“Congratulations, brother,” Vaelin offered as they made their way towards the practice ground where Al Hestian’s regiment was encamped. There were no barracks available for them so the Aspect had granted permission to remain at the Order House. Vaelin suspected no provision had been made for them in the city because the King hadn’t expected any to return.
Makril paused, regarding him with silent scrutiny.
“A Commander and a Master,” Vaelin went on, discomfited by the tracker’s silence. “An impressive achievement.”
Makril stepped close to him, his nostrils flared, drawing the air in. Vaelin resisted the impulse to reach for his hunting knife.
“Never did like your scent, brother,” Markil said. “Something not quite natural about it. And now you stink of guilt. Why is that?” Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked off, a stocky figure in the gloom. He gave a brief, shrill whistle and his hound emerged from the shadows to pad alongside as he made his way to the keep.
The tower room he had shared with the others for so many years was now occupied by a fresh group of students so they had been obliged to camp with the reigment. He found his brothers clustered around the fire, regaling Frentis with tales of their time in the Martishe.
“…went straight through two men,” Dentos was saying. “A single arrow, I swear. Never seen nothing like it.”
Vaelin took a seat next to Frentis. Scratch, who had been curled up at his feet, rose and came to him, nuzzling his hand in search of petting. Vaelin scratched his ears, realising he had missed the slave-hound greatly but had no regrets about leaving him behind. The Martishe would have been a fine playground for him but Vaelin felt he had tasted enough human blood already.
“The Aspect thanks us for our service,” he told them, stretching his hands out to the fire. “The letters we found are not to be discussed.”
“What letters?” Frentis asked. Barkus threw a half-eaten chicken leg at him.
“Did he say where we’re going next?” Dentos asked, passing him a cup of wine.
Vaelin shook his head. “I’m to accompany him to the palace tomorrow.”
Nortah snorted and gulped a mouthful of wine. “You don’t need the Dark to see the future for us.” His words were loud and slurred, chin stained red with spilled drink. “On to Cumbrael!” He got to his feet, raising his cup to the air. “First the forest then the Fief. We’ll bring the Faith to them all, the Denier bastards. Whether they like it or not!”
“Nortah-” Caenis reached up to pull him down but Nortah shrugged him off.
“It’s not as if we’ve slaughtered enough Cumbraelins already, is it? Only killed ten of them myself in that bloody forest. How about you, brother?” He swayed towards Caenis. “Bet you can beat that, eh? At least twice as many, I’d say.” He swung towards Frentis. “Should’ve been there, m’boy. We bathed in more blood than your friend One Eye ever did.”
Frentis’s face darkened and Vaelin gripped his shoulder as he tensed. “Have another drink, brother,” he told Nortah. “It’ll help you sleep.”
“Sleep?” Nortah slumped back to the ground. “Haven’t done much of that recently.” He held up his cup for Caenis to pour more wine, staring morosely into the fire.
They sat in uncomfortable silence for a while, Vaelin grateful for the distraction provided by one of the soldiers at a neighbouring fire. The man had found a mandolin somewhere, probably looted from a Cumbraelin corpse in the forest, and played it with considerable skill, the tune melodious but sombre, the whole camp falling quiet to listen. Soon the player had an audience clustered around him and began to sing a tune Vaelin recognised as the Warrior’s Lament:
“A warrior’s song is a lonely tune
Full of fire and gone too soon
Warriors sing of fallen friends
Lost battles and bloody ends…”
The men applauded loudly when he finished, calling for more. Vaelin made his way through the small crowd. The player was a thin faced man of about twenty years. Vaelin recognised him as one of the thirty chosen men who had taken part in their final battle in the forest, the stitched cut on his forehead testified that he had done some fighting. Vaelin struggled to remember his name but realised with shame that he hadn’t bothered to learn the names of any of the men they had trained. Perhaps, like the king, he hadn’t expected any to live.
“You play very well,” he said.
The man gave a nervous smile. The soldiers had never lost their fear of Vaelin and few made any effort to speak to him, most taking care to avoid catching his eye.
“I was apprenticed to a minstrel, brother,” the man said. His accent differed to that of his comrades, the words precisely spoken, the tone almost cultured.
“Then why are you a soldier?”
The man shrugged. “My master had a daughter.”
The gathered men laughed knowingly.
“I think he taught you well, in any case,” Vaelin said. “What’s your name?”
“Janril, brother. Janril Norin.”