“HOLD!” the voice again, cutting through the noise. Looking round Vaelin saw a mounted figure kicking his horse forward through the crush, occasionally laying about himself with a riding crop to speed progress. “Make way!” he commanded. “King’s business. Make way!”
Emerging from the throng he drew his mount up and Vaelin saw him clearly. A tall man on a black war horse, a thoroughbred of Renfaelin stock. He wore a ceremonial uniform with a black feather in his tunic and the short-plumed helmet of an officer on his head, beneath the visor the rider’s lean, clean-shaven face was hard with fury. The single four pointed star on his breast-plate depicted his rank: Lord Marshal of the Realm Guard. Behind the mounted man a troop of Blackhawks on foot emerged and fanned out, swords drawn, pushing the crowd back with the aid of a few kicks and punches. Some of them tended to their fallen comrades, casting vengeful glances at Vaelin as they did so. The man with Vaelin’s knife through his wrist was weeping openly in pain.
Seeing no avenue of escape, Vaelin gently laid Nortah on the earth and stepped away, careful to keep himself between his friend and the man on the horse.
“What is this?” the marshal demanded.
“I answer to the Order,” Vaelin replied.
“You’ll answer to me, Order whelp or I’ll string you from the nearest tree by your guts.”
Vaelin resisted the impulse to draw his sword as some of the Blackhawks moved closer. He knew he couldn’t fight them all, not without killing a few which was unlikely to help Nortah.
“Might I know your name, my lord?” he enquired, desperately playing for time and hoping his voice didn’t tremble.
“I’ll know your name first, whelp.”
“Vaelin Al Sorna. Brother of the Sixth Order, awaiting confirmation.”
The name ran through the crowd like a wave. “Sorna…”
“Battle lord’s boy…”
“Should’ve known, spitting image…”
The rider’s eyes narrowed at the name but his furious expression remained firmly in place. “Lakrhil Al Hestian,” he said. “Lord Marshal of the Twenty-Seventh Regiment of Horse and Sword of the Realm.” He nudged his mount closer, peering down at Nortah’s inert form. “And him?”
“Brother Nortah,” Vaelin said.
“I’m told he tried to rescue the traitor. Why would a brother of the Order do such a thing, I wonder?”
He knows, Vaelin realised. He knows who Nortah is. “I couldn’t say, Lord Marshal,” he replied. “I saw my brother about to be murdered and prevented it.”
“Murdered my arse!” one of the Blackhawks spat, face flushed with anger. “He was resisting lawful arrest.”
“He is of the Order,” Vaelin spoke to Al Hestian. “Like me. We answer to the Order. If you believe we have transgressed you must take the matter to our Aspect.”
“All are subject to King’s Law, boy,” Al Hestian replied evenly. “Brothers, soldiers and Battle Lords.” He stared hard into Vaelin’s eyes. “And you and your brother will answer to it.” He motioned his men forward. “Keep you hands clear of your weapons, boy, or you’ll be answering to the Departed.”
Vaelin reached back to grasp his sword hilt as the Blackhawks advanced. Perhaps if he wounded a few he could create enough confusion to escape into the crowd with Nortah. There could be no return to the Order after this, no welcome for those that fought the Realm Guard. Life as an outlaw, Vaelin pondered. Can’t be that bad.
“Easy now, lad,” one of the Blackhawks warned, a veteran sergeant with a weather beaten face. He advanced slowly, his sword held low, a dagger in his left hand. Seeing the way his feet moved and the easy balance of his stance Vaelin judged him to be the most dangerous of his opponents. “Leave the sword where it is,” the sergeant continued. “No need for any more blood here. You let us take you in and it’ll all get sorted out, nice and civilised.”
Seeing the wary fury in the faces of the other Blackhawks, Vaelin judged that the treatment he and Nortah would receive would be anything but civilised.
“I’ve no wish to spill any blood,” he told the sergeant, drawing his sword. “But I will if you make me.”
“The hour drags ever onwards, sergeant,” Al Hestian drawled, leaning forward in his saddle. “End this…”
“Well here’s a pretty picture!” a voiced boomed from the crowd, the throng parting amidst shouts of protest as three figures forced their way through.
Vaelin felt a tug at his heart. It was Barkus, flanked by Caenis and Dentos. Barkus was smiling at the Crows, a picture of affability. By contrast Caenis and Dentos stared at them with the flat concentrated aggression they had learned through years of hard training. They all had their swords drawn.
“A pretty picture indeed!” Barkus went on as the three of them fell in beside Vaelin. “A brace of Hawks all lined up for plucking.”
“Get out of here boy!” Al Hestian spat at Barkus. “This is not your concern.”
“Heard the commotion,” Barkus told Vaelin, ignoring Al Hestian. He glanced back at Nortah’s inert form. “Snuck out did he?”