Blood Song (53 page)

“He is a demanding charge then?”

“Hardly. My duties consist mainly of keeping him supplied with wine and refusing to procure him a whore. If he’s not asking for either he rarely says anything.” The Captain gestured at the tent pitched nearby. “His Highness said to bid you enter as soon as you arrive.”

He found the prince hunched over a table, his gaze fixed on the map spread out before him. Seated in the corner of the tent Alucius Al Hestian looked up from the scroll on which he had been writing.

“Brother,” the prince greeted him warmly, coming forward to take his hand. “Your men made good time. I didn’t expect you for another hour or two.”

“The regiment marches well, Highness.”

“I’m very glad to hear it. They’ll have many more miles to cover before we’re done.” He moved back to the table, glancing at Alucius. “Some wine for Brother Vaelin, Alucius.”

“Thank you, Highness, but I would prefer water.”

“As you wish.”

The young poet poured a goblet of water from a flask and handed it to Vaelin, his expression was guarded but still eager for acknowledgement. “I am glad to see you again, my lord.”

“And I you, sir.” His tone was neutral but, from the way Alucius drew back, he knew his face must have betrayed his thoughts.

“Check on the horses will you, Alucius?” the prince asked. “Ranger gets feisty when he’s not groomed properly.”

“I will, Highness.” Alucius bowed and departed, casting another guarded look in Vaelin’s direction before the tent flap closed behind him.

“He begged me,” Prince Malcius said. “Said he would follow us even if I commanded him not to. I made him my squire, what else could I do?”

“Squire, Highness?”

“A Renfaelin custom. Younger nobles are apprenticed to seasoned knights to learn their trade.” He paused, noting Vaelin’s expression. “I see you share my sister’s disapproval.”

“His brother didn’t want this for him. It was his dying wish.”

“Then I am sorry. But a man must make his own path in life.”

“A man yes. But he is still a boy. All he knows of war comes from a book.”

“I had barely fourteen years when I accompanied our fleet to the Meldenean Islands. I thought of war as a grand escapade. I soon learned I was wrong. And so will Alucius. It is the lessons we learn that change us from boys to men.”

“Has he been trained at least?”

“His father attempted to have him tutored in the sword, but apparently he made a poor student. I’ve asked Captain Smolen to give him some instruction.”

“Captain Smolen appears a fine officer, Highness, but I would consider it a favour if I could be permitted to train the boy.”

Prince Malcius considered a moment. “So, friendship with one brother extends to the other?”

“More like obligation.”

“Obligation. I know a little about that. Very well, train the boy if you wish. Though where you’ll find the time I can’t imagine. Look here.” He turned back to the map. “Our mission is like to prove arduous.”

The map was a detailed depiction of the border between Cumbrael and Asrael, from the southern coast to the mountains forming the northern boundary with Nilsael. “We are currently encamped here.” The prince pointed to the crossing at the western branch of the Brinewash. “Whilst Battle Lord Al Hestian leads the Realm Guard along the Western Road to the ford north of the Martishe. From there he will make for the Cumbraelin capital, no doubt spreading fire and terror in his wake. Most likely he will reach the capital in twenty days, perhaps twenty-five if the Cumbraelins muster sufficient force to meet him in the field. Have no doubt, when he gets to the city it will burn, and many innocent souls will burn with it.” Prince Malcius met Vaelin’s eyes, his gaze unblinking and intent. “Would the Orders of our Faith rejoice or weep at such an outcome, brother? So many Deniers given to the fire to trouble us no more.”

“The truly Faithful could never rejoice at the spilling of innocent blood, Highness. Denier or not.”

“Then you would agree that we should seize any chance we have to halt such slaughter before it begins?”

“Of course.”

“Good!” The Prince’s fist thumped the table and he moved to the tent flap. “Fief Lord Mustor! Your attention please.”

It took the Fief Lord of Cumbrael several moments to answer the summons, his unshaven visage even more drawn and wasted than Vaelin remembered. The man was clearly still drunk and Vaelin was surprised at the steadiness of his voice.

“Brother Vaelin. I understand congratulations are in order.”

“Congratulations, my lord?”

“You are made a Sword of the Realm are you not? It seems your elevation coincides with my own.” His laugh was loaded with irony.

“I was acquainting brother Vaelin with our design, Lord Mustor,” Prince Malcius informed him. “He agrees with the intent of our mission.”

“I’m so glad. Really would rather not inherit a fief composed mostly of ash and corpses.”

“Quite,” the prince muttered, moving back to the map. “Fief Lord Mustor has been gracious enough to provide us with what he believes to be sound intelligence regarding the dispositions of his usurping brother. Although the Battle Lord will no doubt expect to find him at the Cumbraelin capital, Lord Mustor is certain we will in fact find him here.” His finger tapped at a point to the north, a narrow pass in the Greypeaks, the mountain range forming the natural border between Cumbreal and Asrael.

Vaelin peered closely at the map. “There’s nothing there, Highness.”

Fief Lord Mustor snorted a short laugh. “Won’t find it on any map, brother. My father and all his father’s fathers made sure of that. It’s called the High Keep, with good reason I assure you. The most impregnable fortification in the fief, if not the Realm. Granite walls a hundred feet high and commanding views over all approaches. It’s never been taken. My poor deluded little brother will be there, no doubt surrounded by a few hundred loyal fanatics. Probably spending their time quoting the Ten Books at the top of their lungs and whipping each other for impious thoughts.” He paused to look hopefully around the tent. “Do you perchance have anything to drink, Prince Malcius? I find myself quite parched.”

Vaelin saw the prince bite back an irritated retort as he pointed at the wine bottle on a small table. “Ah, most kind.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Vaelin said. “But if this keep is impregnable, how are we to gain access to the usurper?”

“By means of my family’s most cherished secret, brother.” Fief Lord Mustor smacked his lips as he tasted a generous sip of wine. “Ah, a fine red from the Werlishe Valley. My compliments on your cellar, Highness.” He took another, more generous sip.

“Secret, my lord?” Vaelin prompted.

The Fief Lord’s brows knitted in momentary puzzlement. “Oh, the keep. Yes, the family secret, only entrusted to the first born son. The keep’s only weakness. Many years ago when the keep was the main seat of our house, one of my forebears became somewhat fearful of his own subjects and convinced himself the House Guards were in league with plotters to bring about his downfall. In need of an escape route in a time of crisis he had a tunnel hewn through the mountain and, having had all the miners who did the hewing quietly poisoned, entrusted the secret of its location to his first born son. Ironically, it appears his constant fear of plotters was merely a symptom of the black pox, which can effect a man’s mind as much as his member, and from which he expired a few months later.” He drained his wine glass. “This really is a rather excellent vintage.”

“So you see,” Prince Malcius said. “The Fief Lord will lead us to the tunnel, your men will storm the keep and the usurper will be taken into custody to face the King’s justice.”

“Hardly likely, Highness,” Lord Mustor said, reaching for the bottle again. “I’m sure my brother will make every effort to martyr himself in service to the World Father. Still, I daresay Brother Vaelin and his band of cut-throats are more than up to the task.”

“I am puzzled, Lord Mustor,” Vaelin said. “Your brother has murdered your father in order to claim the fief as his own, yet he secludes himself in a remote castle whilst the Realm Guard marches on his capital.”

“My brother Hentes is a fanatic,” Lord Mustor replied with a shrug. “When it became clear my father was going to bend the knee to King Janus he called him to a secret meeting and stuck his sword in his heart as a service to the World Father. No doubt the more vehement priests and followers would have approved but Cumbrael is not a land that could tolerate a Fief Lord who ascends by the murder of his own father. Whatever the thoughts of the commoners, the vassals who followed my father would not follow Hentes. They’ll fight your army, they have little choice after all, but only in defence of the fief. My brother will be at the Keep, he can go nowhere else.”

“And once the usurper is… dislodged?” Vaelin asked Prince Malcius.

“The reason for this war will have disappeared. But it all depends on time.” He turned his attention back to the map, his finger tracing the route from the Brinewash bridge to the pass where the High Keep waited. “Best guess, the pass is two hundred miles distant. If we are to accomplish our goal we must get there in sufficient time to allow word to be taken to the Battle Lord.” He reached for a sealed parchment on the table. “The King has already set down a command for the Realm Guard to return to Asrael in the event we are successful.”

Vaelin quickly calculated the distance between the pass and the Cumbraelin capital.
Nearly a hundred miles, two days ride for a fast horse. Nortah could do it, maybe Dentos too.
Getting to the keep in time, that’s the hard part. The regiment will have to cover at least twenty miles a day.

“Can it be done, brother?” the Prince asked.

Vaelin’s gaze turned to the Cumbraelin villages laid out on the map in precise, neat lines. He wondered how many people in those hamlets along the Western Road had any notion of the storm that would soon descend. When this war was done perhaps another map would have to be drawn.
In Cumbrael you will see many things.
Many terrible things.
“It will be done, Highness,” he said with flat certainty.
I’ll whip them all the way there if I have to.

And so they marched, four hours at a stretch, twelve hours a day. They marched. On through the grass lands north of the Brinewash, into the hills and valleys beyond and the foothills that signalled entry into border country. Men who fell out on the march were kicked to their feet and hounded into movement, those who collapsed given half a day on the wagon then put back on the road. Vaelin had decreed the only men left behind would be ready to join the Departed and counted on their fear of him to keep them moving. So far it had worked. They were sullen, weighed down by weapons and provisions, their mood soured by his order cancelling the rum ration until further notice, but they were still afraid, and they still marched.

Every night Vaelin would seek out Alucius Al Hestian for two hours of training. The boy was initially delighted by the attention. “You honour me, my lord,” he said gravely, standing with his longsword held out in front of him as if he were holding a mop. Vaelin slashed it from his grip with a flick of his wrist.

“Don’t be honoured, be attentive. Pick that up.”

An hour later it had become obvious that as a swordsman Alucius made a fine poet. “Get up,” Vaelin told him, having sent him sprawling with a flat bladed blow to the legs. He had repeated the same move four times and the boy had failed to notice the pattern.

“I, um, need some more practice…” Alucius began, his face flushed, tears of humiliation shining in his eyes.

“Sir, you have no gift for this,” Vaelin said. “You are slow, clumsy and have no appetite for the fight. I beg you, ask Prince Malcius to release you and go home.”

“
She
put you up to this.” For the first time, there was some hostility in Alucius’s tone. “Lyrna. Trying to protect me. Well I won’t be protected, my lord. My brother’s death demands a reckoning, and I will have it. If I have to walk all the way to the usurper’s keep myself.”

More boy’s words.
But there was a strength to them nonetheless, a conviction. “Your courage does you credit, sir. But proceeding with this will only result in your death…”

“Then teach me.”

“I’ve tried…”

“You have not! You’ve tried to make me leave, that’s all. Teach me properly, then there will be no blame.”

It was true of course. He had thought an hour or two of humiliation would be enough to convince the boy to go home. Could he really train him in the time left? He looked at the way Alucius held his sword, how he held it close to his body to balance the weight of it. “Your brother’s sword,” he said, recognising the bluestone pommel.

“Yes. I thought it would honour him if I carried it to war.”

“He was taller than you, stronger too.” He thought for a moment then went to his tent, returning with the Volarian short sword King Janus had given him. “Here,” he tossed the weapon to Alucius. “A royal gift. Let’s see if you fare any better with it.”

He was still clumsy, still too easily fooled, but at least had gained some quickness, parrying a couple of thrusts and even managing a counter stroke or two.

“That’s enough for now,” Vaelin said, noting the sweat on his brow and his heaving chest. “Best if you strap your brother’s sword to your saddle from now on. In the morning, rise early and practice the moves I showed you for an hour. We’ll train again tomorrow evening.”

For nine more nights they trained, after an arduous day’s march, Vaelin would try to turn a poet into a swordsman.

“You don’t block the blade, you turn it,” he told Alucius, annoyed he sounded so much like Master Sollis. “Deflect the force of the blow, don’t absorb it.”

He feinted a thrust at the boy’s belly then swept the blade up and around, slashing at the legs. Alucius stepped back, the blade missing by inches, and countered with a lunge of his own, it was clumsy, unbalanced and easily parried, but it was quick. Despite his continual misgivings, he was impressed.

“All right. That’ll do for now. Sharpen your edge and get some rest.”