He was called to the gate at midnight, Janril Norin limping to his room in the Guild house to wake him.
“ Scores of horsemen on the plain, my lord,” the minstrel said. “Brother Caenis requested your presence.”
He quickly strapped on his sword and mounted Spit, galloping to the gatehouse in a few minutes. Caenis was already there, ordering more archers onto the walls. They climbed the stairs to the upper battlements where one of Count Marven’s Nilsaelins pointed to the plain. “Near five hundred of the buggers, my lord,” the man said, voice shrill with alarm.
Vaelin calmed him with a pat to the shoulder and moved to the battlement, looking down on a small host of armoured riders, steel gleaming a faint blue in the dim light from the crescent moon. At their head a burly figure in rust stained armour glared up at them. “You ever going to open this bloody gate?” Baron Banders demanded. “My men are hungry and I’ve got blisters on my arse.”
Shorn of his armour the baron was smaller in stature but no less bullish. “Pah!” he spat a mouthful of wine onto the floor of the guild house chamber which served as their meal hall. “Alpiran piss. Don’t you have any Cumbraelin to offer an honoured guest, my lord?”
“ I regret my brothers and I are guilty of exhausting our reserves, Baron,” Vaelin replied. “My apologies.”
Banders shrugged and reached for the roasted chicken on the table, tearing off a leg and chomping into the flesh. “I see you managed to leave most of this place standing,” he commented around a mouthful. “Locals couldn’t have put up much of a fight.”
“ We were able to effect a stealthy seizure of the city. The governor has proved a pragmatic man. There was little bloodshed.”
The Baron’s face became sombre and he paused for a moment before washing down his food and reaching for more. “Couldn’t say the same about Marbellis. Thought the place was going to burn forever.”
Vaelin’s disquiet deepened. The Baron’s unexpected appearance was unsettling, and it seemed he had dark news to impart. “The siege was difficult?”
Banders snorted, pouring himself more wine. “Four weeks of pounding with the engines before we had a practical breach. Every night they’d sally out, small parties of dagger men, sneaking through our lines to cut throats and hole the water barrels. Every bloody night a sleepless trial. The Departed know how many men we lost. Then the Battle Lord sent three full regiments into the breach. Maybe fifty men made it out again, all wounded. The Alpirans had set traps in the breach, spiked pits and so forth. When the Realm Guard got held up by the pits they sent bundles of tindling rolling in, all soaked in oil. Their archers set them blazing with fire arrows.” He paused, eyes closed, a small shudder ran through him. “You could hear the screams a mile away.”
“ The city is not taken?”
“ Oh it’s taken. Taken and taken again like a cheap whore.” Banders belched. “Blood Rose licked his wounds and drew his plan well. In truth I think his assault on the breach was a grand ruse, a sacrifice to convince the Alpirans they were facing a fool. Two nights later he drew up four regiments opposite the breach, making ready to assault. At the same time he sent the entire remaining Realm Guard infantry against the eastern wall with scaling ladders. He gambled the Alpirans were concentrating their strength at the breach and didn’t leave enough men to defend the walls. Turns out he was right. Took all night and the cost was high but by morning the city was ours, what was left of it.”
Banders lapsed into silence, concentrating on his meal. Vaelin let him eat and found his gaze lingering on the baron’s perennially rust stained armour. On seeing it up close for the first time he noticed those parts of steel plate not besmirched with corrosion gleamed with a polished sheen and the rust itself had an odd waxy texture.
“ It’s paint,” he said aloud.
“ Mmmm?” Banders glanced over at his armour and grunted. “Oh that. A man should try to live up to his legend, don’t you think?”
“ The legend of the rusty knight?” Vaelin asked. “Can’t say I’ve heard it, my lord.”
“ Aha, but you’re not Renfaelin.” Banders grinned. “My father was a boisterous, kind hearted fellow, but over fond of dice and harlots and consequently unable to leave me much more than a crumbling hold-fast and a rusty suit of armour, which I was obliged to wear when answering the Lord’s call to war. Luckily my father had managed to pass on something of his skill with the lance and so my standing grew with every battle and tourney. I was famed as the Rust Knight, loved by the commons for my poverty. The armour became my banner, made me easy to find in the melee, something for the peasants to cheer and my men to rally to, once I had fortune enough to hire some of course.”
“ So this is not the original armour?”
Banders laughed heartily. “Faith no, brother! That’s all rusted to uselessness years ago. Even the best armour rarely lasts more than a few years in any case, battle and the elements take their toll. We have a saying in Renfael: if you want to be richer than a lord, become a blacksmith.” He chuckled and poured himself more wine.
“ Why are you here, baron?” Vaelin asked him. “Do you bring word from the Battle Lord?”
The Baron’s expression sobered once again. “I do. I also bring myself and my men. Three hundred knights and two hundred armed retainers and assorted squires, if you’ll have us.”
“ You and your men are most welcome, but will Fief Lord Theros not have need of your services?”
Banders set aside his wine and sighed heavily, meeting Vaelin’s eyes with a level gaze. “I have been dismissed from the Fief Lord’s service, brother. Not for the first time, but I suspect the last. The Battle Lord bid me offer my command to you.”
“ You quarrelled with the Fief Lord?”
“ Not with him, no.” His mouth was set in a hard, unyielding line and Vaelin sensed it was best to let the matter drop.
“ And the Battle Lord’s word?”
Banders pulled a sealed letter from his shirt and tossed it on the table. “I know the contents, to save you reading it. You are instructed to make the city safe against imminent siege. Order patrols from Marbellis spied a great host of Alpirans making its way north. They appear intent on bypassing Marbellis and seizing Linesh with all dispatch.” He took another, deep gulp of wine, wiping his mouth and belching again. “My advice, brother, commandeer the merchant fleet and sail your men back to the Realm. There isn’t a hope of holding this place against so many.”
“ At least ten cohorts of infantry, another five of horse and assorted savages from the southern provinces of the Empire. Near twenty thousand in all.” Banders’s voice was light but all present could sense the weight behind his levity. Vaelin had called a council of captains in the Guild house, having had Caenis search the city archive for the largest and most accurate map of the northern Alpiran coast.
“ I thought there would be more,” Caenis said. “The Emperor’s army is supposed to be beyond counting.”
“ Indeed there are more, brother,” Banders assured him. “This is just the vanguard. The few prisoners we took in Marbellis were happy to confirm it. The force marching on this city is the elite of the Alpiran army. The finest infantry and cavalry he can muster, all veterans of the border wars with the Volarians. Don’t underestimate the savages either, all warriors born. It’s said they spend their lives worshipping the emperor like a god and fighting each other over petty insults, which they’re happy to put aside when he calls them to war. Seems they like the taste of defeated enemies.”
“ Siege engines?” Vaelin asked.
Banders nodded. “Ten of them, much taller and heftier than anything we have, can sling a boulder the size of musk-ox over three hundred paces.”
Vaelin glanced around the table gauging the reaction of the other captains to the baron’s words. Count Marven was rigidly controlled, seemingly wary of betraying any emotion which might undermine his jealously guarded status. Lord Marshal Al Cordlin had paled visibly and kept clutching his recently healed arm, a faint sheen of sweat beginning to show on his upper lip. Lord Marshal Al Trendil seemed lost in thought, stroking his chin, eyes distant. Vaelin assumed he was calculating if he could escape with all the spoils he had looted at Untesh. Only Bren Antesh seemed unaffected, arms folded and regarding Banders with only a mild interest.
“ How long do we have?” Caenis asked the baron.
“ Brother Sollis put them here.” Banders tapped a finger to the map spread out on the table before them, picking out a point about twenty miles south-west of Marbellis. “That was twelve days ago.”
“ An army that size couldn’t cover more than fifteen miles a day,” Count Marven mused in a deliberately measured tone. “Less in the desert.”
“ Gives us maybe another two weeks,” Lord Marshal Al Cordlin said, his voice was pitched slightly high and he coughed before continuing. “Ample time, my lord.”
Vaelin frowned at him. “Ample time for what?”
“ Why, evacuation of course.” Al Cordlin’s eyes cast around the table, seeking support. “I know there aren’t sufficient ships remaining to carry the whole of the army, but the senior officers could be got away easily. The men can march to Untesh…”
“ We are ordered to hold this city,” Vaelin told him.
“ Against twenty thousand?” Al Cordlin gave a short and somewhat hysterical laugh. “More than three times our number, and elite troops at that. It would be madness to…”
“ Lord Marshal Al Cordlin I hereby relieve you of your command.” Vaelin nodded at the door. “Leave this room. In the morning you will be escorted to the harbour where you will take ship for the Realm. Until then keep to your quarters, I don’t want the men infected with your cowardice.”
Al Cordlin rocked back on his heels as if struck, beginning to babble. “This is… Such insults are unwarranted. My regiment was given to me by the king…”
“ Just get out.”
The stricken lord cast one more final glance at the rest of the captains, finding either indifference or wary discomfort, before moving to the door and making his exit. “Any more suggestions of evacuation will receive the same response,” Vaelin told the council. “I trust that’s understood.”
He turned his attention back to the map, ignoring the chorus of affirmation. Once again he was struck by the barrenness of the region, marvelling that three large cities such as Untesh, Linesh and Marbellis could exist on the fringes of such trackless desert. All dust and scrub, as Frentis had said. Haven’t seen a tree since we landed… “No trees.”
“ My lord?” Baron Banders asked.
Vaelin gave no reply and kept his attention on the map as something stirred, the seed of a stratagem nurtured by a faint murmur from the blood-song, building to a chorus as his eyes picked out a pictogram about thirty miles south of the city; a copse of palm trees surrounding a small pool. “What’s this?” he asked Caenis.
“ The Lehlun Oasis, brother. The only sizeable source of water on the southern caravan route.”
“ Meaning,” Count Marven said, “the Alpiran army will have to stop there on the way north.”
“ You mean to poison the water, my lord?” Lord Marshal Al Trendil asked. “An excellent notion. We could spoil it with animal carcasses…”
“ I don’t mean to do any such thing,” Vaelin replied, continuing to let the blood-song feed his design. The risks are great, and the cost…
“ We should seal the city, my lord,” Count Marven said, breaking the silence which Vaelin realised had lasted several minutes. “The southbound caravans will surely pass word of our numbers to the enemy.”
“ People have been leaving by the dozen since the threat of the Red Hand faded,” Vaelin said. “I’d be greatly surprised if the Alpiran commander doesn’t already possess a full picture of our numbers and our preparations. Besides, letting him think us weak could work to our advantage. An overconfident enemy is prone to carelessness.”
He gave the map a final glance and moved back from the table. “Baron Banders, I apologise for asking you to take to the saddle again so soon after your arrival, but I require you and your knights on the morrow.” He turned to Caenis. “Brother, have the scout troop assemble at dawn, I will take command personally. In my absence the city is yours. Make every effort to deepen the ditch around the walls and double its width.”
“ You intend to ambush an army of twenty thousand with a few hundred men?” Count Marven was incredulous. “What can you hope to achieve?”
Vaelin was already moving to the door. “An axe without a blade is just a stick.”
Further inland the northern desert sands rose into tall dunes, stretching to the horizon like a storm swept sea frozen in gold under a cloudless sky. The sun was too intense to permit marching during the day and they were obliged to travel by night, sheltering under tents in daylight whilst the knights grumbled and their war-horses nickered and stamped hooves in irritation at the unaccustomed heat.
“ Noisy buggers, this lot,” Dentos observed on the second day out.
Vaelin glanced over at a clutch of knights, bickering and shoving each other over a game of dice. Nearby another knight was loudly berating his squire for the lack of polish on his breast plate. He had to agree the knights were hardly the most stealthy soldiers and he would have gladly exchanged them all for a single company from the Order, but there were no brothers to be had and he needed cavalry for this to work.
“ It shouldn’t matter,” he replied. “They only have to make one charge.” Though, I couldn’t say how many will be left after that.
“ What about patrols?” Frentis asked. “The Alpirans would be fools not to scout their flanks.”
“ This far out from the city, I’m hoping they’re foolish enough to do just that. If not, we’ll only have to linger for one day in any case. Any patrol that finds us will have to be silenced and we’ll hope they aren’t missed by nightfall.”
It took another two nights before the oasis came into view, shimmering into solidity amidst the baking dunes. Vaelin was surprised by the size of it, expecting little more than a pond and a few palms, but in fact found a small lake surrounded by lush vegetation, a near irresistible jewel of green and blue.
“ No sign of the Alpirans, brother,” Frentis said, reining in with the scout troop at the foot of the dune where he had halted to survey the oasis. “Seems we beat them to it, like you said.”
“ Caravans?” Vaelin asked him.
“ Nothing for miles around.”
“ We saw scant sign of traders on our journey north, my lord,” Baron Banders commented. “War is never good for commerce. Lest your trading in steel o’course.”
Vaelin surveyed the desert, spying a tall, almost mountainous dune two miles to the west. “There,” he said, pointing. “We’ll camp on the westward slope. No fires, and it would be greatly appreciated, Baron, if your men refrained from excessive noise.”
“ I’ll do what I can, my lord. But they’re not peasants, y’know. Can’t just flog them like your lot.”
“ Maybe you should, milord,” Dentos suggested. “Remind ‘em they bleed the same colour as us peasants.”
“ They’ll bleed well enough when the Alpirans come, brother,” Banders snapped back, his already flushed face colouring further.
“ Enough,” Vaelin cut in. “Brother Dentos, go with Brother Frentis. Fetch as much water as you can carry, leave as little sign as possible. I don’t want our foes to think anything bigger than a spice caravan has passed here in weeks.”
It was two more days before the Emperor’s army appeared, heralded by a tall column of dust rising above the southern horizon. Vaelin, Frentis and Dentos lay atop a high dune to observe their advance to the oasis. The cavalry appeared first, small parties of outriders followed by long columns riding two abreast. Vaelin counted four regiments of lancers plus an equal number of horse-borne archers. Their discipline and efficiency was impressive, evident in the speed with which they established their camp, tents and cooking fires appearing amidst the palms of the oasis within an hour of their arrival. He borrowed the spyglass from Frentis and picked out officers and sergeants amongst the throng, marking their stern visage and easy authority as they posted pickets in a tight and well placed perimeter. Veterans indeed, he decided, regretting he hadn’t had time to say his goodbyes to Sherin before they left. Although he had sensed a softening in her regard at their last meeting, he still had much to explain.
He tracked the spyglass away from the oasis and focused on a second dust cloud rising to the south, the wavering, stick figures of the Alpiran infantry materialising out of the desert heat with unwelcome clarity.
It took over an hour for the infantry to file into the oasis and make camp. Master Sollis’s estimate had been conservative; there were in fact twelve cohorts of infantry, swelling the Alpiran force to at least thirty thousand and making him consider, for only the briefest second, if Lord Marshall Al Cordlin hadn’t been right after all.
“ See there?” Frentis pointed, lifting his eye from the spyglass. “Battle Lord maybe?”
Vaelin took the glass and followed his finger to a large tent pitched to the north of the oasis. A group of soldiers were erecting a tall standard bearing a red banner adorned with an emlem of two crossed sabres in black. They were overseen by a tall man in a gold cloak with hard ebony features and grey peppered hair. Neliesen Nester Hevren, Captain of the Tenth Cohort of the Imperial Guard. Come to keep a promise.
He watched the captain turn and bow to a stocky man with a pronounced limp. He wore old but serviceable armour and a cavalry sabre at his belt. His skin had the olive hue of the northern provinces and his head was shaved bald. He listened to Hevren for a few moments as the captain appeared to make some kind of report, then cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand, stomping off to the tent without sparing him another glance.
“ No, the limping man is the Battle Lord,” Vaelin said. He noted the weary slump of Hevren’s shoulders before he straightened and marched away. Shamed, he decided. Shunned because you lost the Hope. What were you suggesting, I wonder? More patrols, more guards? More regard for the cunning of the Hope Killer? Wouldn’t listen would he? For the first time since leaving the city, Vaelin felt his mood begin to lighten.
It was early evening by the time the siege engines came into view. He had been nurturing the faint hope that Banders had exaggerated Sollis’s report with the telling but knew now the Baron had spoken true. The Realm Guard had engines of its own, mangonels and catapults for slinging boulders and fire balls at or over castle walls, but even the largest and most carefully crafted could not compare to the obvious power of the devices the emperor had sent to bring down the walls of Linesh. Lumbering giants in the gathering gloom, their weighted arms swayed as great teams of oxen drew them onward.
The engines were escorted by perhaps three thousand men, from their loose formation and non-uniform appearance clearly the tribesmen Banders had described. Their costume varied in colour, from garish red silk and blue feathered head-dresses to sober black or blue robes devoid of decoration. Their weaponry and armour was equally diverse. He picked out a few breast plates and mail shirts but most seemed un-armoured save for round wooden shields decorated with unfathomable sigils. Weapons seemed to consist mainly of long spears with serrated iron blades augmented with viciously spiked clubs and maces worn at the belt along with daggers and short swords.
Vaelin watched as the oxen hauled the engines to the southern edge of the oasis, the drovers unlimbering the teams to lead them to the water and the tribesmen making their camp around the tall frames.
“ That’s a lot of savages to cut through, brother,” Dentos commented.
“ If it works, we won’t have to.” Vaelin handed the spyglass back to Frentis. “Let’s pack the horses. We’ll move out with the moon rise.”
Spit, to Vaelin’s complete lack of surprise, proved unsuited to the role of pack horse, the mustang’s ill temper taking a dangerous turn as he attempted to hoist the pack onto his back, his hooves stamping with perilous disregard for toes and feet. It took several precious minutes of cajoling, threatening and bribing with candies before he was sufficiently settled to allow the pack to be secured in place, by which time the bright crescent of the moon was high overhead.
“ Why you hold on to that beast is a mystery, brother,” Dentos observed, his voice slightly muffled by the muslin scarf covering the lower half of his face.
“ He’s a fighter,” Vaelin replied. “It makes up for the bruises.” He scanned the assembled scout troop, each man similarly garbed in the white muslin robes typical of the traders who tracked spice and other valuables across the desert to the northern ports. Every mount was laden with packs, each bulging with the round red clay pots used for carriage of spices, although tonight they were filled with a different cargo. He knew they were unlikely to fool an experienced eye, their mounts too tall and their garb showing too many unfamiliar details, not to mention the odd bulge of a concealed weapon. But, for a few vital moments they should be convincing enough in the dark. He hoped it would be enough.
He glanced to the north, marking the winding trail of the caravan route through the dunes to the oasis. The desert was a strange sight under the moon, the sand painted silver by the light. Taken with the chill of the night-time desert it was almost like looking upon a snow field, once more calling forth the half-forgotten dream, Nersus-sil Nin’s cruel mockery, a body cooling in the snow…
“ Brother?” Frentis asked, breaking the reverie.
Vaelin shook his head to clear the vision, turning to the scout troop and raising his voice. “You all know the importance of our mission tonight. Once it’s done ride for Linesh and don’t look back. They’ll be on our heels like starved wolves so don’t tarry, not for anything.”
He turned back to the north and tugged on Spit’s reins. “Come on you bloody nag.”
They lit torches and approached at a steady pace, calling greetings in memorised Alpiran to the tribesmen guarding the southern perimeter. They were all tall, lean men with pointed beards and skin like polished mahogany, their garb a mixture of red-dyed cloth and loose armour fashioned from ivory. Each carried one of the long spears with serrated blades Vaelin had noted when they surveyed the camp earlier. They were clearly suspicious but not overly alarmed and Vaelin was relieved when no tumult erupted at the appearance of a small but unknown party. Five of them gathered to obstruct their path as they approached the camp, spears levelled but their manner not overly threatening.
“ Ni-rehl ahn!” Dentos greeted the tribesmen. Next to Caenis he had the best ear for Alpiran, although could hardly be said to be fluent. Despite having been extensively coached by Caenis in the few hours before their departure from Linesh he was unlikely to fool a native of the northern empire. It was their fortune that the tribesmen hailed from the southern provinces and probably knew less of the local dialect than they did.
One of the tribesmen shook his head in confusion, saying something in his own language to his fellows who replied with shrugs of bafflement.
“ Unterah,” Dentos gave the word for trader, patting his chest, then gestured broadly at their makeshift caravan. “Onterish.” S pice.
The tribesman who had spoken stepped past Dentos, eyes scanning their company with careful scrutiny. He approached Vaelin, ignoring the affable nod he offered and giving Spit a long look of examination, his eyes narrowing at the site of the many scars covering the mustang’s legs and flanks.
A shout came from one of the other tribesman and the man confronting Vaelin stepped back quickly, hands tight on his spear, crouching into a fighting stance. Vaelin held up his hands in placation, pointing to the west. The tribesman risked a glance over his shoulder, straightening in confusion at the sight of a large number of torches appearing out of the desert, about three hundred teardrops of light flickering in the gloom, accompanied by the growing tell-tale rumble of a cavalry charge in full tilt and the peel of multiple trumpets.
The tribesman turned to his fellows, mouth opening to voice a command, and died as Vaelin’s throwing knife sank into the base of his skull. The snap of bowstrings and the whistle of thrown blades filled the air as the scout troop freed their weapons to dispatch the remaining sentries.
“ Douse the torches! Get to the engines!” Vaelin barked, tugging Spit into a run.
The cacophony of battle erupted as they entered the camp, the thunderclap crash of Baron Banders’ knights striking the hastily formed line of defending tribesmen soon replaced by the familiar din of shrieking horses and clashing metal. Everywhere tribesmen were gathering weapons and rushing to join the battle, war cries and the harsh, grating peel of their own horns calling them forth. By the time Vaelin’s party were among the tents, most had gone to join the fray and the few who lingered to trouble them were quickly cut down.
They found the engines bare of defenders save for the artisans who tended them, mostly middle-aged men in leather smocks with few weapons save for carpentry tools. Vaelin was sorry they didn’t have the good sense to run, killing one who swung at him with a mallet and leaving another clutching a partly severed hand.
“ Get out of here!” he commanded the man, sheathing his sword and unhitching the pack of clay pots from Spit’s back. The man just looked up at him in dumb shock before the loss of blood made him collapse limply into the sand. Vaelin cursed and left him there, opening the pack and heaving the pots at the nearest engine as fast as he could. They broke against the sturdy wooden frames and spilled their clear viscous liquid over every surface. Vaelin quickly exhausted the contents of one pack and hauled another to a second engine, already partly doused by Frentis who grinned wolfishly.
“ Going to make quite a sight, brother.”
“ That it will.” He emptied the second pack and surveyed the progress of the rest of the party, noting with satisfaction the shattered remains of numerous pots on all ten engines. “Right, that’s enough!” he shouted. “Get them lit!”
They retreated twenty yards or so, Vaelin dragging the wounded artisan behind him, unwilling to let him burn. Dentos and Frentis unlimbered their bows, lit fire arrows and sent them arching towards the engines, the flames catching the lamp oil instantly and soon ten great fires were raging in the midst of the camp, flames engulfing the tall engines in a few moments, ropes and bindings disintegrating in the heat, the great arms of the engines tumbling like pine caught in a forest fire.
The flames were bright enough to illuminate the battle raging on the western perimeter where Baron Banders was now rallying his men for the withdrawal, although the battle-maddened tribesmen were in no mood to let them go. Vaelin saw several knights pulled from their horses and speared to death in quick succession as they vainly sought to extricate themselves from the struggle.
Vaelin mounted Spit and drew his sword. “Ride for the city!” he called to the scout troop.
“ And you brother?” Frentis asked.
Vaelin nodded at the battle. “The baron needs some help. I’ll be along presently.”
“ Let me — ”
He fixed Frentis with a look that brooked no argument. “Take your men home, brother.”
Frentis bit down on no doubt bitter words and nodded. “If you’re not back in two days…”
“ Then I’m not coming back and you will look to Brother Caenis for command.” Vaelin spurred Spit into a gallop and hurtled towards the battle, feeling the mustang tense beneath him in anticipation of combat. He skirted the edge of the throng, lashing out to strike down unwary tribesmen, wheeling away as they swarmed at him, galloping on then repeating the process, seeking to divert their fury enough to allow the knights some relief. “Eruhin Mahktar!” he shouted repeatedly, hoping they knew what it meant. “I am the Eruhin Mahktar! Come and kill me!”
The words were clearly understood by at least some of the tribesmen, judging by the ferocity with which they pursued him, hurling spears and hatchets with sometimes unnerving accuracy. One showed a remarkable turn of speed, sprinting after Vaelin as he wheeled away from another pass, leaping onto Spit’s back with his war-club raised then tumbling to the sand with an arrow speared through his torso.
“ I don’t think we should linger much longer, brother!” Dentos called, notching and releasing another shaft as he galloped alongside, a tribesman spinning to the ground a short distance away.
“ Thought I sent you back to the city,” Vaelin called.
“ No, you sent Frentis.” Dentos loosed another arrow and ducked a spear. “We really need to go!”
Vaelin glanced at the main throng, seeing a broad figure in red stained armour riding away from the fight, the Baron choosing to be the last to leave. He pointed to the west and they turned away, spurring their mounts to even greater speed, the still burning engines casting long shadows over the sands, fading as they were swallowed by the desert.
They rode on through the night, keeping a westward course until sunrise then turning to the north, only dismounting to walk the horses when the heat began to make them stagger. They stripped the mounts of all excess weight, throwing their mail away but keeping their weapons and the remaining canteens of water.
“ No sign of ‘em,” Dentos said, shielding his eyes as he scanned the southern horizon. “Not yet anyway.”
“ They’ll be along,” Vaelin assured him. He held a canteen to Spit’s mouth, the animal snatching it between his teeth and tipping the contents down his throat in a few gulps. Vaelin wasn’t sure how much longer the mustang could last in the heat, the desert was a cruel environment for a north-born animal, evidenced by the foam that covered his flanks and the weary blink of his normally bright and suspicious eye.
“ With any luck they’re following the Baron’s trail,” Dentos went on. “More of ‘em to follow after all.”
“ I think we used up our share of luck last night, don’t you?” Vaelin waited until Spit had finished drinking then took hold of his reins. “We keep walking. If we can’t ride in this heat, neither can they.”
It was early evening when they saw it, small and faint in the distance, but undeniably real.
“ Fifteen miles, maybe?” Dentos wondered, eyeing the dust cloud.
“ Closer to ten.” Vaelin hauled himself into the saddle, wincing at Spit’s weary snort of annoyance. “Seems they can ride in the heat after all.”
They kept to a canter for most of the night, wary of pushing the horses to collapse, glancing continually to the south, seeing only the desert and the star rich sky but knowing their pursuers were gaining with every mile.
The northern shore came into sight with the dawn, the desert sands giving way to scrub and, six miles to the east, the white walls of Linesh gleaming in the morning light.
“ Brother,” Dentos said softly.
Vaelin turned his gaze southward, the dust cloud was larger now, the riders raising it clearly visible. He leaned forward to pat Spit’s neck, whispering in his ear. “Sorry.” Leaning back he kicked his heels against the mustang’s flanks and they spurred into a gallop. He had expected Spit to have lost much of his speed, but if anything he seemed to find some kind of relief in the gallop, tossing his head and snorting either in pleasure or anger. His hooves churned the dusty ground and they quickly outdistanced Dentos and his struggling mount, so much so that Vaelin was forced to rein in after four miles. They had crested a small rise overlooking the plain before the city walls. The gates were open and a line of horsemen were making their way inside, sunlight gleaming on their armour.
“ Seems the Baron made it back,” Vaelin observed as Dentos reined in.
“ Glad someone did.” Dentos upended a canteen and let the water bathe his face. Behind him Vaelin could see their pursuers were closing fast, barely a mile behind. He was right, they weren’t going to make it.
“ Here,” he said making to dismount. “I have the faster horse. It’s me they want.”
“ Don’t be fucking stupid, brother,” Dentos said wearily. He unhitched his bow from the saddle and notched an arrow, wheeling his horse around to face the oncoming horsemen. Vaelin knew there was no dissuading him.
“ I’m sorry, brother,” he said, voice laden with guilt. “This fool’s war, I…”
Dentos wasn’t listening, looking off to the south, a puzzled frown on his brow. “Didn’t know they had them here. Big bugger too, isn’t he?”
Vaelin followed his gaze and felt the blood-song surge in a fiery tumult of recognition as his eyes picked out the form of a large grey wolf sitting a short distance away. It regarded him with the impassive, green eyed stare he remembered so well from that first meeting in the Urlish. “You can see him?” he asked.
“’ Course, he’s hard to miss.”
The blood-song was raging now, a piercing cacophony of warning. “Dentos, ride for the city.”
“ I’m not going anywhere…”
“ Something’s going to happen! Please, just go!”
Dentos was going to argue further but his gaze was drawn by something else, a great dark cloud rising above the southern horizon, ascending from the desert to at least a mile into the sky, swallowing sunlight in its billowing fury as it swept towards the city, dunes disappearing as it gathered them to its hungry breast.
An arrow thumped into the ground a few feet away. Vaelin turned to see their pursuers now barely fifty yards distant, at least a hundred men, preceded by a swarm of arrows launched at the gallop, a desperate attempt to end the chase before the sand storm bore down.
“ RIDE!” Vaelin shouted, taking hold of Dentos’s reins and pulling him along as he kicked Spit into a gallop, arrows raining down as they descended the rise and rode for the city. The storm hit before they had covered a third of the distance, the sand blasting into face and eyes like a cloud of vicious needles. Dentos’s mount reared in the fury of it and Vaelin lost his grip on the reins, horse and rider disappearing in the whirling red mist. He tried to call for him but instantly choked on the sand which sought to fill his mouth. He could only do his best to shield his face and cling on as Spit ran blindly through the storm.
In desperation he turned to the blood-song, trying to calm it, master it enough to guide its music, to sing. At first there was only the discordant shriek of wrongness and alarm that had erupted at the sight of the wolf, but as he exerted his will the confusion began to calm, a few clear notes forming amongst the storm raging in his mind. Dentos! he called, seeking to cast the song into the storm like a grapple. Find him!
The song changed again, more notes forming, the music becoming more melodious, almost serene but tinged with something more, a tone so strange as to be vastly unknowable. The realisation dawned like a blow. This is not my song! This is not the song of any man!
Who? he sang. Who are you?
The other song changed again, all music fading to be replaced by a single impatient growl.
Please! he begged. My brother…
The wolf’s growl became a shout in his mind, strong enough to make him reel in the saddle. Spit whinnied and reared in alarm as he heaved himself upright, feeling blood begin to pour from his nose. NO! he screamed back with every fibre of strength he could force into the song. I DO NOT WANT YOUR HELP!
Instantly the wind dropped, the harsh blast of grit on his face dissipating to a faint breeze, the wind-tossed sands slowly descending with a sound like a thousand whispering voices. Through the fading mist he saw the dark shape of a rider, no more than ten yards away, Dentos clearly recognisable from the sword on his back. Relief flooded Vaelin as he trotted over, reaching out to clasp his brother’s shoulder.
“ Not a good time to linger, brother…”
Dentos pitched from the saddle and fell heavily to the ground. His eyes were open, face pale with a familiar pallor, the arrow that had killed him jutting from his chest, the steel barb wet with blood.
They told him later how he had sat there, still and frozen, like one of Ahm-Lin’s creations appearing out of the ebbing sandstorm, raising shouts from the sentries on the walls and compelling Caenis to frantic efforts to re-open the gate. The Alpiran pursuers, scattered by the storm, were quick to recover their wits and close in on the immobile Hope Killer. One galloped to within twenty yards, leaning low over his stallion’s neck, bow drawn and shaft ready, teeth bared with hate and triumph. Bren Antesh leapt atop the gatehouse battlements, put an arrow clean through the rider’s chest then barked an order at his archers. A thousand arrows rose from the walls and descended on the Alpirans in a black hail. Near a hundred riders cut down by a single volley.
Vaelin had no knowledge of any of it. There was only Dentos, his slack, empty face, and the arrowhead, gleaming metal shining amongst the red gore. Voices called to him from the walls but he heard nothing. Caenis and Barkus sprinted through the re-opened gate, stumbling to a halt in shock. Vaelin couldn’t hear their grief or their questions. Dentos and the arrow…
“ Vaelin.”
It was the only voice he could have heard. Sherin was at his side, reaching up to clasp his wrist, his knuckles white as they gripped the reins. “Vaelin, please.”
He looked down at her, drinking in the sight of her compassion, the familiar ache dispelling his numbness with a desperate need and hopeless shame. “I am a murderer,” he said, forming each word with cold precision.
“ No…”
“ I am a murderer.” He gently pulled her hand away and kicked Spit into a walk, guiding him through the gate and into the city.