by Anthony Ryan
He spent another hour studying the stars with Scratch beside him. On the other side of the fire Makril slept his drunken sleep in silence. It was odd that the tracker made so little noise, not a snore or a grunt, even his breathing was soft. Vaelin wondered if this was a skill that could be learned, or was it an instinct all brothers gained after years of service; no doubt the ability to sleep in silence could prolong a man’s life. He took to the shelter when tiredness made his eyelids droop, settling into his blanket with Scratch between him and the entrance. He had decided Makril hadn’t come to kill him but it was best to be safe and it seemed highly unlikely the man would attempt an attack if he had to get past the dog.
Vaelin huddled close to the animal, drawing warmth and feeling glad he had kept him. A boy could do worse than have a slave-hound for a friend…
In the morning Makril was gone. Vaelin searched thoroughly but found no sign the tracker had ever been close by. As expected the hollow where he had hidden Sella and Erlin was empty. He took Sella’s scarf from his neck, studying the intricate pattern woven into the silk, gold threads describing various sigils. Some were clearly recognisable, a crescent moon, the sun, a bird, others unfamiliar. Probably icons of her Denier beliefs. If so, he should discard it, any Master finding it would mete out severe punishment, maybe more than a beating. But it was such a well-made thing, so finely woven, the gold thread glittered like new. He knew Sella would grieve its loss terribly, it had been her mother’s after all.
Sighing, he tucked the scarf into his sleeve and sent a silent plea to the Departed to see the pair safely to wherever they were going. He made his way back to the camp, lost in thought. He had to decide what to tell Master Hutril and needed time to consider his lies carefully. Scratch scampered ahead of him, snapping at the snow joyfully.
It was a silent ride back with Master Hutril, Vaelin was the only boy in the cart. He asked about the others and received only a grunted response: “Bad year, the storm.” Vaelin shivered, suppressing panicked thoughts about his comrades, and climbed onto the cart. Hutril started off with Scratch scampering after in the deep ruts left in the snow. Hutril had listened to Vaelin’s story in silence, staring expressionlessly at Scratch as Vaelin stumbled through his partially invented account. He stuck mostly to the same story he had told Tendris but left out Makril’s visit the night before. Hutril’s only reaction had come when Vaelin mentioned the tracker’s name; a raised eyebrow. Otherwise he said nothing, letting the silence drag out when Vaelin had finished talking.
“Erm, I suggest we take the dog back to the House, Master,” Vaelin said. “Master Jeklin may find a use for him.”
“The Aspect will decide that,” Hutril said. “Get in.”
At first it seemed the Aspect would have even less to say than Master Hutril, sitting behind his large oak-wood desk, staring wordlessly at Vaelin over steepled fingers as he repeated his tale, desperately hoping he remembered it correctly. The presence of Master Sollis, seated in the corner, did little to alleviate his discomfort. Vaelin had been to the Aspect’s rooms only once before, on an errand to deliver parchment, and found the piles of books and papers that littered the place had grown since. There must have been hundreds of books crammed in here, stacks stretching from floor to ceiling, with countless scrolls and ribbon-bound sheaves of documents occupying the remaining space. It was a collection that made his mother’s library seem paltry in comparison.
Vaelin had been surprised at the lack of interest in Scratch. The Masters seemed preoccupied, besides which they were difficult men to impress at the best of times. Sollis had met him in the courtyard as he got down from the cart. Favouring Scratch with a brief look of incurious disgust, he said, “Nysa and Dentos made it back so far, the others are due in tomorrow. Leave your gear here and follow me to the Aspect’s chambers. He wants to see you.”
Vaelin assumed the Aspect wanted an explanation as to why he had returned with a large and savage animal in tow and repeated his story when the Aspect asked for a report on his test.
“You seem well fed,” the Aspect observed. “Usually boys return thinner and weaker.”
“I was fortunate, Aspect. Scr—the dog helped by scenting a stag killed in a storm. I didn’t think it would breach the conditions of the test as we are permitted to use whatever tools we find in the wild.”
“Yes.” The Aspect clasped his long fingers together, resting them on the desk. “Very resourceful. Pity you couldn’t help Brother Tendris in his search. He is one of the Faith’s most valued servants.”
Vaelin thought of burning children and forced an earnest nod. “Indeed, Aspect. I was impressed with his devotion.”
Vaelin heard Sollis make a small noise behind him and couldn’t decide if it was a laugh or a snort of derision.
The Aspect smiled, an odd sight on such a thin face, but it was a smile of regret. “There have been…events beyond our walls since your test began,” he said. “That is why I called you here. The Battle Lord has resigned from the King’s service. This has caused disharmony in the Realm, the Battle Lord was popular with the common folk. That being the case, and in recognition of his service, the King has granted him a boon. Do you know what that is?”
“A gift, Aspect.”
“Yes, a king’s gift. Anything which it is in the King’s power to give. The Battle Lord has chosen his boon and the King looks to us to fulfil it. Except our Order cannot be commanded by the King, we defend the Realm but we serve the Faith and the Faith is above the Realm. But still, he looks to us, and it is not an easy thing to refuse a king.”
Vaelin stirred uncomfortably. The Aspect seemed to be expecting something from him but he had no idea what it could be. Eventually, finding the silence unbearable he said, “I see, Aspect.”
The Aspect exchanged a brief glance with Master Sollis. “You understand Vaelin? You know what this means?”
I am the Battle Lord’s son no longer, Vaelin thought. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, in fact he wasn’t sure he felt anything at all about it. “I am a brother of the Order, Aspect,” he said. “Events outside these walls do not concern me until I pass the Test of the Sword and am sent forth to defend the Faith.”
“Your presence here was a symbol of the Battle Lord’s devotion to the Faith and the Realm,” the Aspect explained. “But he is Battle Lord no longer and wishes his son returned to him.”
Vaelin wondered at the absence of joy or surprise, no leap of the heart or stomach-churning surge of excitement. Just numb puzzlement. The Battle Lord wishes his son returned to him. He remembered the drumbeat thud of hooves on damp sod fading into morning fog, the stern command in his father’s words, Loyalty is our strength.
He forced himself to meet the Aspect’s eye. “You would send me away, Aspect?”
“My wishes are not at issue here. Neither are Master Sollis’s, although rest assured he has made them plain. No, this decision falls to you, Vaelin. As the King cannot command us, and it is a cherished maxim of our Order that no student is forced to leave unless he fails a test or transgresses the Faith, the King has given the choice to you.”
Vaelin suppressed a bitter laugh. Choice? My father made a choice once. Now so will I. “The Battle Lord has no son,” he told the Aspect. “And I have no father. I am a brother of the Sixth Order. My place is here.”
The Aspect looked down at his desk, suddenly seeming older than Vaelin had seen him before. How old is he? It was difficult to tell. He had the same fluid movements of the other masters, but his long features were lean and worn with outdoor living, his eyes aged and heavy with experience. There was a sadness too, a regret as he pondered Vaelin’s words.
“Aspect,” Master Sollis said. “The boy needs rest.”
The Aspect looked up, meeting Vaelin’s gaze with his old, tired eyes. “If that is your final word.”
“It is, Aspect.”
The Aspect smiled, Vaelin could tell it was forced. “You gladden my heart, young brother. Take your dog to Master Chekril, I
think he’ll prove more welcoming than you might expect.”
“Thank you, Aspect.”
“Thank you, Vaelin, you may go.”
“A Volarian slave-hound.” Master Chekril breathed in awe as Scratch stared up at him, his scarred head angled in puzzlement. “Haven’t seen one in twenty years or more.”
Master Chekril was a cheerful, wiry man in early middle age, his movements more jerky and less measured than the other masters, mirroring the hounds he cared for with such dedication. His robe was dirtier than any Vaelin had seen, stained with earth, hay and a mixture of urine and dog muck. The odour he emitted was truly spectacular but he didn’t seem to mind, or pay the slightest heed to any offence it might cause anyone else.
“You killed its pack brothers, you say?” he asked Vaelin.
“Yes, Master. Brother Makril said it saw me as pack leader now.”
“Oh yes. He’s right about that. Dogs are wolves, Vaelin, they live in packs, but their instincts are dulled, the packs they run in are temporary, they quickly forget who is leader and who is not. But slave-hounds are different, got enough of the wolf left in them to keep the pack order but they’re more vicious than any wolf, bred that way centuries ago. Only the nastier pups got bred, some say there was a touch of the Dark in their breeding. They were changed somehow, made more than a dog but less than a wolf, and different to both. When you killed the pack leader it adopted you, saw you as stronger, a worthy leader. Doesn’t happen every time though. You’ve certainly got a measure of luck, young man.”
Master Chekril took a small piece of dried beef from the pouch at his belt and crouched lower to offer it to Scratch, Vaelin noting the hesitant, wary movements of the man. He’s scared, he realised, appalled. He’s frightened of Scratch.
Scratch sniffed the meat cautiously, glancing uncertainly at Vaelin.
“See?” Chekril said. “He won’t take it from me. Here.” He tossed the morsel to Vaelin. “You try.”
Vaelin held the meat out to Scratch, who snapped it up and wolfed it down in an instant.
“Why’s he called a slave-hound, Master?” Vaelin asked.
“Volarians keep slaves, lots of them. When one of them runs they bring him back and cut the small fingers off his hands. If he runs again, they send the slave-hounds after him. They don’t bring him back, except in their bellies. It’s not an easy thing for a dog to kill a man. Men are stronger than you think, and more cunning than any fox. For a dog to kill a man it must be strong and swift but also cunning, and vicious, very vicious.”
Scratch lay down at Vaelin’s feet and rested his head on his boots, tail thumping slowly on the stone floor. “He seems friendly enough.”
“He is, to you. But never forget, he’s a killer. It’s what he’s bred for.”
Master Chekril went to the rear of the large, stone storeroom that served as his kennels and opened a pen. “I’ll put him in here,” he said over his shoulder. “You better lead him in, he won’t stay otherwise.”
Scratch obediently followed Vaelin to the pen and went inside, briefly circling a patch of straw before lying down.
“You’ll have to feed him too,” Chekril said. “Muck him out and so on. Twice a day.”
“Of course, Master.”
“He’ll need exercise, plenty of it. Can’t take him out with the other hounds, he’d kill them.”
“I’ll attend to it, Master.” He went into the pen and patted Scratch on the head, provoking a slobbering attack of licks that knocked him off his feet. Vaelin laughed and wiped the drool away. “I had wondered if you would be happy to see him, Master,” he told Chekril. “I thought you might want him killed.”
“Killed? Faith no! Would a blacksmith throw away a finely made sword? He’ll be the start of a new blood line, he’ll sire many puppies and hopefully they’ll be just as strong as him but easier to manage.”
He stayed in the kennels for another hour, feeding Scratch and making sure he was comfortable in his new surroundings. When it came time to leave, Scratch’s whines were heart-rending but Master Chekril told him he had to get the dog used to being left so he didn’t turn around after he closed the pen door. Scratch started howling when he went out of his sight.
The evening was subdued, an unspoken tension reigning in the room. He exchanged stories of hardship and hunger with the others. Caenis, like Vaelin, looking better fed than when he left, had taken shelter in the hollow trunk of an ancient oak only to find himself attacked by an angry eagle owl. Dentos, never fleshy at the best of times but now distinctly gaunt, had spent a miserable week fighting starvation with roots and the few birds and squirrels he managed to catch. Like the masters, neither seemed all that impressed with Vaelin’s story. It was as if hardship bred indifference.
“What’s a slave-hound?” Caenis asked dully.
“Volarian beast,” Dentos muttered. “Nasty buggers. Can’t use ’em for fighting, they turn on the handlers.” He turned to Vaelin, his gaze suddenly interested. “Did you bring any food back with you?”
They spent the night in a sort of exhausted trance, Caenis honing the edge on his hunting knife with a whetstone and Dentos nibbling at the dried venison Vaelin had hidden in his cloak, with the small bites they knew were best when you had an empty stomach; bolting would only make you sick.
“Never thought it was gonna end,” Dentos said eventually. “Really thought I’d die out there.”
“None of the brothers I went out with came back,” Vaelin commented. “Master Hutril said it was the storm.”
“Starting to see why there are so few brothers in the Order.”
The next day was probably the least punishing they had endured so far. Vaelin had expected a return to the harsh routine but instead Master Sollis filled the morning with a sign-language lesson, Vaelin found his meagre ability had improved after his brief exposure to Sella and Erlin’s fluid signs although not by much and he still lagged behind Caenis. The afternoon was taken up with sword practice, Master Sollis introducing a new exercise, throwing rotten fruit and vegetables at them with blinding speed as they tried to fend off the putrid projectiles with their wooden swords. It was smelly but strangely enjoyable, more like a game than most of their exercises, which normally left them sporting a few bruises or a bloody nose.
Afterwards they ate their evening meal in uncomfortable silence, the dining hall was much quieter than usual, the many empty places seemed to stall attempts at conversation. The older boys gave them a few looks of sympathy or grim amusement but no-one commented on the absences. It was like the aftermath of Mikehl’s death only on a grander scale. Some boys were already lost and wouldn’t be coming back, others were yet to return and the tension of worrying over their possible nonappearance was palpable. Vaelin and the others exchanged some grunted comments about stinking like compost from the afternoon practice but there was little real humour in it. They concealed a few apples and bread rolls in their cloaks and returned to the tower.
It grew dark and still no-one returned. Vaelin began to feel a sinking certainty that they were the only boys left in their group. No more Barkus to make them laugh, no Nortah to bore them with another of his father’s axioms. It was a truly chilling prospect.
They were climbing into bed when the sound of footsteps on the stone staircase outside caused them to freeze in wary anticipation.
“Two apples says it’s Barkus,” Dentos said.
“Taken,” Caenis accepted.
“Ho there!” Nortah greeted them brightly, coming in to dump his gear on his bed. He was thinner than Caenis and Vaelin but didn’t quite match Dentos’s haggard emaciation, and his eyes were red with exhaustion. Despite it all, he seemed cheerful, even triumphant.
“Barkus here yet?” he asked, stripping his clothes away.
“No,” Caenis said, smiling at Dentos, who curled a disgusted lip.
Vaelin noticed something new about Nortah as he pulled his shirt over his head, a necklace of what looked like elongated beads around his neck. �
�Did you find that?” he asked, gesturing at the necklace.
There was a flash of smug satisfaction on Nortah’s face, a mingled expression of victory and anticipation. “Bear claws,” he said. Vaelin admired his offhanded manner and imagined the hours of rehearsal it must have taken. He decided to keep quiet and force Nortah to tell the tale of his own volition, but Dentos spoiled it.
“You found a bear-claw necklace,” he said. “So what? Took it off some poor fool caught in the storm, eh?”
“No, I made it from the claws of a bear I killed.”
He continued to undress, affecting disinterest in their reaction, but Vaelin saw clearly how much he was enjoying the moment.
“Killed a bear my arse!” Dentos sneered.
Nortah shrugged. “Believe me or not, it’s of no matter.”
They lapsed into silence, Dentos and Caenis refusing to ask the inevitable question despite their obvious curiosity. The moment stretched and Vaelin decided he was too tired to let the tension endure.
“Please, brother,” he said. “Tell us how you killed a bear.”
“I put an arrow in its eye. It took a fancy to a deer I’d brought down. Couldn’t have that. Anyone who tells you bears sleep through the winter is a liar.”
“Master Hutril says they only wake up when they’re forced. You must have found a very unusual bear, brother.”
Nortah fixed him with an odd look, coldly superior, which was usual, but also knowing, which was not. “I must say I’m surprised to find you here, brother. I met a trapper in the wilds, a rough fellow to be sure, and a drunkard if I’m any judge. He had a lot of news to share about events in the wider world.”
Vaelin said nothing. He had decided not to tell the others about the King’s boon to his father but it seemed Nortah would leave him little choice.
“The Battle Lord left the King’s service,” Caenis said. “Yes, we heard.”