“Lord Al Jelnek’s men ran away,” Nortah said. “Didn’t seem much point staying out there.”
“Was I asking you, snot-boy?” Makril demanded. He had taken an instant dislike to all of them, but reserved most of his bile for Nortah. Beside him his mongrel, Snout, gave a growl of agreement. Where he found the animal Vaelin had no idea, apparently Makril had given up on slave-hounds after his experience with Scratch and opted for the largest and most ill-tempered hunting dog he could find, regardless of breeding. Several soldiers bore scars as evidence of Snout’s dislike of petting or eye contact.
Nortah stared back at Makril with fully reciprocated dislike. Vaelin worried continually what would happen if the two were left alone together.
“We thought it best to return with the body, brother,” Vaelin said. “We will patrol ourselves this evening.”
Makril turned his glower on Vaelin. “Some of the men made it back. Said there had been at least fifty scum out there.” Makril always referred to the Cumbraelins as scum. “How many did you get?”
Vaelin hefted the longbow in his hand. “One.”
Makril’s bushy eyebrows knitted together. “One out of fifty?”
“One out of one, brother.”
Makril sighed heavily. “We better report to his lordship. He’s got another letter to write.”
Lord Linden Al Hestian was tall and handsome with an easy smile and a lively sense of humour. He was courageous in battle and skilled with sword and lance. Contrary to the King’s description he also turned out to posses a quick mind and his apparent arrogance was merely the swagger of a young man who had achieved much in his short life and saw little reason to hide his self satisfaction. Vaelin, much to his regret, found himself liking the young noble, although he had to admit the man made a terrible leader, his nature simply lacked the necessary ruthlessness. He had threatened the men with flogging many times but had yet to inflict any punishment at all despite obvious cowardice, drunkenness and a camp that was a disgrace to soldierly conduct.
“Brothers!” he greeted them with a broad smile as they approached his tent, the smile fading as he saw the body slung over the horse. Clearly none of the fleeing men had bothered to tell him the news.
“My condolences, my Lord,” Vaelin said. He knew the two men had been friends since childhood.
Linden Al Hestian moved to the corpse, his face stricken with grief, and gently touched his dead friend’s hair. “Did he go down fighting?” he asked after a moment, voice thick with emotion.
Vaelin saw Nortah open his mouth to reply and cut in quickly. Nortah had a tendency to indulge his cruel streak where Lord Al Hestian was concerned, voicing barely concealed insults and criticism without hesitation. “He was very brave, my Lord.”
Martil Al Jelnek had wept like a child with the arrow buried in his gut, his hands clutched at Vaelin in brief, desperate spasms as the light of life faded from his eyes and effluent spouted from his mouth. He had tried to say something at the end, Vaelin was sure of it, his mouth stumbling over a torrent of bile choked gibberish. Perhaps some message for his beloved. They would never know.
“Brave,” Al Hestian repeated with a faint smile. “Yes, he was always that.”
“His men ran,” Nortah said. “One arrow and they ran. This regiment of yours is no more than a rabble of criminal scum.”
“Enough!” Brother Makril barked.
Sergeant Krelnik approached, snapping a smart salute at Al Hestian. He was a stocky man nearing his fiftieth year with a heavily scarred face and a fearsome disposition towards the men. One of the few experienced soldiers to enlist in the regiment, having served in the Realm Guard since the age of sixteen, Al Hestian had wisely made him Master Sergeant, responsible for discipline. But despite his best efforts Nortah’s description was accurate, the regiment remained a rabble.
“I’ll order the pyre built, my lord,” Sergeant Krelnik said. “We should give him to the flames tonight.”
Al Hestian nodded, stepping back from the corpse. “Yes. Thank you sergeant. And you brothers, for bringing him back.” He moved back to his tent. “Brother Makril, Brother Vaelin, may I have a moment?”
Al Hestian’s tent was free of the luxuries found in the quarters of the other nobles, the available space taken up with his weapons and armour which he cleaned and maintained himself. Most of the other nobles had brought along a servant or two but apparently Lord Al Hestian was capable of seeing to his own needs.