Текст книги "Blood Song"

Автор книги: Anthony Ryan

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

The name ran through the crowd like a wave. “Sorna…”

“Battle lord’s boy…”

“Should’ve known, spitting image…”

The rider’s eyes narrowed at the name but his furious expression remained firmly in place. “Lakrhil Al Hestian,” he said. “Lord Marshal of the Twenty-Seventh Regiment of Horse and Sword of the Realm.” He nudged his mount closer, peering down at Nortah’s inert form. “And him?”

“Brother Nortah,” Vaelin said.

“I’m told he tried to rescue the traitor. Why would a brother of the Order do such a thing, I wonder?”

He knows, Vaelin realised. He knows who Nortah is. “I couldn’t say, Lord Marshal,” he replied. “I saw my brother about to be murdered and prevented it.”

“Murdered my arse!” one of the Blackhawks spat, face flushed with anger. “He was resisting lawful arrest.”

“He is of the Order,” Vaelin spoke to Al Hestian. “Like me. We answer to the Order. If you believe we have transgressed you must take the matter to our Aspect.”

“All are subject to King’s Law, boy,” Al Hestian replied evenly. “Brothers, soldiers and Battle Lords.” He stared hard into Vaelin’s eyes. “And you and your brother will answer to it.” He motioned his men forward. “Keep you hands clear of your weapons, boy, or you’ll be answering to the Departed.”

Vaelin reached back to grasp his sword hilt as the Blackhawks advanced. Perhaps if he wounded a few he could create enough confusion to escape into the crowd with Nortah. There could be no return to the Order after this, no welcome for those that fought the Realm Guard. Life as an outlaw, Vaelin pondered. Can’t be that bad.

“Easy now, lad,” one of the Blackhawks warned, a veteran sergeant with a weather beaten face. He advanced slowly, his sword held low, a dagger in his left hand. Seeing the way his feet moved and the easy balance of his stance Vaelin judged him to be the most dangerous of his opponents. “Leave the sword where it is,” the sergeant continued. “No need for any more blood here. You let us take you in and it’ll all get sorted out, nice and civilised.”

Seeing the wary fury in the faces of the other Blackhawks, Vaelin judged that the treatment he and Nortah would receive would be anything but civilised.

“I’ve no wish to spill any blood,” he told the sergeant, drawing his sword. “But I will if you make me.”

“The hour drags ever onwards, sergeant,” Al Hestian drawled, leaning forward in his saddle. “End this…”

“Well here’s a pretty picture!” a voiced boomed from the crowd, the throng parting amidst shouts of protest as three figures forced their way through.

Vaelin felt a tug at his heart. It was Barkus, flanked by Caenis and Dentos. Barkus was smiling at the Crows, a picture of affability. By contrast Caenis and Dentos stared at them with the flat concentrated aggression they had learned through years of hard training. They all had their swords drawn.

“A pretty picture indeed!” Barkus went on as the three of them fell in beside Vaelin. “A brace of Hawks all lined up for plucking.”

“Get out of here boy!” Al Hestian spat at Barkus. “This is not your concern.”

“Heard the commotion,” Barkus told Vaelin, ignoring Al Hestian. He glanced back at Nortah’s inert form. “Snuck out did he?”

“Yes. They’re going to execute his father.”

“We heard,” Caenis said. “Bad business. They say he was a good man. Still, the King is just and must have his reasons.”

“Tell that to Nortah,” Dentos said. “Poor bastard. Did they do that to him?”

“No,” Vaelin said. “Couldn’t think of another way to stop him.”

“Master Sollis is going to beat us for week,” Dentos grumbled.

They fell silent, watching the Blackhawks who stared back, faces full of malevolent anger, but making no move to advance.

“They’re afraid,” Caenis observed.

“They should be,” Barkus said.

Vaelin risked a glance at Al Hestian. Clearly not a man used to being balked the marshal was visibly shaking with fury. “You!” He stabbed a finger at one of the cavalrymen. “Find Captain Hintil. Tell him to bring his company.”

“A whole company!” Barkus sounded cheerful at the prospect. “You do us much honour, my lord!”

A few people in the crowd laughed making Al Hestian’s rage even more palpable. “You’ll all be flayed for this!” he shouted, his voice nearly a scream. “Don’t imagine the King will grant you an easy death!”

“Speaking for my father again, Lord Marshal?”

A tall, red haired young man had emerged from the mass of onlookers. His clothes were modest but finely made and there was something strange about the way the crowd parted before him, each citizen’s eyes averted, heads bowed, a few even dropping to one knee. Vaelin was shocked when he turned back and found Caenis and the Crows all doing the same.

“Kneel brothers!” Caenis hissed. “Honour the prince.”

Prince? Looking at the tall man again Vaelin recalled the serious youth he had seen at the King’s palace so many years before. Prince Malcius had grown almost as tall and broad as his father. Vaelin looked for soldiers of the Royal Guard but saw no-one accompanying the prince. A prince who walks alone amongst his people, he thought, puzzled.

“Vaelin!” Caenis whispered insistently.

As he made to kneel the prince waved his hand. “No need brother. Please rise, all of you.” He smiled at the kneeling multitude. “The ground is muddy. Now then my lord,” he turned to Al Hestian. “What manner of disturbance is this?”

“A traitorous outrage, Highness,” Al Hestian said forcefully, rising from a bow, his left knee caked in mud. “These boys attacked my men in an effort to rescue the prisoner.”

“You bloody liar!” Barkus exploded. “We came to help our brothers when they had been attacked…” He fell silent as the prince held up his hand. Malcius paused and surveyed the scene, taking in the wounded Blackhawks and Nortah’s unconscious form.

“You brother,” he said to Vaelin. “Are you a traitor as the Lord Marshal claims?” Vaelin noted his eyes barely left Nortah.

“I am no traitor, Highness,” Vaelin replied, trying to keep any trace of fear or anger from his voice. “Neither are my brothers. They are here only in my defence. If an answer must be given for what has happened here then it is mine alone to make.”

“And your fallen brother.” Prince Malcius moved closer, staring down at Nortah with an odd intensity. “Should he make an answer too?”

“His… actions were driven by grief,” Vaelin faltered. “He will answer to our Aspect.”

“Is he badly hurt?”

“A blow to the head, Highness. He should wake in an hour or so.”

The prince continued to stare down at Nortah for a moment longer before turning away, saying softly, “When he wakes tell him I grieve too.”

He moved away and addressed Al Hestian. “This is a very serious business, Lord Marshal. Very serious.”

“Indeed Highness.”

“So serious that full resolution will take so much time as to delay the execution, something I should hate to explain to the King. Unless you wish to do so.”

Al Hestian’s eyes briefly met the Prince’s, the light of mutual enmity shining clearly. “I should hate to intrude on the King’s time needlessly,” he grated through clenched teeth.

“I am grateful for your consideration.” Prince Malcius turned to the Crows. “Take these wounded men to the royal pavilion, they will have the care of the King’s physician. Lord Marshal, I hear there are some riotous drunkards near the west gate in need of your attentions. Do not let me detain you further.”

Al Hestian bowed and remounted. Guiding his horse past Vaelin and the others with the promise of retribution writ large in his face. “Out of the way!” he shouted, his riding crop lashing at the crowd as he forced his way through.

“Take your brother back to the Order,” Prince Malcius told Vaelin. “Make sure you tell your Aspect what occurred here, lest he hear it from other lips first.”

“We will Highness,” Vaelin assured him, bowing as low as he could.

A hundred yards away a steady, monotonous drumbeat was sounding, the crowd falling silent as the beat increased in volume. Vaelin could see a row of spear points rising above the throng, moving in time with the drum, drawing ever closer to the dark silhouette of the gallows.

“Take him away!” the Prince commanded. “Senseless or not, he should not be here.”

It was as they made their way through the silent crowd, Vaelin and Caenis carrying Nortah, Dentos and Barkus forcing a passage, that the drumbeat stopped. There was a silence so thick Vaelin could feel the anticipation like a weight pressing him into the earth. There was a distant clatter then an eruption of cheering, thousands of fists raised in the air in triumph, manic joy on every face.

Caenis surveyed the celebrating crowd with naked disgust. Vaelin couldn’t hear the word he mouthed but the shape of his lips carried the meaning clearly enough: “Scum.”

Nortah disappeared into the care of the masters as soon as they were within the walls of the Order House. It was obvious from the guarded looks of the other boys and the glares of the masters that word of their adventure had sped ahead of their return.

“We’ll see to him,” Master Checkrin said, relieving them of Nortah’s burden, lifting him easily in his muscle thick arms. “You lot get to your room. Do not come out until ordered. Do not talk to anyone until ordered.”

To ensure the instruction was followed Master Haunlin accompanied them to the north tower, the burnt man’s usual passion for song evidently quelled by the circumstances. When the door slammed behind them Vaelin was sure the master was waiting outside. Are we prisoners now? he wondered.

In the room they set aside their gear and waited.

“Did you get my boots?” Vaelin asked Caenis.

“I didn’t get the chance. Sorry.”

Vaelin shrugged. The silence stretched.

“Barkus nearly shagged a tart behind the ale tent,” Dentos blurted. He always found silence particularly oppressive. “Right saucy bint she was too. Tits like melons. Right brother?”

Barkus stared balefully at his brother from across the room. “Shut up,” he said flatly.

More silence.

“You know they’ll give you your coins if you get caught?” Vaelin said to Barkus. Occasionally girls from Varinshold and surrounding villages turned up at the gate with swollen bellies or squalling infants in tow. The guilty brother would be forced into a hasty joining ceremony conducted by the Aspect and given his coins plus an extra two, one for the girl and one for the child. Oddly, a few boys actually seemed happy to be leaving under such circumstances although others would protest their innocence, but a truth test by the Second Order would soon prove the matter one way or the other.

“I didn’t bloody do anything,” Barkus sputtered.

“You had your tongue down her throat,” Dentos laughed.

“I’d had a few ales. Besides, it was Caenis getting all the attention.”

Vaelin turned to Caenis, seeing a slow flush creeping up his friend’s cheeks. “Really?”

“Not half. All over him they were. ‘Ooh, isn’t he pretty?’”

Vaelin suppressed a laugh as Caenis began to blush furiously. “I’m sure he resisted manfully.”

“I dunno,” Dentos mused. “A few more minutes I reckon we’d’ve had a whole troop of pretty bastards at the gates in nine months time. Lucky some drunk came in and started shouting about a fight between the Crows and the Order.”

Mention of the fight brought the silence again. It was Barkus who finally said it: “You don’t think they’ll kill him do you?”

The room was growing dark before the door opened and Master Sollis strode in, a mountainous anger dominating his expression. “Sorna,” he grated. “Come with me. The rest of you get a meal from the kitchens then go to bed.”

The urge to ask about Nortah was overwhelming but Sollis’s thunderous visage was enough to keep them silent. Vaelin followed him down the stairs and across the courtyard to the west wall, all the time watching for any sign of his cane. He expected to be led to the Aspect’s chambers but instead they made their way to the infirmary, finding Master Henthal tending Nortah. He was laid in bed, his face slack, half-lidded eyes unfocused and dimmed. Vaelin knew the look; sometimes boys with grievous injuries had need of strong medicine which took the pain away but left them out of touch with the world.

“Redflower and Shade Bloom,” Master Henthal explained as Vaelin and Sollis entered. “He was raving when he came round. Gave the Aspect a nasty whack before we got him under control.”

Vaelin moved to the bed, heart heavy with the sight of his brother. He looks so weak…

“Will he be all right, Master?” he asked.

“Seen it before, raving and thrashing about. Usually happens to men who’ve seen a battle too many. He’ll sleep soon. When he wakes he’ll be shaky but himself again.”

Vaelin turned to Sollis. “Has the Aspect made judgement, Master?”

Sollis glanced at Master Henthal who nodded and left the room. “Judgement is not warranted,” Sollis replied.

“We wounded the King’s soldiers…”

“Yes. If you had been more attentive to my teaching, you might have killed them.”

“The Lord Marshal…”

“Does not command here. Nortah disobeyed instruction for which punishment should be levied. However, the Aspect feels punishment has been levied already. As for you, your disobedience was in defence of your brother. Judgement is not required.”

Master Sollis moved to the far side of the bed and placed a hand against Nortah’s brow. “His fever should fade when the redflower wears off. He’ll feel it though, feel the pain like a knife, sticking in his guts, twisting. Pain like that can either make a boy into a man or a monster. It is my opinion that the Order has seen enough of monsters.”

Vaelin understood it then; Sollis’s anger. It’s not us, he realised. It’s what the King did to Nortah’s father, what that did to Nortah. We’re his swords, he beats us into shape. The King has spoiled one of his blades.

“My brothers and I will guide him,” Vaelin said. “His pain will be ours. We will help him bear it.”

“See that you do.” Sollis looked up, his gaze more intense than usual. “When a brother goes to the bad there is but one way of dealing with him, and brother should not kill brother.”

Nortah came round in the morning, his groan waking Vaelin who had stayed beside him through the night.

“What?” Nortah gazed around with bleary eyes. “What’s this…?” Seeing Vaelin he fell silent, the light of memory returning to his eyes as his hand went to the lump on the back of his head. “You hit me,” he said. Vaelin watched the dreadful knowledge flood back, draining Nortah’s face of colour and making him slump under the weight of his sorrow.

“I’m sorry, Nortah,” Vaelin said. It was all he could think to say.

“Why did you stop me?” Nortah whispered through tears.

“They would have killed you.”

“Then they would have done me a service.”

“Don’t talk like that. I doubt your father’s soul would have dwelt happily in the Beyond knowing that you had followed him there so soon.”

Nortah wept silently for a while and Vaelin watched him, a hundred empty condolences dying on his lips. I don’t have the words, he realised. There are no words for this.

“Did you see it?” Nortah asked finally. “Did he suffer?”

Vaelin thought of the clatter of the trap and the exultation of the crowd. A fearful knowledge to take into the Beyond that so many rejoiced at your death. “It was quick.”

“They said he stole from the King. My father would never do that, he cherished the King and served him well.”

Vaelin seized on the only comfort he could offer. “Prince Malcius said to tell you that he grieves also.”

“Malcius? He was there?”

“He helped us, made the Crows let us go. I thought that he recognised you.”

Nortah’s expression softened a little, becoming distant. “When I was a boy we would ride together. Malcius was my father’s student and often came to our home. My father taught many boys of the noble houses. His wisdom in state craft and diplomacy was famed.” Nortah fumbled for the cloth on the table nearby and wiped the tears from his face. “What is the Aspect’s judgement?”

“He feels you have been punished enough.”

“Then I am not even granted the mercy of release from this place.”

“We were both sent here at the behest of our fathers. I have respected my father’s wishes by staying here although I do not know why he gave me to the Order. Your father also would have had good reason for sending you here. It was his wish in life, it will remain his wish now he is with the Departed. Perhaps you should respect it.”

“So I should languish here while my father’s lands are forfeit and my family left destitute?”

“Will your family be any less destitute with you at their side? Do you have riches that will help them? Think what kind of life you would have outside the Order. You will be the son of a traitor, marked by the King’s soldiers for vengeance. Your family will have burdens enough without you at their side. The Order is no longer your prison, it’s your protection.”

Nortah sank back into the bed, staring at the ceiling in mixed exhaustion and grief. “Please brother, I must be alone for a time.”

Vaelin rose and went to the door. “Remember you are not alone in this. Your brothers will not allow you to fall victim to grief.” Outside he lingered at the door listening to Nortah’s hard, pain filled sobs. So much pain. He wondered if his own father had been on the gallows if he would have fought so hard to save him. Would I have even cried?

That night he collected Scratch from the kennels and took him to the north gate where they played fetch the ball and waited for the boy Frentis to arrive for his knife throwing lesson. Scratch seemed to be growing stronger and faster with each passing day. Master Jeklin’s dog feed, a hash of minced beef, bone marrow and pulped fruit, had put even more meat on his frame and his constant exercise with Vaelin left his physique both lean and powerful. Despite his fierce appearance and unnerving size, Scratch retained the same happy, face licking spirit of an overgrown puppy.

“Don’t you normally take him to the woods?” It was Caenis, slipping from the shadows cast by the gate house. Vaelin was a little annoyed at himself for not sensing his brother’s presence but Caenis was unusually skilled at remaining hidden and took a perverse delight in appearing apparently from nowhere.

“Do you have to do that?” Vaelin asked.

“I’m practising.”

Scratch came scampering up with the ball in his mouth, dropping it at Vaelin’s feet and greeting Caenis with a sniff of his boots. Caenis patted him uncertainly on the head. Like the other brothers he had never lost his basic fear of the animal.

“Nortah still sleeping?” Caenis asked.

Vaelin shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about Nortah; his brother’s tears had left a hard knot in his chest that was taking a long time to fade.

“The coming months will be hard,” Caenis went on with a sigh.

“Aren’t they always?” Vaelin hurled the ball towards the river, Scratch hurtling after it with a joyful yelp. “Sorry you didn’t get to see the king.”

“No, but I saw the prince. That was enough. What a great man he’ll be.”

Vaelin gave Caenis a sidelong glance, seeing the familiar glint in his eye. He had never been comfortable with his friend’s blind devotion to the king. “He… was a very impressive man. I’m sure he’ll be a fine king one day.”

“Yes, he’ll lead us to glory.”

“Glory, brother?”

“Of course. The king has ambitions, he wishes to make the Realm even greater, perhaps as great as the Alpiran Empire. There will be battles, Vaelin. Mighty, glorious battles, and we will see them, fight them.”

War is blood and shit… there’s no honour in it, Makril’s words. Vaelin knew they would mean nothing to Caenis. He was knowledgeable and often frighteningly intelligent but he was also a dreamer. He had a mental library of a thousand stories and seemed to believe them all. Heroes, villains, princesses in need of rescue, monsters and magical swords. It all lived in his head, as vital and real as his own memories.

“I think we have different notions of glory, brother,” Vaelin said as Scratch came bounding back with the ball in his jaws.

They waited for another hour but the boy didn’t come.

“He probably sold the knives,” Caenis said, after Vaelin had told him the story. “He’ll have tanked up on grog in a gutter somewhere, or gambled it away. Likely you’ll never see him again.”

They walked back to the stables, Vaelin tossing the ball into the air for Scratch to catch. “I’d rather believe he spent the money on shoes,” he said glancing back at the gate.