Текст книги "Blood Song"

Автор книги: Anthony Ryan

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Chapter 2

“About seventy men all told,” Dentos said around a mouthful of salt beef. “Ten miles west of here. It’s a well chosen site, a gully to the east, rocks to the south and a steep slope to the north and west. Hard to take unawares.”

They had returned on the fourteenth day of the training, Caenis bearing a sketched map showing the layout of the Cumbraelins’ camp. They huddled around the campfire with Al Hestian and Makril to plan the attack.

“Seventy’s a lot for these lads to face, brother,” Barkus advised Makril. “Even with our brothers they’ll still have numbers in their favour.”

“Each brother’s worth at least three of theirs,” Makril replied. “Besides, a surprised man is usually defeated before he even draws his sword.” He paused to ponder Caenis’s map, tracing a stubby finger over the gully leading to the camp’s eastern edge. “How well do they guard this?”

“Three men during in the day,” Caenis replied. “Five at night. Black Arrow is a cautious man it seems, knows we’re most likely to come for him in darkness. There is a route in.” He pointed to the cluster of rocks covering the camp’s southern border. “I got close enough to smell their pipe smoke. But it’s a path for one man only. Any more would be seen.”

“Five men guarding the best way in and only one man to open the door,” Makril mused. “That’s if he can get across the camp unseen.”

“We’ve kept some of their clothing and weapons,” Vaelin said. “In the dark they might take me for one of their own.”

“You mean me brother,” Caenis said.

“Five men at once…”

“As brother Makril says, surprised men are easier to kill. Besides, I’m the only one who knows the way.”

“He’s right,” Makril said. “I’ll take our brothers through the gully. My lord,” he glanced at Al Hestian, “I suggest you take your company to the southern approach, wait until you hear the clamour of our attack then charge straight in. We’ll have drawn most of their strength to us so you should catch them on their blind side.”

Al Hestian nodded. “A good plan, brother.”

“I should go with Lord Al Hestian,” Vaelin said. “The men may be less inclined to tarry in the charge if one of us is with them.”

He could tell from Makril’s narrowed eyes that his suspicion still lingered. He knows, the voice hissed in his mind. The others would never suspect but he knows, he smells it on you like blood.

“It’d be better if Sendahl and Jeshua went with his lordship,” Makril said, his narrow gaze still fixed on Vaelin. “Your sword will be much needed when we breach the camp.”

“They’re more afraid of Vaelin than they are any of us,” Barkus commented. “Lot less likely to run if he’s with them.”

“And I would be honoured to fight at brother Vaelin’s side!” Al Hestian enthused. “I believe it’s a fine idea.”

Makril slowly returned his gaze to the map. “As you wish, my lord.” He pointed at the slope north of the camp. “If this goes right they’ll flee down the hill towards the river. The perfect place to trap them. If the Departed favour us we should get them all.” He looked up, his expression suddenly fierce. “Even so this’ll be a hard and bloody fight. The scum don’t ask for quarter and won’t give any. Tell the men to get close, use their swords, don’t give them a chance to get their bows into play. Make sure they know defeat will mean death for all of us. There’s no retreat from this place, we kill them all or they’ll be sure to kill us.”

He rolled the map into a scroll got to his feet. “Five hours sleep then we move out. We’ll march in the dark so their scouts won’t see us. Ten miles is a lot of ground to cover in the snow so we’ll have to press hard. Any man who talks without permission or falls out on the march will have his throat slit. No rum ration until this is done.” He tossed the map to Caenis. “Brother, you’ll lead the way.”

The march was hard, taxing the men to the extreme but the promise of death for any too exhausted to continue was sufficient to keep them moving. The Order was at the head of the column, arrows notched to their bowstrings, eyes peering into the dark for any sign of Cumbraelin scouts. Although Black Arrow’s men sometimes came to harass the camp at night with a fire arrow launched over the stockade their visits had trailed off when Caenis and Makril had taken to hunting after sun down, collecting four bows in as many nights. Now the Cumbraelins rarely ventured close at night and their march was not interrupted.

It took eight hours of hard going before they came to the edge of a clearing where a small slope led up to the mound of rocks behind which the Cumbraelins had made their camp. Off to the right they could glimpse the dark shadow of the gully where Makril would lead the Order contingent. There was little preamble, Makril made the sign of good luck and led the eighteen brothers off across the clearing in a loose skirmish formation.

Need anything? Vaelin signed to Caenis.

His brother shook his head, pulling a cord tight on his sable pelted jerkin. In his captured garments he fitted his role well, the disguise completed by exchanging his strong bow for a long bow and hitching a hatchet into his belt. He opted to keep his sword strapped to his back, their enemies had captured many Asraelin blades from Al Hestian’s soldiers so it was unlikely to look out of place.

Luck to you brother, Vaelin signed, touching his shoulder. Caenis grinned briefly and was gone, covering the distance to the rocks in a dead run. He’ll be fine, Vaelin reassured himself. Their time in the Martishe had given him a new appreciation of Caenis’s skills, the slight boy who had shivered in fear at Master Grealin’s tall tales of monstrous rats was now a lithe, deadly warrior who seemed to fear nothing and killed without hesitation.

There was a crunch of snow as Al Hestian crouched beside him. “How long do you think, brother?” he whispered.

Vaelin fought down a surge of guilt at the sight of the young noble’s earnest face. You hope he won’t realise it was you, his ever present watcher told him. You hope he’ll go into the beyond believing the lie that you were friends…

“An hour or so, my lord,” he whispered back. “Perhaps less.”

“It’ll give the men a chance to rest at least.” He moved away to check on his soldiers, murmuring reassurance and encouragement. Vaelin tried not to listen and concentrated on the dim silhouette of the rocks. The sky was still dark but had taken on the blue tinge heralding the onset of daylight. Makril had favoured a dawn attack when the guards at the mouth of the gully would be tiring at the end of their shift.

Vaelin steadied his breathing, counting the passing seconds, gauging the right moment to set his scheme into motion, forcing away any thought that might deflect him from his course. His hand ached as his grip tightened on his bow. When he was sure at least a half hour had passed he moved to Al Hestian, crouching to whisper in his ear.

“There’s sure to be guards in the rocks,” he said. “My brother will have let them be to avoid raising the alarm. Although there won’t be enough of them to stop our attack their bows are likely to thin our ranks.” He hefted his bow. “I’ll go ahead now, when the attack starts I’ll make sure they don’t trouble us.”

Al Hestian rose. “I’ll come with you.”

Vaelin restrained him with a firm grasp on his forearm. “You must lead the men, my lord.”

Al Hestian cast a glance round at the tense, drawn faces of his men and nodded reluctantly. “Of course.”

Vaelin forced a smile. “We’ll share breakfast in Black Arrow’s tent.” Liar!

“Luck go with you brother.”

He found he couldn’t meet Al Hestian’s eye, nodding and setting off for the rocks at a run, covering the ground in what seemed like a few heartbeats, sheltering amidst the huge boulders that rose out of the snow like slumbering monsters. He cast a quick eye around for any sentries but saw nothing. From the camp came the faint scent of woodsmoke but no sound of any alarm. Caenis had yet to move against the guards at the gully. Vaelin reached for his quiver and extracted a cloth wrapped arrow, discarding the covering to reveal an ash black shaft and raven fletching, a Cumbraelin arrow taken from the archer who had slain poor Lord Al Jelnek, his instrument of murder. A single arrow would claim Lord Al Hestian’s life as he heroically led his men in a charge against an enemy encampment. A fine end indeed, the voice said. His father will be proud, I’m sure. Remember your words? Remember your vow? I’ll kill but I won’t murder…

Leave me be! Vaelin spat back. I do what I must. There is no choice in this. I cannot break a contract with the King.

His hands shook as he notched the arrow to the string, his heart a booming drum in his chest. Enough! He flexed his hands, forcing the tremor away. I do what I must. I’ve killed before. What is one more death?

From behind him came a faint clash of metal on metal followed by the snap of bowstrings and a sudden clamour of alarmed voices. The sounds of battle were soon echoing across the clearing and Vaelin saw Al Hestian’s command emerge from the trees and begin their charge. The young noble was easy to pick out, leading his men by a good few strides, longsword held high, his cloak trailing. Vaelin could hear his calls to the men, urging them forward. He was strangely gratified to see the whole company had followed Al Hestian, having expected many to flee.

He dragged in a deep draught of air, the chill burning his lungs, and raised his bow, drawing he string back to his lips, the raven's feathers in the shaft caressing his check, the bead centred on Al Hestian’s rapidly approaching form. Murder is easy, he realised, the string slipping over his fingers. Like snuffing out a candle.

Something growled in the darkness. Something shifted its weight and scraped at the snow. Something made the hairs on the back of his head prickle.

The familiar sense of wrongness built within him like a fire, the tremor returning to his hands as he lowered the bow and turned.

The wolf’s teeth were bared in a snarl, its eyes bright in the gloom, raised hackles like spikes of silver. As their eyes met its growl subsided and it raised itself from the aggressive crouch it had assumed, regarding him with the same silent intensity he remembered from the Test of the Run all those years ago.

The moment seemed to stretch, Vaelin captured by the animal’s gaze, unable to move, a thought singing in his mind: What am I doing? I am no murderer!

The wolf blinked and turned, sprinting away across the snow, a blur of silver and frost, gone in a heartbeat.

The approaching shouts of Al Hestian’s charging men brought him back to his senses, turning to see they were almost at the rocks. Less than twenty feet away a figure rose, garbed in sable, a drawn long bow aiming a shaft straight at Al Hestian’s chest. Vaelin’s arrow took the archer in the belly. He was on him in seconds, his long-bladed dagger stabbing down to make sure of the kill.

“My thanks, brother!” Al Hestian called, leaping past to charge on to the camp. Vaelin surged after him, tossing his bow aside and drawing his sword.

The camp was a chaos of death and flame. The Cumbraelins could equal the Order’s bow skills but at close quarters they were hopelessly outmatched, bodies littered the snow amidst burning tents. A wounded Cumbraelin stumbled out of the smoke, a bloodied arm hanging useless at his side, his good limb swinging a hatchet wildly Al Hestian. The noble easily side-stepped the blow and hacked the man down with his longsword. Another came at Vaelin, eyes wide with panic and fear, jabbing a long-bladed boar spear at his chest. Vaelin ducked under the weapon, grasping the haft below the blade and pulling its owner onto his sword. One of Al Hestian’s soldiers charged forward and rammed his sword into the Cumbraelin’s chest, his scream of exultant fury merging with the shouts of the other men as they followed Al Hestian onwards, killing all they could find.

Vaelin saw Al Hestian charge off into the smoke and followed, seeing him cut down two men in quick succession. A third leapt onto his back, wrapping his legs around the noble’s chest, dagger raised high. Vaelin’s throwing knife took the Cumbraelin in the back, Al Hestian shrugging him off as he convulsed in pain, the longsword slashing down to cleave his chest. He raised his sword in a silent gesture of thanks and ran on.

The bloodshed became frenzied as the company killed their way through the camp, hacking down the few Cumbraelins still able to offer resistance or knifing those found lying wounded. Vaelin ran past a series of nightmarish tableaux; a soldier raising the severed head of a Cumbraelin to let the blood bathe his face, three men taking turns to slash at a man writhing on the ground, men laughing at a Cumbraelin as he tried to stuff his guts back into the hole in his belly. He had seen men drunk before but never on blood. After months of fear and misery Al Hestian’s soldiers were taking full measure of retribution from their tormentors.

He caught up with Al Hestian, finding the noble standing uncertainly over the kneeling figure of a young Cumbraelin, a boy of no more than fifteen years. His eyes were closed, his lips moving in a murmured prayer. His weapons lay at his side and his hands were clasped in front of his chest.

Vaelin paused, catching his breath and wiping blood from his sword. From the direction of the river he could hear the clamour of weapons and shouts of combat as his brothers finished the last of Black Arrow’s men. Dawn was rising fast now, revealing the horrid spectacle of the camp. Bodies lay all around, some still twitching or writhing in pain, streaks of blood discolouring the snow between the blazing tents. Al Hestian’s men wandered through the destruction, looting the dead and finishing off the wounded.

“What should we do with him?” Al Hestian said. He face was streaked with sweat and ash, his expression grim. The bloodlust evident in his men has not reached him, he did not relish the killing. Vaelin was very glad he had abandoned his bargain with the king.

He will be angry, his watcher told him.

I’ll answer to the King, he replied. He can have my life if he wants it. At least I won’t die a murderer.

Vaelin glanced at the boy. He seemed oblivious to their words or the sounds of death around him, intent on his prayer. He spoke a language Vaelin didn’t know, the prayer flowing from his lips in a soft, almost melodious tone. Was he asking his god to accept his soul or deliver him from impending death?

“It seems we have our first prisoner, my lord.” He nudged the boy with his boot. “Stand up! And stop yammering.”

The boy ignored him. His expression unchanged as he continued to pray.

“I said get up!” Vaelin reached down to grab the boy’s pelt. There was a rush on air on his neck as something flicked past his ear following by the hard smack of an arrow finding flesh. He looked up to see Al Hestian staring at the black shaft buried in his shoulder, his eyebrows raised in a faint expression of surprise. “Faith,” he breathed and collapsed heavily to the snow. His limbs already twitching as the poison mingled with his blood.

Vaelin whirled, catching a blur of powdered snow in a nearby cluster of trees. Rage filled him then, sprinting in pursuit of the archer with red mist clouding his vision. “You there!” he called to a group of soldiers. “See to his Lordship, he needs a healer!”

He ran full pelt into the trees, all senses alive to the song of the forest, searching, hunting. There was a faint crunch of snow off to the left and he sprinted after it, his nostrils finding the scent of fear-born sweat. He had never been so alive to the song of the forest before, never so possessed by the desire to kill. His mouth was flooded with drool and his mind devoid of all thought but the need for blood. How long he hunted would always be lost to him, it was a dream of blurred trees and half-remembered scents as his quarry led him deeper into the forest. He ran tirelessly, immune to any strain. He knew only the hunt and the prey.

The song of the forest changed as he entered a small clearing. The birdsong greeting the dawn was muted here, stilled by an unwelcome presence. He stopped, fighting to control his heaving chest, searching with all his senses, straining for the faintest sign. The clearing was well lit by the rising sun, the sunlight playing over an oddly shaped stone in its centre. Something about the stone drew his attention, lessening his concentration on the forest’s song. It stood about four feet in height with a narrow base rising to a wide flat top in a roughly mushroomed shape, part overgrown with creepers. Looking closer he realised it was not a natural feature at all but fashioned, chiselled from one of the many granite boulders that littered the Martishe.

If his senses hadn’t been so alive he would have missed the faint creak of the bowstring. He ducked, the arrow passing over his head in a black streak. The archer leapt from the bushes, hatchet raised high, his war cry shrill and savage. Vaelin’s sword slashed into the man’s wrist, his hatchet spinning away along with the hand that held it, the back-swing laying his throat open as he staggered back in shock. He took only seconds to bleed to death.

Vaelin sagged as his body woke to the end of the hunt, the ache of the battle and the chase seeping into his limbs, his pulse raging in his ears as he fought for breath. He stumbled away, slumping against the stone, sinking to the ground, wanting nothing more than sleep. His eyes were drawn to the archer’s corpse. The lines and weathering in his slack features betrayed him as a man with more years than most of their enemies. Black Arrow? Vaelin wondered but found he was too tired to search the body for any evidence of the man’s identity.

The song of the forest returned as he lay there, head sagging to his chest, the bird song louder now. A sudden warmth in his limbs roused him and he looked up to find the clearing bathed in bright sunlight. Oddly the sun was now high overhead and he realised he must have surrendered to sleep. Fool! He climbed to his feet, making to brush the snow from his cloak… Except there was none. No snow on his cloak or his boots. No snow on the ground or the trees. Instead the ground was covered in lush green grass and the trees were liberally adorned with leaves. The air had lost the sharp chill of winter and through the forest canopy the sky was a deep shade of blue. Summer... It’s summer!

He looked around wildly. Black Arrow’s body, if it was indeed his, was gone. The stone structure that had drawn his gaze when he first entered the clearing was now bare of foliage, revealing a finely carved plinth of grey granite, its top perfectly flat save for a circular indentation in the centre. He moved closer, reaching out to trace a finger along the surface.

“You shouldn’t touch that.”

He whirled, levelling his sword at the source of the voice. The woman was of medium height and dressed in a simple robe of loosely woven fabric, the design of which was completely unfamiliar. Her hair was black and long, tumbling over her shoulders and framing an angular pale skinned face. But it was her eyes that fixed him, or rather the fact that she had no eyes. They were a milky pink in colour, devoid of pupils. As she neared he saw they were shot through with a fine web of veins, like two orbs of red marble regarding him above a faint smile. Blind? But how could she be? He could tell she was seeing him, she had seen him reach out to the stone. Something about the set of her features triggered a memory from a few years ago, a grave, hawk-faced man shaking his head sadly and speaking in a language Vaelin didn’t know.

“Seordah,” he said. “You’re of the Seordah Sil.”

Her smile widened a little. “Yes. And you are Beral Shak Ur of the Marelim Sil.” She raised her arms, encompassing the clearing. “And this is the place and time of our meeting.”

“My… name is Vaelin Al Sorna,” he said, mystification making him stumble over the words. “I am a Brother of the Sixth Order.”

“Really? What’s that?”

He stared at her. The Seordah were renowned for their insularity but then how could she know his language but not know of the Order.

“I am a warrior in service to the Faith,” he explained.

“Oh, you’re still doing that.” She came closer, her brows furrowed, head angled, red marble eyes regarding him for a moment of unblinking scrutiny. “Ah, still so young. I always assumed you would be older when we met. There is still so much for you to do, Beral Shak Ur. I wish I could tell you it will be an easy road.”

“You speak riddles, lady.” He glanced around at the impossible summer day. “This is a dream, a phantom in my mind.”

“There are no dreams in this place.” She moved past him, reaching out to the stone plinth, her hand hovering over the circular indentation in the centre. “Here there is only time and memory, trapped in this stone until the ages turn it to dust.”

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What do you want of me? Did you bring me here?”

“You brought yourself.” She withdrew her hand and turned back to him. “As for who I am, my name is Nersus Sil Nin and I want many things, none of which you can give me.”

He realised he was still holding his sword and sheathed it, feeling faintly foolish. “The man I killed, where is he?”

“You killed a man here?” She closed her eyes and a note of sadness coloured her voice. “How weak have we become? I had hoped I was wrong, that my sight had failed me. But if blood can be spilled here then it has all happened.” She opened her eyes again. “My people are scattered are they not? They hide in the forests whilst you hunt them to extinction?”

“You do not know of your own people?”

“Please. Tell me.”

“The Seordah Sil dwell in the Great Northern Forest. My people do not go there. We do not hunt the Seordah. It is said they are greatly feared. Even more than the Lonak.”

“Lonak? So they survived the coming of your kind. I should have known the High Priestess would find a way.” She turned her blank gaze on him once more, the impression of scrutiny was overpowering, his sense of wrongness flaring with it. But the sensation was different this time, not so much a warning of danger, more a feeling of disorientation, as if he had climbed a cliff and found himself awed by the sight of the ground far below.

“So,” said Nersus Sil Nin, her head tilted. “You can hear the song of your blood.”

“My blood?”

“The feeling you just experienced. You have felt it before, yes?”

“Several times. Mostly in times of danger. It has… saved me in the past.”

“Then you are fortunate to be so gifted.”

“Gifted?” He didn’t like the tone she used when speaking the word, there was a gravity to it that made him uncomfortable. “It is simply an instinct for survival. All men have it I’m sure.”

“All men do, but not all can hear it as clearly as you can. And the blood-song has more to its music than simply a warning of danger. In time you’ll learn its tune well enough.”

Blood-song? “You’re saying I’m afflicted with the Dark, somehow?”

Her mouth twitched in faint amusement. “The Dark? Ah yes, the name your people will give to what they fear and refuse to understand. The blood-song can be dark, Beral Shak Ur, but it can also shine very brightly indeed.”

Beral Shak Ur…“Why do you call me that? I have a name of my own.”

“Men such as yourself tend to collect names like trophies. Not all the names you’ll earn will be so kind.”

“What does it mean?”

“My people believe the raven to be a harbinger of change. When the raven’s shadow sweeps across your heart your life will change, for good or ill, there is no way to know. Our word for raven is Beral and our word for shadow is Shak. And you, Vaelin Al Sorna, warrior in service to the Faith, are the Shadow of the Raven.”

The sensation, the blood-song she called it, was still singing in him. It was stronger now, the feeling was not unpleasant but it did make him wary. “And your name?”

“I am the Song of the Wind.”

“My people believe that the wind can carry the voices of the Departed from the Beyond.”

“Then your people know more than I gave them credit for.”

“This,” Vaelin gestured around him at the clearing. “This is the past isn’t it?”

“In a way. It is my memory of this place trapped in the stone. I trapped it there because I knew one day you would come and touch the stone, and we would meet.”

“How long ago is this?”

“Many, many summers before your time. This land belongs to the Seordah Sil and the Lonak. Soon your people, the Marelim Sil, the children of the sea, will come to our shores and take it all from us, and back to the forest we will go. I have seen it, the blood-song is your gift but mine is the sight that can pierce time. Only when I use my gift can my eyes see, it is the price I pay.”

“You’re using your gift now? I am…” he fumbled for the right word. “… a vision?”

“In a way. It was necessary that we meet. And now we have.” She turned and began to walk back to the trees.

“Wait!” He reached out to her but his hand grasped nothing, passing through her robe like mist. He stared at it in bewilderment.

“This is my memory, not yours,” Nersus Sil Nin told him without pausing. “You have no power here.”

“Why was it necessary for us to meet?” The blood-song had raised its pitch now, forcing the questions from his lips. “What was your purpose in calling me here?”

She walked to the edge of the clearing and turned, her expression sombre but not unkind. “You needed to know your name.”

“VAELIN!”

He blinked and it was all gone, the sun, the lush grass beneath his boots, Nersus Sil Nin and her maddening riddles. Gone. The air felt shockingly cold after the warmth of that summer’s day uncountable years ago, the whiteness of the snow making him shield his eyes.

“Vaelin?” It was Nortah, standing over him, his face a mixture of bemusement and worry. “Are you hurt?”

He was still slumped against the plinth, now once again covered in weeds. “I… needed to rest.” He accepted Nortah’s hand and hauled himself upright. Nearby Barkus was rifling the corpse of the old archer Vaelin had killed.

“You tracked me here?” he asked Nortah.

“It wasn’t easy without Caenis. You don’t leave much of a trail.”

“Caenis is hurt?”

“He took a cut on the arm when he took care of the sentries. It’s not too bad but he’s laid up for a while.”

“The battle?”

“It’s over. We counted sixty-five Cumbraelin bodies. Brother Sonril lost an eye and five of Al Hestian’s men have gone to join the Departed.” Nortah’s eyes showed the same haunted look that had clouded them when he first killed a man during their hunt for Frentis. Unlike Caenis and the others, Nortah did not appear to be growing accustomed to killing. He gave a mirthless laugh. “A victory, brother.”

Vaelin recalled the sound of the arrow as it flew past his ear and embedded itself in Linden Al Hestian. A victory…It feels like the worst of defeats.

“Did he linger for long?”

Nortah frowned. “Who?

“Lord Al Hestian. Did he suffer?”

“He suffers still, poor bastard. The arrow didn’t kill him. Brother Makril doesn’t know if he’ll live. He’s been asking for you.”

Vaelin fought down a shudder of guilt-ridden despair. Seeking a distraction, he moved to where Barkus was busily stripping the archer’s corpse of any valuables. “Anything to say who he was?”

“Not much.” Barkus quickly pocketed a few silver coins and extracted a sheaf of papers from the small leather satchel slung over the man’s shoulder. “Found some letters. Might tell you something.”

Nortah took the papers, his eyebrows rising as he read the first few lines.

“What is it?” Vaelin asked.

Nortah carefully folded the papers away. “Something for the Aspect’s eyes. But I think this little war of ours may be about to grow beyond this forest.”

Lord Linden Al Hestian lay on a bed of wolf fur, dragging air into his lungs with long rasping breaths, his skin grey and moist with sweat. Brother Makril had extracted the arrow from his shoulder and dressed the wound with a herb poultice to draw out the poison, but this was only to ease the noble’s mind, there was no saving him. They had forced redflower on him despite his objections, taking the edge from his pain but still he suffered as the poison worked its way through his veins. The men had erected a tent for him, the stench inside stirring Vaelin’s memory of his agonised recovery from the Joffril root.

“My lord?” Vaelin said, sitting down next to him.

“Brother.” There was a ghost of a smile on the young noble’s pale lips. “They told me you went after Black Arrow. Did you get him?”

“He’s… with his god now,” Vaelin replied, though in truth he still didn’t know for certain who the man had been.

“Then we can go home, eh? I think the king will be satisfied, don’t you?”

Vaelin looked into Al Hestian’s eyes, seeing the pain and the fear there, the knowledge that there would be no home-coming for him, he would soon be gone from this world. “He will be satisfied.”

Al Hestian slumped back into the furs. “They killed the boy, you know. I told them to leave him be but they cut him to pieces. He didn’t even cry out.”

“The men were angry. They respect you greatly. As do I.”

“To think my father warned me against you.”

“My lord?”

“My father and I have many differences, many arguments. Truth to tell I confess I like him not, father or no. Sometimes I think he hates me for not matching his ambition with my own. And men of ambition see enemies everywhere, especially at court where intrigue abounds. Before I left he warned me of rumours, tales of a hidden hand moving against me, although he refrained from telling me who’s hand. But he said I should mind you well.”

Rumours of a hidden hand… The princess has been busy it seems.

“Why you would seek to hurt me I cannot imagine,” Al Hestian went on in his pained rasp. “You’ll tell him for me, won’t you? You’ll tell him we were friends.”

“You’ll tell him yourself.”

Al Hestian’s laugh was faint. “Humour me not, brother. There is a letter in my tent, back at the camp. I wrote it before we left. I would be grateful if you would see to its delivery. It’s… for lady of my acquaintance.”