular form to edge closer then sat again, glancing at him with a strange, fearful but expectant expression.
“You better be rich, boy,” a gruff, deeply angry voice said. “You owe me for three dogs.”
Vaelin whirled, knife ready, finding a ragged, stocky man emerging from the bushes, his heaving chest indicating the hardship of running in the wake of the dogs. A sword of the Asraelin pattern was strapped across his back and he wore a soiled, dark blue cloak.
“Two dogs,” Vaelin said.
The man glowered and spat on the ground, reaching back to draw his sword in a practised, easy movement. “These are Volarian slave-hounds, you little shit. The third’s no good to me now.” He came closer, his feet moving over the snow in a familiar dancing motion, sword point low, arm slightly bent.
The dog growled, a low, menacing rumble. Vaelin risked a glance at it, expecting to find it advancing on him once again, but instead its yellow, hate-filled gaze was fixed on the man with the sword, lips trembling over bared teeth.
“You see!” the man shouted at Vaelin. “See what you’ve done? Four years to train these bastards in the shitter.”
It came to Vaelin then, a rush of recognition he should have felt as soon as the man appeared. He raised his left hand slowly, showing it to be empty, and reached inside his shirt to pull out his medallion, holding it up for the man to see. “My apologies, brother.”
Momentary confusion played over the man’s face, Vaelin realised he wasn’t puzzled at the sight of the medallion, he was calculating if he was still permitted to kill him even though he was of the Order. In the event the decision was made for him.
“Sheathe your sword, Makril,” said a strident, cultured voice. Vaelin turned as a horse and rider emerged from the trees. The sharp-faced man on the horse nodded at him cordially as he guided his mount closer. It was a grey Asraelin hunter from the southlands, a long-legged breed renowned for stamina rather than aggression. The man reined in a few feet away, looking down at Vaelin with what might have been genuine goodwill. Vaelin noted the colour of his cloak, black: the Fourth Order.
“Good day to you, little brother,” the sharp-faced man greeted him.
Vaelin nodded back, sheathing his knife. “And you, Master.”
“Master?” He smiled faintly. “I think not.” He glanced at the remaining dog, now growling at him. “I fear we may have provided you an unwelcome companion, little brother.”
“Companion?”
“Volarian slave-hounds are an unusual breed. Savage beyond belief at times but possessed of a rigid hierarchical code. You killed this animal’s pack leader and the one who would have replaced him. Now he sees you as the pack leader. He’s too young to challenge you so instead will provide you with unswerving loyalty, for now.”
Vaelin looked at the dog, seeing a snarling, drooling mass of muscle and teeth with an intricate web of scars on its snout and fur matted with mingled dirt and shit. “I don’t want it,” he said.
“Too late for that, you little sod,” Makril muttered behind him.
“Oh stop being so tiresome, Makril,” the sharp-faced man admonished him. “You lost some dogs, we’ll get some more.” He bent down to offer Vaelin his hand. “Tendris Al Forne, brother of the Fourth Order and servant of the Council for Heretical Transgressions.”
“Vaelin Al Sorna.” Vaelin shook the hand. “Novice brother of the Sixth Order, awaiting confirmation.”
“Yes, of course.” Tendris sat back in his saddle. “Test of the Wild, is it?”
“Yes, brother.”
“I certainly don’t envy your Order’s tests.” Tendris offered a sympathetic smile. “Remember your tests, brother?” he asked Makril.
“Only in my nightmares.” Makril was circling the clearing, eyes fixed on the ground, occasionally crouching to peer closely at a mark in the snow. Vaelin had seen Master Hutril do the same thing, but with considerably more grace. Hutril gave off an aura of calm reflection when he looked for tracks. Makril was a sharp contrast, constantly on the move, agitated, restless.
The crunch of hooves on snow heralded the arrival of three more brothers from the Fourth Order, all mounted on Asraelin hunters like Tendris, and possessing the hardy, weathered look of men who spent most of their lives on the hunt. They each greeted Vaelin with a brief wave when Tendris introduced him, before going off to scour the surrounding area. “They may have tracked through here,” Tendris told them. “The dogs must have scented something beyond a likely meal in our young brother here.”
“May I ask what you’re searching for, brother?” Vaelin enquired.
“The bane of our realm and our Faith, Vaelin,” Tendris replied sadly. “The Unfaithful. It is a task charged to me and the brothers with whom I ride. We hunt those who would deny the Faith. It may be a surprise to you that such folk exist, but believe me they do.”
“There’s nothing here,” Makril said. “No tracks, nothing for the dogs to scent.” He made his way through a heavy snowdrift to stand in front of Vaelin. “Except you, brother.”
Vaelin frowned. “Why would your dogs track me?”
“Have you met anyone during your test?” Tendris asked. “A man and a girl perhaps?”
“Erlin and Sella?”
Makril and Tendris exchanged a glance. “When?” Makril demanded.
“Two nights ago.” Vaelin was proud of the smoothness of the lie, he was becoming more adept at dishonesty. “The snow was heavy, they needed shelter. I offered them mine.” He looked at Tendris. “Was I wrong to do so, brother?”
“Kindness and generosity are never wrong, Vaelin.” Tendris smiled. Vaelin was disturbed by the fact that the smile seemed genuine. “Are they still at your camp?”
“No, they left the next morning. They said little, in fact the girl said nothing.”
Makril snorted a mirthless laugh. “She can’t speak, boy.”
“She did give me this.” Vaelin pulled Sella’s silk scarf from under his shirt. “By way of thanks the man said. I saw no harm in taking it. It offers no warmth. If you’re hunting them, perhaps your dogs scented this.”
Makril leaned closer, sniffing the scarf, nostrils flared, his eyes locked on Vaelin’s. He doesn’t believe a word of it, Vaelin
realised.
“Did the man tell you where they were going?” Tendris asked.
“North, to Renfael. He said the girl had family there.”
“He lied,” Makril said. “She has no family anywhere.” Next to Vaelin the dog’s growls deepened. Makril moved back slowly, making Vaelin wonder what kind of dog could provoke fear in its own master.
“Vaelin, this is very important,” Tendris said, leaning forward in his saddle, studying Vaelin intently. “Did the girl touch you at all?”
“Touch me, brother?”
“Yes. Even the slightest touch?”
Vaelin remembered the hesitancy as Sella reached to him and realised she hadn’t touched him at all, although the depth of her gaze when she found something in him had felt almost like being touched, touched on the inside. “No. No she didn’t.”
Tendris settled back into the saddle, nodding in satisfaction. “Then you were indeed fortunate.”
“Fortunate?”
“The girl’s a Denier witch, boy,” Makril said. He had perched on the birch trunk and was chewing a sugar cane that had appeared in his weathered fist. “She can twist your heart with a touch of that dainty hand of hers.”
“What our brother means,” Tendris explained, “is that this girl has a power, an ability that comes from the Dark. The heresy of the Unfaithful sometimes manifests itself in strange ways.”
“She has a power?”
“It’s better we don’t burden you with the details.” He tugged his horse’s reins, guiding it to the edge of the clearing, looking around for tracks. “They left yesterday morning, you say?”
“Yes, brother.” Vaelin tried not to look at Makril, knowing the stocky tracker was subjecting him to an intense, dubious scrutiny. “Heading north.”
“Mmm.” Tendris glanced at Makril. “Can we still track them without the dogs?”
Makril shrugged. “Maybe, won’t be easy after last night’s storm.” He took another bite from his sugar cane and tossed it away. “I’ll do some scouting north of the hills. Best if you take the others and check towards the west and east. They may have tried to double back to throw us off their trail.” He gave Vaelin a final, hostile glare before disappearing into the trees at a dead run.