Raven's Shadow 01 - Blood Song

“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.”