by Various
He pondered for a short while, finding no answers, before stoppering his flask and rising, still scanning the shadows… He froze.
The wolf sat on its haunches ten short yards away, bright green eyes regarding him with silent curiosity. Its pelt was grey and silver, and it was very large. Vaelin had never been this close to a wolf before, his only glimpses vague loping shadows seen through the mists of the morning, a rare sight so close to the city. He was struck by the size of the animal, the power evident in the muscle beneath its fur. The wolf tilted its head as Vaelin returned his gaze. He felt no fear, Master Hutril had told them that stories of wolves stealing babies and savaging shepherd boys were myths, “Wolf’ll leave you be if you leave him be,” he said. But still, the wolf was big, and its eyes…
The wolf sat, silent, still, a faint breeze ruffling the silver-grey mass of its fur, and Vaelin felt something new stir in his boy’s heart. “You’re beautiful,” he told the wolf in a whisper.
It was gone in an instant, turning and leaping into the foliage quicker than he could follow. It barely made a sound.
He felt a rare smile on his lips and stored the memory of the wolf firmly in his head, knowing he would never forget it.
• • •
The forest was called the Urlish, a twenty mile thick and seventy mile long band of trees stretching from the northern walls of Varinshold to the foothills of the Renfaelin border. Some said the King had a love for the forest, that it had captured his soul somehow. It was forbidden to take a tree from the Urlish without a King’s Command and only those families who had lived within its confines for three generations were allowed to remain. From his meagre knowledge of the Realm’s history Vaelin knew war had come here once, a great battle between the Renfaelins and Asraelins raging amongst the trees for a day and a night. The Asraelins won and the Lord of Renfael had to bow the knee to King Janus, which was why his heirs were now called Fief-Lords and had to give money and soldiers to the King whenever he wanted them. It was a story his mother told him when she had succumbed to his pestering for more information on his father’s exploits. It was here that he had won the King’s regard and been raised to Sword of the Realm. His mother was vague on the details, saying simply that his father was a great warrior and had been very brave.
He found himself sweeping his gaze across the forest floor as he ran, eyes searching for the glitter of metal, hoping to find some token from the battle, an arrowhead or perhaps a dagger or even a sword. He wondered if Sollis would let him keep any souvenirs and, thinking it unlikely, began to ponder the best hiding places on offer in the House…
Snap!
He ducked, rolled, came up on his feet, crouched behind the trunk of an oak, the whisper of the arrow’s flight hissing through the ferns. The sound of a bowstring was an unmistakable warning for a boy like him. He calmed his pounding heart with effort and strained to listen for further signals.
Was it a hunter? Perhaps he had been mistaken for a deer. He discounted the thought instantly. He was no deer and any hunter could tell the difference. Someone had tried to kill him. He realised he had unhitched his bow and notched an arrow, all done instinctively. He rested his back against the trunk and waited, listening to the forest, letting it tell him who was coming for him. Nature has a voice, Hutril’s words. Learn to hear it and you’ll never be lost and no man will ever take you unawares.
He opened his ears to the voice of the forest, the sigh of the wind, the rustle of the leaves and the creak of the branches. No bird song. It meant a predator was close. It could be one man, could be more. He waited for the tell tale crack of branch underfoot or the scrape of bootleather on soil but nothing came. If his enemy was on the move he knew how to mask the sound. But he had other senses and the forest could tell him many things. He closed his eyes and inhaled softly through his nose. Don’t suck the air in like a pig at a trough, Hutril had cautioned him once. Give your nose time to sort the scent. Be patient.
He let his nose do the work, tasting the mingled perfume of bluebells in bloom, rotting vegetation, animal droppings… and sweat. Man’s sweat. The wind was coming from his left, carrying the scent. It was impossible to tell whether the bowman was waiting or moving.
It was the faintest sound, little more than a rustle of cloth, but to Vaelin it was a shout. He darted from behind the oak in a crouch, drawing and loosing the shaft in a single motion, before scooting back into cover, rewarded with a short grunt of pained surprise.
He lingered for the briefest second. Stay or flee? The compulsion to run was strong, the dark embrace of the forest suddenly a welcome refuge. But he knew he couldn’t. The Order doesn’t run, Sollis had said.
He peered out from behind his oak, taking a second before he saw it, the gull-fletched shaft of his arrow sticking upright from the carpet of ferns about fifteen yards away. He notched another arrow and approached in a low crouch, eyes scanning constantly for other enemies, ears alive with the voice of the forest, nose twitching.
The man was dressed in dirty green trews and tunic, he had an ash bow clutched in his hand with a crow feathered shaft notched in the string, a sword strapped across his back, a knife in his boot and Vaelin’s arrow in his throat. He was quite dead. Stepping closer Vaelin saw the growing patch of blood spreading out from the neck wound, a lot of blood. Caught the big vein, Vaelin realised. And I thought I was a poor archer.
He laughed, high and shrill, then convulsed and vomited, collapsing to all fours and retching uncontrollably.
It was a few moments before the shock and nausea receded enough for him to think clearly. This man, this dead man, had tried to kill him. Why? He had never seen him before. Was he an outlaw? Some homeless footpad thinking he had found an easy victim in a lone boy.
He forced himself to look at the dead man again, noting the quality of his boots and the stitching on his clothes. He hesitated then lifted the dead man’s right hand, lying slack on the bowstring. It was a bowman’s hand; rough palms with calluses on the tips of the first two fingers. This man had made his living with the bow. Vaelin doubted any outlaw would be so practised, or so well dressed.
A sudden, sickening thought popped into his head: Is it part of the test?
For a moment he was almost convinced. What better way to weed out the chaff? Seed the forest with assassins and see who survived. Think of all the gold coins they’d save. But somehow he couldn’t bring himself to believe it. The Order was brutal but not murderous.
Then why?
He shook his head. It was a mystery he wouldn’t solve by staying here. Where there was one there could be more. He would get back to the Order House and ask Master Sollis for guidance… If he lived that long. He got shakily to his feet, spitting the last dregs of gorge from his mouth, taking a final look at the dead man and debating whether to take his sword or his knife but deciding it would be a mistake. For some reason he suspected it may be necessary to deny knowledge of the killing which led him to briefly consider retrieving the arrow from the man’s neck but he couldn’t face the prospect of drawing the shaft from the flesh. Instead he contented himself with snipping off the fletching with his hunting knife, the gull feathers were a clear signal that the man had been killed by a member of the Order. He fought a fresh bout of nausea at the grinding sensation of the arrow as he grasped it and the wet, sucking sound it made as he sawed at the shaft. It was done quickly but seemed to take an age.
He pocketed the fletching and backed away from the corpse, scraping his boots on the soil to erase any tracks, before turning and resuming his run. His legs felt leaden and he stumbled several times before his body remembered the smooth, loping stride learned through months of training on the practice ground. The slack, lifeless features of the dead man flashed through his mind continually but he shook the image away, suppressing it ruthlessly. He tried to kill me. I won’t grieve for a man who would seek to murder a boy. But he found he couldn’t deafen himself to the words his mother had once shouted at his father: Your stench of blood
sickens me.
• • •
Night seemed to fall in an instant, probably because he dreaded it. He found himself seeing bowmen lurking in every shadow, more than once he leapt for shelter from assassins which turned out to be a bushes or tree stumps when he looked closer. He had rested only once since killing the assassin, a brief, feverish sip of water behind the broad trunk of a beech, his eyes darting about constantly for enemies. It felt safer to run, a moving target was harder to hit. But this vague sense of security evaporated when the darkness came, it was like running in a void where every step brought the threat of a painful fall. He had tripped twice, sprawling in a tangle of weapons and fear, before accepting that he would have to walk from now on.
The bearings he took from the north star by finding the odd clearing or hauling himself up a tree trunk told him he was holding a steady course southward but how far he had come or the distance he still had to cover he couldn’t tell. He peered ahead with increasing desperation, all the time hoping to glimpse the silver sheen of the river through the trees. It was when he had stopped to get another bearing that he saw the fire. A single flickering blob of orange in the black-blue mass of the forest.
Keep running. He almost followed the instinctive command, turning away and taking another stride toward the south, but stopped. None of the boys from the Order would light a fire during the test, they just didn’t have time. It could be a coincidence, just some of the King’s Foresters camped out for the night. But something made him doubt it, a murmur of wrongness in the back of his mind. It was a strange sensation, almost musical.
He turned around, unslinging his bow and notching an arrow, before beginning a cautious advance. He knew he was taking a risk, both in investigating the fire and indulging in a delay when his deadline for getting back to the House could not be far away. But he had to know.
The blob grew into a fire slowly, flickering red and gold in the infinite blackness. He stopped, opening himself to the song of the forest again, hunting through the nocturnal resonance until he caught them: voices. Male. Adult. Two men. Quarrelling.
He crept closer, using the hunter’s walk taught by Master Hutril, lifting his foot a hair’s breadth from the ground and sliding it forward and to the side before laying it down softly after tentatively checking the soil for any branches or twigs that could give him away in an instant. The voices became clearer as he closed on the camp, confirming his suspicions. Two men, engaged in bitter argument.
“….’asn’t stopped bleedin’!” a self-pitying whine, its owner as yet invisible. “Look, it’s gushing like a slit hog…”
“Stop fiddling with it then, shit brain!” an exasperated hiss. Vaelin could see this one, a stocky man seated to the right of the fire, the sight of the sword on his back and the bow propped close to his hand provoking an icy shiver. No coincidence. He had a sack open on the floor between his booted feet, studying its contents intently in between casting tired insults at his companion.
“Little bastard!” the unseen whiner continued, deaf to the admonishments of his stocky companion. “Playing dead, vicious, sneaky little bastard.”
“You were warned they were tough,” the stocky man said. “Should’ve put another iron-head in him to make sure before you got so close.”
“Got him in square in the neck, didn’t I? Should’ve been enough. I’ve seen grown men go down like a sack of spuds from a wound like that. Not that little shit though. Wish we’d kept him breathing a little longer…”
“You disgusting animal.” There was little venom in the stocky man’s words. He was increasingly preoccupied with the contents of the sack, a frown creasing his broad forehead. “Y’know, I’m still not sure it’s him.”
Vaelin, fighting to keep his heart steady, shifted his gaze to the sack, noting the roundness of its contents and the dark wet stain on the lower half. A sudden, overpowering chill of realisation gripped him, fearing he would faint as the forest swayed around him and he fought down a gasp of horror, the sound undoubtedly an invite for a quick death.
“Lemme see,” the whiner said, moving into view for the first time. He was short, wiry with pointed features and a wispy beard on his bony chin. His left arm was cradled in his right, a bloodied bandage leaking continually through his spidery fingers. “Gotta be him. Has to be.” He sounded desperate. “You ’eard what the other one said.”
Other one? Vaelin strained to hear more, still sickened but his heart steadied by a growing anger.
“He gave me the shivers, he did,” the stocky man responded with a shudder. “Wouldn’t’ve trusted him if he’d told me the sky was blue.” He squinted at the sack again then reached inside, extracting the contents, holding it up by the hair, dripping, turning it to examine the slack, distorted features. Vaelin would have vomited again if there was anything left in his stomach. Mikehl! They killed Mikehl.
“Could be him,” the stocky man mused. “Death’ll change a face for sure. Just don’t see much’ve a family resemblance.”
“Brak would know. Said he’d seen the boy before.” The whiner moved out of the firelight again. “Where is he anyway? Should’ve been here by now.”
“Yeh,” the stocky man agreed returning his trophy to the sack. “Don’t think he’s gonna.”
Whiner was silent for a moment before muttering, “Little Order shits.”
Brak… So he had a name. He wondered briefly if anyone would wear a mourning locket for Brak, if his widow or mother or brother would offer thanks for his life and the goodness and wisdom he had left behind. But as Brak was an assassin, a killer waiting in the woods to murder children, he doubted it. No one would weep for Brak… as no one would weep for these two. His fist tightened on the bow, bringing it up to draw a bead on the stocky man’s throat. He would kill this one and wound the other, an arrow in the leg or the stomach would do it, then he would make him talk, then he would kill him too. For Mikehl.
Something growled in the forest, something hidden, something deadly.
Vaelin whirled, drawing the bow—too late, knocked flat by a hard mass of muscle, his bow gone from his hand. He scrabbled for his knife, instinctively kicking out as he did so, hitting nothing. There were screams as he surged to his feet, screams of pain and terror, something wet lashed across his face, stinging his eyes. He staggered, tasting the iron sting of blood, wiping frantically at his eyes, blearily focusing on the now silent camp, seeing two yellow eyes gleaming in the firelight above a red stained muzzle. The eyes met his, blinked once and the wolf was gone.
Random thoughts tumbled through his mind. It tracked me… You’re beautiful… Followed me here to kill these men… Beautiful wolf… They killed Mikehl… No family resemblance…
STOP THAT!
He forced discipline on the torrent of thought, dragging air into his lungs, calming down enough to move closer to the camp. The stocky man lay on his back, hands reaching towards a throat that was no longer there, his face frozen in fear. The whiner had managed to run a few strides before being cut down. His head was twisted at a sharp angle to his shoulders. From the stench staining the air around him it was clear his fear had mastered him at the end. There was no sign of the wolf, just the whisper of undergrowth moving in the wind.
Reluctantly he turned to the sack still lying at the stocky man’s feet. What do I do for Mikehl?
• • •
“Mikehl’s dead,” Vaelin told Master Sollis, water dripping from his face. It had started to rain a few miles back and he was drenched as he laboured up the hill towards the gate, exhaustion and the shock of the events in the forest combining to leave him numb and incapable of more than the most basic words. “Assassins in the forest.”
Sollis reached out to steady him as he swayed, his legs suddenly feeling too weak to keep him upright. “How many?”
“Three. That I saw. Dead too.” He handed Sollis the fletching he had cut from his arrow.
Sollis asked Master Hutril to watch the gate and led Vaelin inside. Instead of taking
him to the boys’ room in the north tower he led him to his own quarters, a small room in the south wall bastion. He built up the fire and told Vaelin to strip off his wet clothes, giving him a blanket to warm himself while fire began to lick at the logs in the hearth.
“Now,” he said, handing Vaelin a mug of warmed milk. “Tell me what happened. Everything you can remember. Leave nothing out.”
So he told him of the wolf and the man he had killed and the whiner and the stocky man… and Mikehl.
“Where is it?”
“Master?”
“Mikehl’s… remains.”
“I buried it.” Vaelin suppressed a violent shudder and drank more milk, the warmth burning his insides. “Scraped the soil up with my knife. Couldn’t think of anything else to do with it.”
Master Sollis nodded and stared at the fletching in his hand, his pale eyes unreadable. Vaelin glanced around the room, finding it less bare than he expected. Several weapons were set on the wall: a pole axe, a long iron bladed spear, some kind of stone headed club plus several daggers and knives of different patterns. Several books stood on the shelves, the lack of dust indicating Master Sollis hadn’t placed them there for decoration. On the far wall there was some kind of tapestry fashioned from a goat skin stretched on a wooden frame, the hide adorned with a bizarre mix of stick figures and unfamiliar symbols.
“Lonak war banner,” Sollis said. Vaelin looked away, feeling like a spy. To his surprise Sollis went on. “Lonak boy children become part of a war band from an early age. Each band has its own banner and every member swears a blood oath to die defending it.”
Vaelin rubbed a bead of water from his nose. “What do the symbols mean, master?”
“They list the band’s battles, the heads they have taken, the honours granted them by their High Priestess. The Lonak have a passion for history. Children are punished if they cannot recite the saga of their clan. It’s said they have one of the largest libraries in the world, although no outsider has ever seen it. They love their stories and will sit for hours around the camp fire listening to the shamans. They especially like the heroic tales, stories of outnumbered war bands winning victory against the odds, brave lone warriors questing for lost talismans in the bowels of the earth… boys killing assassins in the forest with the aid of a wolf.”