Текст книги "Blood Song"

Автор книги: Anthony Ryan

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 34 (всего у книги 44 страниц)

Whoever commanded the Alpiran host belatedly started to exert control over his forces, sending what infantry reserves remained to bolster the disintegrating line, five cohorts running forward to contend the momentum of the Realm Guard advance. But it was too late, the Alpiran line bowed, wavered and broke, Realm Guard streaming through the gap to assault the neighbouring Alpirans from the rear, the whole line breaking apart under the strain in the space of a few minutes. Not a man to miss an opportunity, the Battle Lord unleashed Fief Lord Theros’s knights, the mass of armour and horseflesh thundering through the remnants of the Alpiran right then wheeling around, wreaking slaughter on the Alpirans still thronging at the base of the hill despite the Cumbraelin arrow storm.

On the left the Alpiran line started to collapse as the soldiers saw the havoc being wrought on their comrades at the hill. Panic took hold of one cohort, the whole complement fleeing despite the exhortations of their leaders. The Realm Guard surged into the gap, more cohorts taking to flight as the whole line crumbled. Soon thousands of Alpirans were streaming away across the plain, raising a cloud of dust tall enough to obscure the sun and cast the battle in shadow.

On the slope before Vaelin the surviving Alpirans were at last attempting to escape the combined fury of the arrow storm and the onslaught of the Renfaelin knights. Seemingly too exhausted to run many simply stumbled away, clutching wounds or embedded shafts, too spent even to defend themselves when knights spurred amongst them to hack down with mace or longsword. Here and there knots of men fought on, islands of dogged resistance amidst the tide of steel and horse, but they were soon overwhelmed. Not one man had made it to within sword-reach of the summit and the Wolfrunners hadn’t lost a single soldier.

Over on the right the ever burgeoning dust-cloud spoke of an undiminished fury from the Alpiran cavalry and the Battle Lord ordered the Order companies into the fray. The blue cloaked brothers were soon swallowed by the dust and it was only a matter of minutes before Alpiran riders began to emerge, galloping westwards, foam streaming from the flanks and mouths of their horses. There were only a few hundred survivors from the thousands of horsemen that had sought to turn the flank of the Realm Guard.

Vaelin glanced up at the pale disc of the sun, tinged red by the dust. You will witness the harvest of death under a blood-red sun... Words from a dream, spoken by the spectre of Nersus Sil Nin. The thought that the dream’s portent might have a claim on his future left an unwelcome chill in his breast. The body cooling in the snow, the body of someone he had loved, someone he had killed…

“Faith!” Dentos exclaimed at Vaelin’s side, gazing at the spectacle before them with a mixture of awe and repulsion. “Never seen the like.”

“Don’t expect to see it again,” he replied, shaking his head to clear away the vestiges of the dream. “What we faced today was but a gathering of the garrisons of the northern coast. When the emperor’s real army comes north I doubt they’ll offer us so easy a triumph.”

Chapter 4

The Governor’s mansion at Untesh stood on a picturesque hill-top overlooking the harbour where the masts of the city’s scuttled merchant fleet jutted from the water like a submerged forest. The mansion’s gardens were rich in olive groves, statuary and avenues of acacia trees, tended by a small army of gardeners who had continued their daily labours without interruption following the Battle Lord’s assumption of residence. The rest of the mansion staff had acted similarly, going about their duties with mute servility which had done little to alleviate the Battle Lord’s insecurity. His guards watched the servants with a glowering vigilance and his meals were tasted twice before proceeding to his table. The dumb obedience of the mansion staff was, for the most part, mirrored in the city’s wider population. There had been some trouble with a few dozen wounded soldiers, survivors of what had become known as the Bloody Hill, mounting a shambolic attack on the main gate when the first Realm Guard regiments had trooped through, and meeting a predictable end. But for the most part the Alpirans were quiescent, apparently at the order of their governor who, before drinking poison along with his family, had issued a proclamation ordering no resistance. Apparently the man had been in command of Alpiran forces the day of the Bloody Hill and, feeling he had enough slaughter on his conscience, had no wish to face the gods with yet more weighing the scales against him.

Despite the lack of resistance Vaelin could see the resentment of the people in every snatched glance they cast in his direction, marking the shame that made them shuffle wordlessly about their business and avoid the gaze of their neighbours. Many had no doubt lost sons and husbands to the Bloody Hill and would nurse their grudges in silence, waiting for the emperor’s inevitable response. The atmosphere in the city was oppressive, made worse by the mood of the Realm Guard which had soured by the time they marched through the gate, the jubilation of victory fading in the face of the Battle Lord’s decision to leave the most badly wounded behind and the lack of plunder to be had in the Realm’s newest city. The day after their arrival a gallows had appeared in the central forum, three corpses dangling from the scaffold, all Realm Guard with signs hung about their neck proclaiming one a thief, one a deserter and the other a rapist. The king’s orders had been clear, they were to take the cities, not ruin them, and the Battle Lord felt no compunction in ensuring his orders were followed without demur. The men had taken to calling him Blood Rose in grim mockery of his family emblem. It seemed Al Hestian’s facility for victory was matched by his talent for making his men hate him.

Vaelin guided Spit along the acacia-lined avenue leading from the mansion gate to the courtyard, dismounting and offering the reins to a nearby groom. The man stood still, head bowed, eyes downcast, sweat shining on his skin in the hot afternoon sun. Vaelin noted the way his hands trembled. Glancing around he saw the other grooms had adopted the same stance, all standing immobile, refusing to look at him or see to his horse, accepting the consequences. Eruhin Makhtar, he thought with a sigh, tying Spit to a post with enough slack to reach the trough.

The council was already underway in the mansion’s main hall, a large marble chamber impressively decorated with mosaics on the walls and floor illustrating scenes from the legends of the principal Alpiran gods. As usual the council discussion had quickly degenerated into a heated argument. Baron Banders, who Vaelin had once seen beaten unconscious by Lord Darnel at the Summertide fair and had since regained his position of chief retainer to Fief Lord Theros, was exchanging insults with Count Marven, captain of the Nilsaelin contingent. The words “jumped up peasant” and “horse-shagging dullard” could be heard amidst the tumult as the two men jabbed fingers at each other and shrugged off the restraining hands of their companions. There had been some bad blood between the Nilsaelins and the rest of the army since the Bloody Hill, their contingent hadn’t been ordered forward until the enemy were already in flight and most had seemed more interested in looting Alpiran corpses than pursuing their broken army.

“You are late, Lord Vaelin,” the Battle Lord’s voice cut through the commotion, silencing the argument.

“I had far to ride, my lord,” Vaelin replied. Al Hestian had ordered his regiment to camp at an oasis a good five miles outside the city walls, ostensibly to guard a supply of fresh water for their next march but also a sensible precaution against the potentially violent reaction of the city-folk to Vaelin’s continued presence within the walls. It also afforded the Battle Lord an opportunity to rebuke him for lateness every time he convened a council.

“Well ride faster,” the Battle Lord told him curtly. “Enough of this,” he commanded the two fractious lords, now glowering at each other in furious silence. “Save your energies for the enemy. And before you ask Baron Banders, no I will not lift the stricture on challenges. Return to your seats.”

Vaelin took the only remaining chair and surveyed the rest of the council. Prince Malcius and Fief Lord Theros were present along with most of the army’s senior captains, joined by a comparatively junior figure from the Sixth Order, although he still outranked Vaelin in the Order’s hierarchy. Master Sollis was as lean as ever, with only a few more lines creasing his forehead and some grey in his close cropped hair to show the passing of the years. His cold grey eyes regarded Vaelin with neither warmth nor enmity. They had met only once in the years since the Test of the Sword, a brief, tense exchange of greetings at the Order House when the Aspect had summoned him for an account of the most recent Lonak raids. Vaelin knew he now commanded a company of brothers but had made no effort to seek him out, not trusting himself to control his anger at the inevitable rush of memories the sight of the sword-master provoked. My wife, Urlian Jurahl’s last breath. My wife…

“I have called you here,” the Battle Lord began, “to issue orders for the next phase of our campaign.” He spoke with a slightly theatrical air, imparting his words with a grave importance, although the impression was spoiled somewhat when he glanced over at his son, seated at a desk outside the circle, to ensure he was making notes. Alucius smiled at his father and jotted down a line or two in his leather-bound notebook. Vaelin noticed he stopped as soon as Al Hestian turned back to the council.

“We have won perhaps the greatest victory in the history of our Realm,” the Battle Lord went on. “But only a fool could imagine this war is over. We must strike swiftly if we are to fulfil our King’s commands. In six months the winter storms will sweep across the Erinean and our line of supply will be tenuous at best. Linesh and Marbellis must be in our hands before then. Word has come from the King that reinforcements will dock at Untesh within the month, some seven freshly raised regiments, five of foot and two of horse. They will make good our losses and garrison the city against siege. When they get here, we march. It only remains to decide where. Luckily we have new intelligence with which to formulate a strategy.” He turned to Sollis. “Brother?”

Sollis’s voice was coarser than Vaelin remembered, years of shouted commands adding a dry rasp to his tone. “At the Battle Lord’s order I conducted a reconnaissance of the defences at Linesh and Marbellis,” Sollis began. “From the scale of additional fortifications and numbers of troops visible it appears the remnants of the army defeated at the Bloody Hill have concentrated on Marbellis, as the largest city on the northern coast it offers the greatest chance for defence. Judging by the number of abandoned houses and villages in the environs it appears the common folk have also sought refuge there, no doubt swelling the garrison but also denuding supplies. In comparison Linesh appears less well prepared, I counted only a few dozen sentries on the walls and her garrison stays in the city, making no patrols. The walls are in a poor state of repair, although there appears to have been some effort to remedy this. However, there are no new fortifications and the ditch around the wall has not been deepened.”

“Ripe for the plucking, eh?” Fief Lord Theros commented. “Linesh first then on to Marbellis.”

“No,” the Battle Lord said. He assumed a thoughtful pose, a finger stroking his chin, although it was clear to Vaelin his strategy had been decided well in advance of this meeting. “No. It appears Linesh can be taken easily but to do so would add precious weeks to our march. The road between Untesh and Marbellis is more direct, and Marbellis is the pin on which ultimate victory rests, without it our efforts will have been for nothing. Our way is clear, we must divide the army. Lord Vaelin.”

Vaelin met the Battle Lord’s gaze, wishing for perhaps the thousandth time that the blood-song had not deserted him. At times like this he sorely missed its counsel. “My lord?”

“You will take command of three regiments of foot, Count Marven’s forces and one fifth of the Cumbraelin archers. You will proceed to Linesh immediately, take the city by storm and hold it against siege. Prince Malcius and his guard will remain in Untesh to govern the city according to Realm Law. The main force will proceed to Marbellis when the King’s reinforcements arrive. We will therefore have all three cities in our hands well before the dawn of winter.”

There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence, several attendees registering surprise or confusion but Prince Malcius was the first to voice concern. “I am to be left here whilst the Realm Guard marches onwards into even greater peril?”

“The decision was not mine, Highness. King Janus gave me specific orders before we sailed. I have written copies if you want them.”

The prince’s jaw clenched and Vaelin saw how he fought to control his fury and humiliation. After a moment he spoke again, a barely concealed choke in his voice. “You expect Lord Vaelin to take a city with barely eight thousand men?”

“A poorly defended city by all accounts,” the Battle Lord countered. “And I’m sure so vaunted a commander as Lord Vaelin is equal to the task.”

Count Marven coughed several times, face flushed. In accordance with Nilsaelin custom his head was shaved to grey stubble which, along with the gold ring he wore in his mutilated left ear, gave him the look of an outlaw, a trait he shared with most of his men. “My Lord,” he addressed Al Hestian. “I mean no disrespect to Lord Vaelin, but I would point out my rank…”

“Rank is unimportant when set against ability and experience,” the Battle Lord interrupted. “Lord Vaelin has fought and won many battles whilst you, I believe, have merely engaged in skirmishes with the many outlaw bands haunting the highways of your fief.”

Count Marven glowered but his mouth remained closed despite his obvious anger.

“I cannot believe,” Prince Malcius said, “that my father would countenance this plan.”

“King Janus gave command of this army to me, Highness.” Al Hestian’s tone was one of forced civility but his entirely reciprocated dislike of the prince was palpable.

The argument continued, rising in volume as Vaelin pondered the plan. From what Sollis had said taking the city may not be a major problem but holding it was another matter. So far no mention had been made of the Alpiran forces which were probably already marching northward, no doubt in considerable numbers, and Linesh stood at the extreme end of the principal route through the hills fringing the eastern edge of the desert. It would almost certainly be the first target before the Alpirans turned to Marbellis, made all the more tempting by the presence of the Hope Killer. To call it a vulnerable position was a considerable understatement, as the Battle Lord well knew.

He rids himself of a rival for glory, Vaelin thought. Knowing the Alpirans will assail Linesh with all their might to revenge themselves on the Hope Killer, thinning their ranks in the process, whilst he wins eternal fame by taking Marbellis and holding it against siege. And by rendering me so vulnerable the Alpirans will have ample opportunity to give him the revenge he craves. He frowned, remembering the Aspect’s instructions. Vulnerable… Away from the main body of the army, away from so many curious eyes. A tempting target…

“I believe this is an excellent plan,” he said brightly, quelling the blossoming fracas.

Prince Malcius stared at him, appalled. “My lord?”

“Battle Lord Al Hestian has difficult choices to make. Yet none can doubt his gifts for strategy after our recent victory. We should not lose faith in him now. I will happily accept this commission, and,” he gave Al Hestian a grave bow of respect, “I thank the Battle Lord for the honour.”

“You do see the trap in this, I assume?”

Vaelin unhitched Spit’s reins from the post and led him onto the gravel path, not looking at Sollis. “I see many things these days, master.”

“Brother,” Sollis corrected. “Brother Commander if you must. The days when you called me master are long past us.”

“And yet,” Vaelin checked the saddle strap and palmed away the dust on Spit’s flank, “it seems to me like yesterday.”

“You are no longer a child, brother. Sulking ill becomes a Sword of the Realm.”

Vaelin turned on him then, anger rising in his breast. Sollis met his gaze and made no backward step. One of the few men who would never be afraid of him. He knew he should welcome the company of such a man, but the Test of the Sword hung between them like a curse.

“I have my orders from the Aspect,” he told Sollis. “As, I’m sure, do you. I am merely attempting to follow them.”

“The Aspect ordered me to take my company into this carnival of fools. He did not say why.”

“Really? He told me more than I wanted to hear.” He fixed his eyes on Sollis’s face, ready to read the reaction to his words. “What do you know of the Seventh Order, brother? What can you tell me of the One Who Waits? What intelligence have you on the Aspect Massacre?”

Sollis blinked. It was his only reaction. “Nothing. Nothing you don’t already know.”

“Then leave me to my trap.” He put a foot in the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle. Glancing down at Sollis he saw something in his face he had never expected to see: uncertainty. “If you see the Realm again and I do not,” Vaelin said, “tell the Aspect I did what I could. The Aspects, all seven of them, should seek counsel with Princess Lyrna, she is the hope of the Realm.”

He spurred Spit into a gallop and tore away, a cloud of gravel in his wake, exultant in the finality of his course. Linesh, I will have answers in Linesh.

“It was a clever plan.”

Holus Nester Aruan, governor of Linesh, was a portly man of about fifty with a jewelled ring on each of his stubby fingers and mingled expression of fear and anger on his fleshy face. They had found him in a small study off the mansion’s main hallway and his wrist bore a bruise from when Frentis had twisted a dagger from his grasp. He offered no reply to Vaelin’s words and spat on the intricate floor mosaic, closing his eyes and breathing a heavy sigh, obviously expecting death.

“Gutsy bugger isn’t he?” Dentos observed.

“Leaving a gap in the wall,” Vaelin went on. “Only making a show of repairs whilst you prepare a spiked ditch behind for us to fall into. Clever.”

“Just kill me and have done,” the Governor grated. “I am dishonoured enough without suffering your empty platitudes.” He gave a conspicuous sniff, wrinkling his nose. “Is shit the natural aroma for Northmen?”

Vaelin glanced at his heavily stained clothing. Frentis and Dentos were similarly besmirched and exuded an equally appalling stench. “Your sewers need some attention,” he replied. “There are several blockages.”

The governor gave a small moan and grimaced in realisation. “The drain in the harbour.”

“Indeed, easily accessible at low tide, once the bars were removed. Brother Frentis here spent four nights creeping across the sands at low tide to scrape away the mortar.” Vaelin went to the window and gestured at the tower above the main gate. A flaming torch could be seen waving back and forth in the darkness. “The signal confirming our success. The walls are in our hands and your garrison is captured. The city is ours, my lord.”

The governor looked at Vaelin closely, scrutinising his face and clothing. “A tall warrior in a blue cloak,” he murmured, eyes narrowing. “Eyes of black with a jackal’s cunning. Hope Killer.” A profound expression of sorrow covered his features. “You have doomed us all by coming here. When the emperor learns you are within our walls his cohorts will burn the city to the ground just to burn you.”

“That won’t happen,” Vaelin assured him. “My King will be angry if I oversee the destruction of his newest dominion.”

“Your king is a madman and you are his rabid dog.”

Frentis bridled. “Watch your mouth…”

Vaelin held up a hand to silence him. “If insulting me relieves your guilt then feel free to do so. But at least allow me to present our terms.”

The governor frowned in puzzlement. “Terms? What terms can there be? You have conquered us.”

“You and your fellow citizens are now subjects of the Unified Realm, with all the rights and privileges that entails. We are not here as slavers or thieves. This is a thriving port and King Janus desires it remains so, with as little disturbance as possible to its current administration.”

“If your king expects me to serve him, he truly is mad. My life is already forfeit, the emperor will expect me to take the honourable course, as well he should.”

“Hasta!” There was a shout from the doorway and a girl burst into the room. She was in her mid-teens and dressed in white cotton shift. Her eyes were wide with fear and a small knife was clutched in her hand. Frentis moved to intercept her but Vaelin waved him back and she rushed to the governor’s side, positioning herself between them, waving her knife at Vaelin and glaring defiance. Her words were heavily accented and it took him a moment to comprehend them. “Leave my father alone!”

The governor put his hands on her shoulders, speaking softly into her ear. She trembled, eyes brimming with tears, the knife shuddering in her hands. Vaelin noted the gentleness with which the governor calmed her, taking the knife from her and pulling her close as she collapsed in tears.

“In Untesh,” Vaelin said. “The governor’s family were obliged to join him in death. This land has some strange customs.”

The governor shot him a guarded look of resentment and continued to cradle his daughter.

“How old is she?” Vaelin asked. “Is she your only child?”

The governor gave no reply but his embrace tightened on the girl.

“She has nothing to fear from me or any of my men,” Vaelin told him. “They have orders to avoid bloodshed wherever possible. They will be quartered within strictly ordered limits and will not patrol the streets. We will pay for any food or goods we require. If any of my men abuses one of your citizens you will report it to me and I will see him executed. You will continue to administer the city and see to the needs of the population. Existing taxes will continue to be collected. One of my officers, Brother Caenis, will meet with you tomorrow to discuss the details. Do I have your agreement, my lord?”

The governor stroked his daughter’s hair and gave a curt nod, shame bringing tears to his eyes. Vaelin gave a formal bow of respect. “Please forgive the intrusion. We will speak again soon.”

They were moving to the door when it hit him, the blood-song a hammer blow in his mind, louder and clearer than he had ever heard it. Vaelin tasted iron in his mouth and licked his upper lip finding blood gushing from his nose in a thick stream. He felt himself growing colder and stumbled to his knees, Dentos reaching out to steady him as blood spattered onto the mosaic. A fresh wetness on his cheeks told him his ears were also bleeding.

“Brother!?” Dentos’s voice was pitched high in alarm. Frentis was on the verge of panic, sword drawn and glaring warningly at the governor who looked down at Vaelin with a mixture of terror and bafflement.

His vision swam and the mansion faded, mist and shadow closing around him. There was a sound in the gloom, a rhythmic clunk of metal on stone and a vague image of a chisel chipping at a block of marble. The chisel moved unceasingly, faster and faster, faster than any human hand could wield it, and a face began to emerge from the stone…

ENOUGH!

The voice was a blood-song. He knew it instinctively. Another blood-song. The tone was different to his own, stronger and more controlled. Another voice speaking in his mind. The marble face dissolved and drifted away like sand on the wind, the sound of the chisel stopped and did not resume.

Your song is unschooled, the voice said. It makes you vulnerable. You should be wary. Not every Singer is a friend.

He tried to answer but the words choked him. The song, he realised. He can only hear the song. He struggled to summon the music, to sing his reply, but all he could produce was a thin trill of alarm.

Don’t fear me, the voice said. Find me when you recover from this. I have something for you.

He summoned all his remaining strength, forcing the song into a single word. Where?

The image of the chisel and the stone returned, but this time the marble block was whole, the face it contained still hidden, the chisel lay atop it, waiting. You know where.