Blood Song

by Anthony Ryan

  “She has nothing to fear from me or any of my men,” Vaelin told him. “They have orders to avoid bloodshed wherever possible. They will be quartered within strictly ordered limits and will not patrol the streets. We will pay for any food or goods we require. If any of my men abuses one of your citizens, you will report it to me and I will see him executed. You will continue to administer the city and see to the needs of the population. Existing taxes will continue to be collected. One of my officers, Brother Caenis, will meet with you tomorrow to discuss the details. Do I have your agreement, my lord?”

  The governor stroked his daughter’s hair and gave a curt nod, shame bringing tears to his eyes. Vaelin gave a formal bow of respect. “Please forgive the intrusion. We will speak again soon.”

  They were moving to the door when it hit him, the blood-song, a hammerblow in his mind, louder and clearer than he had ever heard it. Vaelin tasted iron in his mouth and licked his upper lip, finding blood gushing from his nose in a thick stream. He felt himself growing colder and stumbled to his knees, Dentos reaching out to steady him as blood spattered onto the mosaic. A fresh wetness on his cheeks told him his ears were also bleeding.

  “Brother?” Dentos’s voice was pitched high in alarm. Frentis was on the verge of panic, sword drawn and glaring warningly at the governor, who looked down at Vaelin with a mixture of terror and bafflement.

  His vision swam and the mansion faded, mist and shadow closing around him. There was a sound in the gloom, a rhythmic clunk of metal on stone and a vague image of a chisel chipping at a block of marble. The chisel moved unceasingly, faster and faster, faster than any human hand could wield it, and a face began to emerge from the stone…

  ENOUGH!

  The voice was a blood-song. He knew it instinctively. Another blood-song. The tone was different from his own, stronger and more controlled. Another voice speaking in his mind. The marble face dissolved and drifted away like sand on the wind, the sound of the chisel stopped and did not resume.

  Your song is unschooled, the voice said. It makes you vulnerable. You should be wary. Not every Singer is a friend.

  He tried to answer but the words choked him. The song, he realised. He can only hear the song. He struggled to summon the music, to sing his reply, but all he could produce was a thin trill of alarm.

  Don’t fear me, the voice said. Find me when you recover from this. I have something for you.

  He summoned all his remaining strength, forcing the song into a single word. Where?

  The image of the chisel and the stone returned, but this time the marble block was whole, the face it contained still hidden, the chisel lay atop it, waiting. You know where.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He awoke to a smell more foul than even the sewers of Linesh. Something wet and rough scraped over his face and he became aware of a crushing weight on his chest.

  “Get off him, you filthy brute!” Sister Gilma’s stern command made his eyes flutter open, finding himself face-to-face with Scratch, the slave-hound giving a happy rasp of greeting.

  “Hello, you daft dog,” Vaelin groaned in response.

  “OFF!” Sister Gilma’s shout sent Scratch skulking from the bed, slinking into a corner with a petulant whine. He had always treated the sister with a wary respect, perhaps because she had never shown the slightest fear of him.

  Vaelin scanned the room, finding it mostly bare of furniture save for the bed and a table, where Sister Gilma had arranged the variety of vials and boxes that held her curatives. From the open window came the keening of gulls and a breeze tinged with the combined odours of salt and fish.

  “Brother Caenis commandeered the old offices of the Linesh Merchants Guild,” Sister Gilma explained, pressing a hand to his forehead and feeling for the pulse in his wrist. “All roads in the city led to the docks and the building was standing empty so it seemed a good choice for a headquarters. Your dog was frantic until we let it in the room. He’s been here the whole time.”

  Vaelin grunted and licked at his dry lips. “How long?”

  Her bright blue eyes regarded him with a moment’s wariness before she went to the table, pouring a greenish liquid into a cup and mixing in a pale white powder. “Five days,” she said without turning. “You lost a lot of blood. More than I thought a man could lose and still live, in fact.” She gave a wry chuckle, the inevitable bright smile on her lips when she turned back, holding the cup to his lips. “Drink this.”

  The mixture had a bitter but not unpleasant taste and he felt his weariness receding almost immediately. Five days. He had no sense of it, no lingering memory of dreams or delusions. Five days lost. To what? The voice, the other blood-song, he could still hear it, a faint but persistent call. His own song answering, the vision of the marble block and chisel vivid in his mind. Sella’s words in the fallen city becoming clearer. There are others, older and wiser with the same gift. They can guide you.

  “I have to…” He raised himself up, trying to draw back the covers.

  “No!” Gilma’s tone brooked no argument, her plump hand pushing him back into the softness of the bed. He found he didn’t have the strength to resist. “Absolutely not. You will lie there and rest, brother.” She pulled the covers up and secured them firmly under his chin. “The city is quiet. Brother Caenis has things well in hand. There is nothing requiring your attention.”

  She drew back, for once her face was entirely serious. “Brother, do you have any idea what happened to you?”

  “Never seen the like, eh?”

  She shook her head. “No, I never have. When someone bleeds there has to be an injury, a cut, a lesion, something. You show no sign of any injury. A swelling in your brain that could cause you to bleed like that would have killed you, yet here you are. There was some wild talk amongst the men about Governor Aruan trying to kill you with a Dark curse or some such. Caenis had to put a guard on his mansion and hand out a few floggings before they calmed down.”

  Floggings? he thought. I never have to flog them. “I don’t know, sister,” he told her honestly. “I don’t know why it happened.” I just know what caused it.

  It was another two days before Sister Gilma released him, albeit with stern warnings about overexerting himself and making sure he drank at least two pints of water a day. He convened a council of captains atop the gatehouse, from where they could observe the progress of the defences. A thick pall of dust was rising from the workings as men toiled to deepen the ditch surrounding the city and make good the decades-long neglect of the walls.

  “It’ll be fifteen feet deep when completed,” Caenis said of the ditch. “We’re down to nine feet so far. Work on the walls is slower, not too many skilled masons in this little army.”

  Vaelin spat dust from his parched throat and took a gulp of water from his canteen. “How long?” he asked, hating the croak in his voice. He knew his appearance was not one to inspire great confidence, his eyes deeply shadowed with fatigue and his pallor pale and clammy. He could see the concern in the eyes of his brothers and the uncertainty of Count Marven and the other captains. They wonder if I’m fit to command, he decided. Perhaps with good reason.

  “At least two more weeks,” Caenis replied. “It would go quicker if we could conscript labour from the town.”

  “No.” Vaelin’s tone was emphatic. “We have to win the confidence of these people if we are to rule this place. Pushing a shovel into their hands and forcing them to backbreaking toil will hardly do that.”

  “My men came here to fight, my lord,” Count Marven said, his tone light but Vaelin could see the calculation in his gaze. “Digging is hardly a soldier’s work.”

  “I’d say it’s most certainly a soldier’s work, my lord,” Vaelin replied. “As for fighting, they’ll get plenty of that before long. Tell any grumblers they have my leave to depart, it’s only sixty miles of desert to Untesh. Perhaps they’ll find a ship home from there.”

  A wave of weariness swept through him and he rested against a battlement
to disguise the unsteadiness of his legs. He was finding the burden of command, with all the petty concerns of both allies and subordinates, increasingly irksome. His irritation was made more acute by the insistence of the blood-song calling him to the voice and the marble block he knew lay somewhere in the city.

  “Are you unwell, my lord?” Count Marven asked pointedly.

  Vaelin resisted the urge to punch the Nilsaelin squarely in the face and turned to Bren Antesh, the stocky archer who commanded the Cumbraelin bowmen. He was the most taciturn of the captains, barely speaking in meetings and the first to leave when Vaelin called a halt. His expression was perpetually guarded and it was plain he neither wanted nor needed their approval or acceptance, although any resentment he may have felt over serving under a man the Cumbraelins still referred to as the Darkblade was kept well hidden. “And your men, Captain?” he asked him. “Any complaints about the workload?”

  Antesh’s expression remained unchanged as he replied with what Vaelin suspected was a quote from the Ten Books, “Honest labour brings us closer to the love of the World Father.”

  Vaelin grunted and turned to Frentis. “Anything from the patrols?”

  Frentis shook his head. “Nothing, brother. All approaches remain clear. No scouts or spies in the hills.”

  “Perhaps they’re making for Marbellis after all,” offered Lord Al Cordlin, commander of the Thirteenth Regiment of Foot, known as the Blue Jays for the azure feathers painted on their breastplates. He was a sturdily built but somewhat nervous man, his arm still rested in a sling after being broken at the Bloody Hill, where he had lost a third of his men in the fierce fighting on the right flank. Vaelin suspected he had little appetite for the coming battle and was unable to blame him.

  He turned to Caenis. “How goes it with the governor?”

  “He’s cooperative but hardly pleased about it. He’s kept the people quiet so far, made speeches to the merchants guild and the civic council, pleading with them to stay calm. He tells me the courts and the tax collectors are operating as well as can be expected in the circumstances. Trade is down, of course. Most of the Alpiran ships put to sea when news spread we had taken the city, the remainder refuse to sail and threaten to fire their ships if we try to seize them. The Volarians and Meldeneans seem keen to take advantage of the opportunity though. Prices for spice and silk have risen considerably, which means they’ve probably doubled back in the Realm.”

  Lord Al Trendil, commander of the Sixteenth Regiment, gave a suppressed huff of annoyance. Vaelin had forbidden the army to have any part in the local trade for fear of accusations of corruption, severely disappointing the few nobles in his command with money to spend and an eye for profit.

  “What about the food stores?” Vaelin asked, choosing to ignore Al Trendil.

  “Full to the brim,” Caenis assured him. “Enough for two months of siege at least, more if it’s carefully rationed. The city’s water supply comes primarily from wells and springs within the walls so we’re unlikely to run short.”

  “Provided the city folk don’t poison them,” Bren Antesh said.

  “A good point, Captain.” Vaelin nodded at Caenis. “Put a guard on the main wells.” He straightened, finding his dizziness had subsided. “We’ll meet again in three days. Thank you for your attention.”

  The captains departed leaving Caenis and Vaelin alone on the battlements. “Are you all right, brother?” Caenis asked.

  “A little tired is all.” He gazed out at the trackless desert, the horizon wavering in the midday haze. He knew he would one day look out at this scene and behold the spectacle of an Alpiran host. The only question was how long it would take them to arrive. Would they leave him enough time to accomplish his task?

  “Do you think Al Cordlin could be right?” Caenis ventured. “The Battle Lord will have Marbellis under siege by now, it is the largest city on the northern coast.”

  “The Hope Killer isn’t in Marbellis,” Vaelin said. “The Battle Lord drew his plans well, he’ll have a free hand at Marbellis whilst the Emperor’s army deals with us. We should have no illusions.”

  “We’ll hold them,” Caenis said with flat certainty.

  “Your optimism does you credit, brother.”

  “The King requires this city to fulfil his plans. We are taking but the first step on a glorious journey towards a Greater Unified Realm. In time the lands we have secured will become the fifth Fief of the Realm, united under the protection and guidance of King Janus and his descendants, free from the ignorance of their superstitions and the oppression of lives lived at the whim of an Emperor. We have to hold.”

  Vaelin tried to discern some irony in Caenis’s words but could detect only the familiar blind loyalty to the King. Not for the first time he was tempted to give his brother a full account of his meetings with Janus, wondering whether Caenis’s devotion to the old man would survive knowledge of his true nature, but he held back as always. Caenis was defined by his loyalty, he cloaked himself in it as protection against the many uncertainties and lies that abounded in their service to the Faith. Quite why Caenis was so devoted Vaelin had never been able to divine but he was loath to rob him of his cloak, delusion though it might be.

  “Of course we’ll hold,” he assured Caenis with a grim smile, thinking, Whether it makes a thimble-worth of difference to anything is another matter.

  He moved to the stairway at the rear of the battlement. “I think I’ll take a tour of the town, barely seen it yet.”

  “I’ll fetch some guards, you shouldn’t walk the streets alone.”

  Vaelin shook his head. “Worry not, brother. Not so weakened that I can’t defend myself.”

  Caenis was still unsure but gave a reluctant nod. “As you wish. Oh,” he said as Vaelin began to descend the stairs. “The governor requested we send a healer to his house. Apparently his daughter’s taken ill and the local physicians lack the skills to help her. I sent Sister Gilma this morning. Perhaps she can foster some goodwill.”

  “Well if anyone can, it’s her. Assure the governor of my best wishes for his daughter will you?”

  “Of course, brother.”

  The woman who answered the door to the stonemason’s shop regarded him with naked hostility, her smooth brow set in a frown and her dark eyes narrowed as she listened to his greeting. She seemed a year or so shy of thirty, with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail and a dust-stained leather apron covering her slender form. From behind her came the rhythmic thud of metal on stone.

  “Good day, madam,” he said. “Please forgive the intrusion.”

  She folded her arms and gave a curt reply in Alpiran. From her tone he assumed she wasn’t welcoming him inside with an offer of iced tea.

  “I…was told to come here,” he went on, her stern gaze giving no insight as to her understanding, her mouth fixed in a hard line, offering nothing.

  Vaelin glanced around at the mostly empty street, wondering if he could have misread the vision somehow. But the blood-song had been so implacable, its tone so certain, compelling his course through the streets, only subsiding when he happened upon this door beneath the sign of a chisel and hammer. He resisted an impulse to push his way inside and forced a smile. “I have business to discuss.”

  Her frown deepened and she spoke in heavily accented but unmistakable words, “No business here for Northmen.”

  Vaelin felt a faint murmur from the blood-song and the hammering from the interior of the shop fell silent. A male voice called out in Alpiran and the woman gave a grimace of annoyance before glaring at Vaelin and stepping aside. “Sacred things here,” she said as he entered. “Gods curse you if you steal.”

  The interior of the shop was cavernous, the ceiling high and the marble-tile floor covering thirty paces square. Sunlight streamed through opened skylights, illuminating a space filled with statuary. Their size varied, some a foot or two in height, others life-sized, one was at least ten feet tall of an impossibly well-muscled man wrestling a lion. Vaelin was
struck by the vitality of the form, the precision with which it had been carved, seemingly freezing the giant and the lion at the moment of greatest violence. There was another smaller statue nearby, a life-sized woman of arresting beauty, her arms outstretched in supplication and her fine features frozen in an expression of depthless sorrow.

  “Herlia, goddess of justice, weeping as she passes her first judgement.” On hearing the voice, the blood-song rose in pitch, not in warning but in welcome. The man stood with his hands on his hips, a chisel and hammer hanging from the pockets of his apron. He was short but well built, his bare arms knotted with muscle. His face was angular, with high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and the parts of his skin not covered in dust had a faint, golden sheen.

  “You are not Alpiran,” Vaelin said.

  “Neither are you,” the man replied with a laugh. “Yet here we both are.” He turned to the woman and said something in Alpiran. She gave Vaelin a parting glare and disappeared into the rear of the shop.

  Vaelin nodded at the statue. “Why is she so sad?”

  “She fell in love with a mortal man, but his passion for her drove him to commit a terrible crime and so she judged him, consigning him to the depths of the earth, chained to a rock, where his flesh is eternally eaten by vermin.”

  “It must have been quite a crime.”

  “Indeed, he stole a magic sword and with it slew a god, thinking him a rival for her affections. In fact he was her brother, Ixtus, god of dreams. Now, whenever we suffer nightmares it is the shade of the fallen god taking his revenge on mortal kind.”

  “A god is a lie. But it’s a good story.” He held out his hand. “Vaelin Al Sorna…”

  “Brother of the Sixth Order, Sword of the Unified Realm and now commander of the foreign army occupying our city. An interesting fellow indeed, but we Singers usually are. The song leads us down so many paths.” The man shook his hand. “Ahm Lin, humble stonemason, at your service.”