“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.”