Текст книги "Blood Song"

Автор книги: Anthony Ryan

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Since their return from the Martishe Barkus had lost his reluctance to work metal, presenting himself to Master Jestin and spending many an hour in the smithy helping to fashion the new weapons needed by the regiment. Master Grealin’s armoury was extensive but even the racks of weapons in the vaults were insufficient to arm every man and still provide for the Order’s needs. Vaelin did not object to Barkus taking up the hammer once again, especially since it seemed to make him so happy, but found it irksome that it took him away from his duties with the regiment. He would have to speak to him, as he had to speak to Nortah.

“How much did you have last night?”

Nortah shrugged. “Stopped counting after my sixth cup. Slept well though.”

“I’ll bet.” He sighed, hating the necessity of saying what he had to say. “I don’t begrudge a man a drink, brother, but you are an officer in this regiment. If you must get drunk, please do so out of sight of the men.”

“But the men like me,” Nortah protested with mock sincerity. “‘Come sup with us, brother,’ they say. ‘You’re not like the Young Hawk. We’re not scared shitless of you, oh no.’ They even invited me to come roger some whores with them. I was touched.” He laughed at Vaelin’s appalled expression. “Don’t worry, I’ve not quite sunk that far. Besides, from what I hear a visit to the camp will most likely leave a man with a fire raging in his britches.”

Vaelin decided it best not to enlighten Nortah with the news that the pox outbreak was now under control. He nodded at the bowmen. “How long till they’re ready?”

“In about seven years they’ll be as good as we are. Think the Cumbraelins will give us that long?”

“I can only hope so. I meant will they stand? Will they fight?”

Nortah looked at his men, his haunted eyes distant, no doubt picturing them in battle, hacked and bloodied. “They’ll fight,” he said eventually. “Poor bastards. They’ll fight all right.”

Chapter 5

He was dreaming of the Martishe when Frentis came to wake him, back in the clearing listening to the maddening enigma woven by Nersus Sil Nin. But now the red marble pattern of her eyes was jet black, like the stone that sat in the empty socket of the one-eyed man. The warm summer sun that had bathed the clearing in his vision was gone now, the ground thick with snow, the air cutting with its chill. And her words, whilst still mysterious, were cruel.

“You will kill and kill again, Beral Shak Ur,” she told him with a sickening smile, small points of light gleaming in the black orbs of her eyes. “You will witness the harvest of death under a blood-red sun. You’ll kill for your faith, for your King and for the Queen of Fire when she arises. Your legend will cover the world and it will be a song of blood.”

He was kneeling in the snow, his hands entwined on the hilt of his dagger, the blade slick with blood that shone black in the moonlight. Behind him there was a corpse, he could feel its heat seeping away into the snow. He knew the face of the corpse, he knew it was someone he loved. And he knew he had killed them. “I didn’t ask for this,” he said. “I never wanted it.”

“Want is nothing. Destiny is everything. Your are a plaything of fate, Beral Shak Ur.”

“I’ll choose my own fate,” he said, but the words were faint, empty, a child’s defiance to an indifferent parent.

Her laugh was a mocking cackle. “Choice is a lie. The greatest of lies.”

Her spite-filled features faded as a hand shook his shoulder. “Brother!” He came awake with a start, Frentis’s pale, worried face swimming into clarity through clouded eyes. “There’s a messenger here,” his brother said. “From the palace. The Aspect wants you.”

He dressed quickly, forcing the lingering nightmare from his mind as he made his way to the keep. He found the Aspect in his rooms reading from a scroll bearing the King’s seal. “The Fief Lord of Cumbrael is dead,” the Aspect told him without preamble. “It appears his son, his second son, has murdered him and claimed Lordship of the Fief. He calls for all loyal Cumbraelins and true servants of their god to rally to him and throw off the hated oppressor and heretic King Janus. He orders all adherents of the Faith to leave the Fief or face righteous execution. Reportedly some are already burning in their bonfires.” He paused, watching Vaelin’s face closely. “You know what this means, Vaelin?”

The conclusion was obvious if chilling. “There will be war.”

“Indeed. Battles and bloodshed, towns and cities will burn.” The Aspect’s voice was bitter as he tossed the King’s message onto his desk. “His Highness has ordered the Realm Guard to muster. Our regiment is to be at the north gate by noon tomorrow.”

“I’ll see to it, Aspect.”

“Are they ready?”

Vaelin recalled Nortah’s words and his own assessment of their discipline. “They will fight, Aspect. If we had more time they would fight better, but they will fight.”

“Very well. Brother Makril will command a scout troop of thirty brothers to accompany the regiment and provide reconnaissance. I would have liked a more sizeable contingent but our commands are scattered about the Realm and there is no time to recall sufficient numbers.”

The Aspect came closer, his face as serious as Vaelin had ever seen it. “Remember this above all. The regiment is under the King’s word but is a part of this Order and this Order is the sword of the Faith. The sword of the Faith cannot be stained with innocent blood. In Cumbrael you will see many things, many terrible things. They are a people who deny the Faith and indulge in the falsehood of god-worship but they are still subjects of this Realm. There will be great temptation to indulge your rage, to allow your men to abuse the people you find there. You must resist it. Rapists and thieves and any who abuse the people are to be flogged and hanged. You will show every kindness to the common folk of Cumbrael. You will show them the Faith is not vengeful.”

“I will, Aspect.”

The Aspect moved back to his desk, sitting down heavily, his long fingers clasped together in his lap, his thin face drawn and tired, eyes mournful. “I had hoped I would not see this Realm once again rent by war in my lifetime,” the Aspect said eventually. “ It was why we joined him, you see? Why we wedded the Faith to the crown. For peace and…” a faint smile curled his narrow lips, “for unity.”

“I… doubt the King wished this crisis to end in war, Aspect,” Vaelin offered.

The Aspect turned to him sharply and the sorrow was gone in an instant, replaced by the immobile certainty Vaelin had known since his boyhood. “The King’s wishes are not for us to know. Do not forget my instructions, Vaelin. Keep to the Faith and may the Departed guide your hand.”

The regiment marched under a slate grey sky, the late summer sun hidden by a bank of angry cloud that matched the grim mood of the men. It had taken longer to get them assembled and marching than Vaelin had liked and he found his temper flaring continually during the march to the city.

“Pick it up, lack-wit!” he snarled at one unfortunate soldier who dropped his pole-axe. “It’s worth more than you are. Sergeant, no rum for this man tonight.”

“Aye, my lord!” Sergeant Krelnik was always at his side, eyeing him with wary respect. Vaelin suspected the sergeant might not always be punctilious in enforcing his punishments, something he chose to ignore, although today he felt markedly less inclined to do so.

They arrived at the north gate an hour before noon, the men falling out on the side of the road, some grumbling at the lack of rest on the march, but not too loudly.

“Where are they all?” Barkus asked, looking at the empty plain. “Isn’t the whole Realm Guard supposed to be here?”

“Maybe they’re late,” Dentos suggested. “We beat them here cos we march faster.”

“Brother Commander Makril may have some answers,” Caenis nodded at the gate where Makril had appeared, leading his small company of mounted scouts at the gallop.

“The Realm Guard is mustering on the Western Road,” the Brother Commander told them as he reined in, scattering dust before him. “The Battle Lord orders us to wait here.”

“Battle Lord?” Vaelin asked. There hadn’t been a Battle Lord in the Realm since his father left the King’s service.

“Lord Marshal Al Hestian has been honoured by the King. He leads the Realm Guard to Cumbrael with orders to take the capital with all dispatch.”

Al Hestian…The King has put the Realm Guard in the hands of Linden’s father. Vaelin wished now he had met with the Lord Marshal when he delivered his sword to Linden’s brother. He would have given much to gauge the man’s temper, to know if he lusted for vengeance. If so the Aspect’s fears for the innocent people of Cumbrael would be well founded.

He turned to Sergeant Krelnik. “Make sure the men go easy on the water. No fires. We don’t know how long we’ll be here.”

“Aye my lord.”

They waited under the threatening sky, the men clustering together to play dice or toss board, the Order game having been enthusiastically adopted by the regiment. As in the Order throwing knives had become a form of currency and a sign of status amongst the soldiers, although Vaelin had been keen to ensure other Order traditions, such as thievery and frequent mealtime brawling, did not cross over into the ranks.

“Faith, Barkus! What is that?”

Dentos was staring at the object Barkus had unfurled from his saddle bag. It was about a yard long with a spiralled iron haft and a double headed blade that seemed to shine unnaturally in the meagre daylight. “Battle-axe,” Barkus replied. “Master Jestin helped me forge it.”

Looking at the weapon Vaelin experienced a murmur of disquiet from the blood-song, his unease deepened by what he knew of Barkus’s Dark affinity for metal.

“Star silver in the blade?” Nortah asked as they gathered round to inspect the weapon.

“Of course, only the on the edges though. The haft is hollow to keep it light.” He tossed the axe into the air where it turned end over end before landing in his palm. “See? Could bring down a sparrow in flight with this. Try it.”

He handed the weapon to Nortah who gave it a few practice swings, his eyebrows raising at the fluid passage of the blade through the air. “Sounds like it’s singing. Listen.” He swung the axe again and there was a faint, almost musical note in the air. Vaelin felt the pitch of the blood-song deepen at the sound and found himself edging away involuntarily, a dull nausea building in his gut.

“Want to try, brother?” Nortah offered him the axe.

Vaelin’s gaze was drawn to the axe blade, its gleaming star silver edge and the broad centre of the blade indented with an inscription. “You gave it a name?” he asked Barkus, not taking the axe.

“Bendra. For my… A woman I used to know.”

Nortah peered closely at the blade. “Can’t read it. What language is this?”

“Master Jestin said it was old Volarian. It’s a smith’s tradition to use it when inscribing blades. Dunno why.”

“Volarian smiths are counted the best in the world,” Caenis said. “It’s said they were the first race to smelt iron. Most of the secrets of the smithy originate with them.”

“Enough play, brothers,” Vaelin said, seized by a desire to be away from the weapon. “See to your companies. Make sure they haven’t contrived to lose any heavy gear on the march.”

It was an hour before another party came through the gate, twenty men of the mounted Palace Guard led by a tall red-haired young man on an impressive black stallion. Vaelin recognised the impeccably neat figure of Captain Smolen riding at his side.

“Get them into ranks!” Vaelin barked at Sergeant Krelnik. “Make it tidy. We have a royal visitor.”

He strode forward to greet the prince as the regiment quickly formed companies and stood to attention, raising a thick cloud of dust in the process. The prince’s party reined in as Vaelin sank to one knee, head bowed. “Highness.”

“Get up, brother,” Prince Malcius told him. “We have scant time for ceremony. Here.” He tossed Vaelin a scroll bearing the King’s seal. “Your orders. This regiment is at my disposal until further notice.” He glanced over his shoulder and Vaelin’s gaze was drawn to the hunched figure mounted in the front rank of the guards, a sallow faced man with red rimmed eyes and heavy brows denoting an extended period of over-indulgence. “You’ve met Lord Mustor before I believe,” Prince Malcius said.

“I have. My condolences on your father’s passing, my lord.” If the heir to Cumbrael noticed his offer of commiseration he gave no sign, squirming uncomfortably in his saddle and yawning.

“Lord Mustor will be accompanying us,” the prince informed him. He glanced around at the neatly arranged ranks. “Are they ready to march?”

“At your command, Highness.”

“Then let’s not dally. We will take the northern road and be at the bridge over the Brinewash by nightfall.”

Vaelin did a rough calculation of the distance. Nearly twenty miles, and on the northern road, away from the Realm Guard’s route. He pushed the torrent of questions to the back of his mind and gave a formal nod. “Very well, Highness.”

“I will proceed ahead and make camp.” The prince favoured him with a brief smile. “We’ll talk tonight. No doubt you’ll wish an explanation for all this.”

He spurred his horse and rode off at the gallop followed closely by the company of guardsmen. As they rode past Vaelin picked out another familiar face amongst the riders, a thin youthful face framed by a mane of black curls. His eyes met Vaelin’s briefly, an earnest expression seeking recognition, approval. Alucius Al Hestian. So he will ride to war after all. Vaelin turned away and began shouting orders.

Night was already drawing in when the regiment reached the timber bridge over the broad torrent of the Brinewash river. Vaelin ordered the camp raised and pickets posted. “No rum ration until this is over,” he told Sergeant Krelnik, dismounting from Spit and rubbing the ache in his back. “I expect several more days of hard marching. Don’t want the men’s feet slowed by liquor. Any man who complains can take it up with me personally.”

“There’ll be no complaints, my lord,” Krelnik assured him before striding off, his harsh gravelled voice casting forth a torrent of orders.

Leaving Spit in the care of a brother in Makril’s command he found the Prince’s party encamped near a willow tree close to the bridge. “Lord Vaelin,” Captain Smolen greeted him formally, snapping off a precise salute. “Good to see you again.”

“Captain.” Vaelin was still cautious of the Captain after his part in placing him in Princess Lyrna’s company. Still, it seemed churlish to hold it against him, he could understand how a man would find it all too easy to accede to her persuasion.

“Must say I’m glad of the chance to be a soldier again.” Captain Smolen inclined his head at the campfire where a huddled, cloaked figure stared into the flames, taking occasional sips from a wine bottle. “I feel I have been nurse-maiding the new Fief Lord long enough.”

“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.”

“That was better wasn’t it?” Alucius asked. “I am getting better?”

Vaelin sheathed his sword and gave the boy and pat on the shoulder. “It seems there’s a warrior in you after all.”

On the tenth day one of Brother Makril’s scouts reported the pass less than half a day’s march distant. Vaelin ordered the regiment to camp and rode ahead with Prince Malcius and Lord Mustor to locate the tunnel entrance, Makril’s command riding as escort. The green hills soon gave way to boulder strewn slopes on which the horses could find scant purchase. Spit grew fractious, tossing his head and snorting loudly.

“Foul tempered animal you have there, brother,” Prince Malcius observed.

“He doesn’t like the ground.” Vaelin dismounted, taking his bow and quiver from the saddle. “We’ll leave the horses here with one of Brother Makril’s men, proceed on foot.”

“Must we?” Lord Mustor asked. “It’s miles yet.” His sagging features showed the signs of yet another night’s indulgence and Vaelin was surprised he had managed to remain in the saddle for the duration of the march.