121232.fb2 Blood Song - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 5

Blood Song - читать онлайн бесплатно полную версию книги . Страница 5

Chapter 3

The days came and went, they trained, they fought, they learned. Summer became autumn and then winter descended with driving rain and biting winds that soon gave way to the blizzards common to Asrael in the month of Ollanasur. After the pyre Mikehl’s name was rarely mentioned, they never forgot him but they didn’t talk about him, he was gone. Watching a new batch of recruits march through the gates in early winter they had the odd sensation of no longer being the youngest, suddenly the worst chores would be someone else’s burden. Looking at the newcomers Vaelin wondered if he had ever looked so young and alone. He wasn’t a child any more, he knew this, none of them were. They were different, changed. They were not like other boys. And his difference ran deeper than the others, he was a killer.

Ever since the forest his sleep had been troubled and he was often left sweating and shivering in the dark by dreams in which Mikehl’s slack lifeless face came to ask why he hadn’t saved him. Sometimes it was the wolf that came, silent, staring, licking blood from its muzzle, its eyes holding a question Vaelin couldn’t fathom. Even the faces of the assassins, bloodied and torn, would come to spit hate-filled accusations that would rend him from sleep shouting unrepentant defiance: “Murderers! Scum! I hope you rot!”

“ Vaelin?” It was usually Caenis he woke, some of the others too, but usually Caenis.

Vaelin would lie, say it was a dream of his mother, fighting the guilt of using her memory to hide the truth. They would talk for a while until Vaelin felt the tug of fatigue pulling him to sleep. Caenis proved a mine of many stories, he knew all the tales of the Faithful by heart and many others besides, especially the tale of the King.

“ King Janus is a great man,” he said continually. “He built our Kingdom with the sword and the Faith.” He never tired of hearing how Vaelin had once met King Janus, how the tall, red haired man had layed a hand on his head to ruffle his hair and say, “Hope you have your father’s arm, boy,” with a deep chuckle. In fact, Vaelin barely remembered the King, he had only eight years when his father nudged him forward at the palace reception. But he did recall the opulence of the palace and the rich clothing of the assembled nobles. King Janus had a son and a daughter, a serious looking boy of about seventeen and a girl of Vaelin’s own age who scowled at him from behind her father’s long, ermine rimmed cloak. The King had no queen by then, she had died the previous summer, they said his heart was broken and he would never take another bride. Vaelin recalled that the girl, his mother called her a princess, had lingered when the King moved on to greet another guest. She looked him up and down coldly. “I’m not marrying you,” she sneered. “You’re dirty.” With that she scampered after her father without looking back. Vaelin’s father had voiced one of his rare laughs, saying, “Don’t worry, boy. I’d not curse you with her.”

“ What did he look like?” Caenis asked eagerly. “Was he six feet tall like they say.”

Vaelin shrugged. “He was tall. Couldn’t say how tall. And he had funny red marks on his neck, like he’d been burnt.”

“ When he was seven he was struck down by the Red Hand,” Caenis told him, dropping into his storyteller voice. “For ten days he suffered the agonies and blood sweats that would have killed a grown man before his fever broke and he grew strong again. Even the Red Hand, which had brought death to every family in the land, couldn’t take Janus. Even as a child his spirit was too strong to break.”

Vaelin surmised that Caenis would know many stories about his father, his time in the Order having taught him the true extent of the Battle Lord’s fame, but never asked to hear any. To Caenis Vaelin’s father was a legend, a hero that stood at the King’s side throughout the Wars of Unification. To Vaelin he was a rider disappearing into the fog two years ago.

“ What are his children called?” Vaelin asked. For some reason his parents had never told him much about the court.

“ The King’s son and heir to the throne is Prince Malcius, said to be a studious and dutiful young man. His daughter is Princess Lyrna who many think will grow to outshine even her mother’s beauty.”

Sometimes Vaelin was disturbed by the light that shone in Caenis’s eyes when he talked about the King and his family. It was the only time his thoughtful frown disappeared, as if he wasn’t thinking at all. He had seen similar expressions on people’s faces when they offered thanks to the Departed, as if their normal self had stepped out for a moment leaving only the Faith behind.

As winter deepened and snow covered the land preparation began for the Test of the Wild. Their treks with Master Hutril became longer, his lessons more detailed and urgent, he made them run through the snow until they ached and handed out severe punishments for laxness and inattention. But they knew the importance of learning all they could. By now they had been in the Order long enough for the older boys to favour them with the occasional word of advice, normally consisting of a lurid warning of future dangers, the Test of the Wild featuring large among them: They thought he had disappeared for good but they found his body the next year, frozen to a tree… He tried to eat fire berries and spewed his liver up… Wandered into a wild cat's den and came out carrying his guts in his arms… The stories were no doubt exaggerated but concealed an essential truth: boys died in every Test of the Wild.

When the time came they were taken out in small groups over the course of a month to lessen the chance they might meet up and help each other through the ordeal. This was a trial each boy had to face alone. There was a short barge trip upriver then a long cart journey over a featureless, snow covered road winding into the lightly forested hill country beyond the Urlish. At intervals of five miles Master Hutril would stop the cart and take one of the boys into the trees, returning some time later to take up the reins again. When Vaelin’s turn came he was led along a small stream running into a sheltered gully.

“ You have your flint?” Master Hutril asked.

“ Yes master.”

“ Twine, fresh bowstring, extra blanket?”

“ Yes master.”

Hutril nodded, pausing, his breath steaming in the chilled air. “The Aspect has given me a message for you,” he said after a moment. Vaelin found it odd that Hutril was avoiding his gaze. “He says, as you are likely to be hunted whenever you leave the shelter of the House, you may return with me and be given a pass on this test.”

Vaelin was speechless. The shock of the Aspect’s offer coupled with the fact that this was the first time any of the Masters had referred to his ordeal in the forest left him dumfounded. The Tests were not just arbitrary torments dreamt up over the years by sadistic Masters. They were part of the Order, set down by its founder four hundred years ago and never changed since. They were more than a legacy, they were an article of the Faith. He couldn’t help feeling that to avoid a test and still continue in the Order would be more than just dishonest, not to say disrespectful to his friends, it would be blasphemy. Pondering further, another thought came to him: What if this is another test? What if the Aspect wants to see if I will avoid an ordeal my brothers cannot? But as he looked into Master Hutril’s guarded gaze he saw something that told him the offer was genuine: shame. Hutril thought the offer an insult.

“ I fear to contradict the opinion of the Aspect, master,” he said. “But I think it unlikely an assassin would brave these hills in winter.”

Hutril nodded again, a soft sigh of relief escaping him, a rare, very slight smile on his lips. “Do not range far, listen to the voice of the hills, follow only the freshest tracks.” With that he shouldered his bow and began his long trek back to the cart.

Vaelin watched him go, feeling very hungry despite the hearty breakfast they had all eaten that morning. He was glad he had taken the opportunity to steal some bread from the kitchen before they left.

In accordance with Hutril’s lessons Vaelin began building a shelter immediately, finding a useful nook between two large rocks to serve as walls, he set about gathering wood for a roof. There were some fallen branches about that he could use but soon had to resort to cutting extra covering from the surrounding trees. He walled off one side by piling up snow, rolling it into thick blocks as he had been taught. His work complete he rewarded himself with a bread roll, forcing himself not to bolt it, despite his hunger, taking small bites and chewing thoroughly before swallowing.

Next he had to light a fire, arranging some small rocks in a circle next to the shelter’s entrance, clearing the snow from the centre and filling it with twigs and small branches he had prepared by stripping away the snow damp bark to reveal the dry timber beneath. A few sparks from his flint and soon he was warming his hands above a respectably lively fire. Food, shelter and heat, Master Hutril always told them. That’s what keeps a man alive. Everything else is luxury.

His first night in the shelter was restless, beset by howling winds and biting cold against which the blanket he had draped over the entrance was scant protection. He resolved to fashion a more sturdy covering the next day and passed the hours trying to hear voices in the winds. It was said that the winds would carry into the Beyond and the Departed used them to send messages back to the Faithful, some of whom would stand for hours on hillsides straining for words of wisdom or comfort from lost loved ones. Vaelin had never heard a voice on the wind and wondered who it would be if he did. His mother perhaps, although she hadn’t come to him again since his first night in the Order. Mikehl maybe, or the assassins, spitting their hatred into the wind. But tonight there were no voices to hear and he drifted into a fitful, chilled slumber.

The next day saw him gathering thin branches to weave into a door for his shelter. The work was long and tricky, leaving his already numb fingers aching from the effort. He spent the rest of the day on the hunt, arrow notched into his bowstring as he scanned the snow for tracks. He fancied there had been a deer through the gully in the night but the tracks were too faint to follow successfully. He did find fresh goat tracks but they led to a steep rise he had little hope of climbing before nightfall. In the end he had to content himself with bringing down a couple of crows that had mistakenly perched too close to his shelter and setting a few snares for any unwary rabbits that felt the need to venture into the snow.

He plucked the crows and kept the feathers for kindling, spitting the birds and roasting them over his fire. The meat was dry and tough making him appreciate why crow was not considered a delicacy. As night came there was little to do but huddle near his fire until it burnt down then settle into his shelter. The door he had made was more use than the blanket but still the cold seemed to settle into his bones. His stomach growled but the wind howled ever louder, but still he heard no voices.

He had better luck in the morning, bringing down a snow hare. He was proud of the kill, the arrow catching the animal as it scampered for its hole. He had it skinned and cleaned within an hour and took a great amount of pleasure in roasting it over the fire, staring with wide eyes at the grease running over the blistering skin. They should call this the Test of Hunger, he decided as his stomach gave voice to another obscenely loud growl. He ate half the meat and stashed the other half in a tree hole he had chosen for a good hiding place. It was a good distance off the ground, he had to climb to reach it, and the tree was too slender to support the weight of a scavenging bear. It was a real effort to resist the urge to gobble all the meat at once but he knew if he did he might have to face the next day without a meal.

The rest of the day was spent hunting without success, his snares remained frustratingly empty and he had to content himself digging for roots from under the snow. The roots he found were hardly filling, and took a lot of boiling before they were edible, but sufficed to take the edge of his hunger. His one stroke of luck was finding a yallin root, inedible but possessed of a particularly foul smelling juice which would be useful in protecting his food store and shelter from prowling wolves or bears.

He was trudging back to his shelter after another fruitless hunt when it began to snow in earnest, the wind soon whipping the flakes into a blizzard. He made it back before the snow became too thick for him to see his way and wedged his door of woven branches firmly into the entrance, warming his ice cold hands in the hare’s pelt he had chosen to use as a muffler. He couldn’t light a fire in the middle of a snowstorm and had no choice but to sit it out, shivering, flexing his hands in the fur to stop the numbness setting in.

The wind was louder than ever, still howling, leaving its voices in the Beyond… What was that? He sat up, holding his breath, ears straining. A voice, a voice on the wind. Faint, plaintive. He sat still and quiet, waiting for it to come again. The shriek of the wind was continuous and infuriating, every change in tone seemed to herald another call of the mystery voice. He waited, breathing softly, but nothing came.

Shaking his head, he lay down again, huddling beneath the blanket, trying to make himself as small as possible…

“… curse you…”

He jerked upright, instantly awake. There was no mistaking it. There was a voice on the wind. It came again, quickly this time, the wind allowing only a few words to reach him, “…you hear me? I curse you!.. regret nothing! I… nothing…”

The voice was faint but he could hear the rage in it clearly, this soul had sent a message of hate back across the void. Was for him? He felt cold dread grip him like a giant fist. The assassins, Brak and the other two. His shivers deepened but not through cold.

“… nothing!” the voice raged. “Nothing… have done has… anything! You hear me?”

Vaelin thought he knew fear, he thought the ordeal in the forest had hardened him, made him in some ways immune to terror. He was wrong. Some of the masters had talked of men pissing themselves when fear overcame them. He had never believed it until now.

“… I’ll carry my hate into the Beyond! If you cursed my life you’ll curse my death a thousand times…”

Vaelin’s shivers stopped momentarily. Death? What kind of Departed soul speaks of dying? A very obvious thought occurred to him in a rush of embarrassment he was glad no-one was there to see: someone is outside in the storm whilst I sit here cowering.

He had to dig his way out, the blizzard had piled a drift against his door fully three feet high. After a few moments’ effort he scrambled out into the fury of the storm. The wind was like a knife cutting through his cloak as if it were made of paper, snow pelted his face like nails, he could see almost nothing.

“ Ho there!” he called, feeling the words vanish into the gale as soon as they escaped his lips. He dragged air into his lungs, swallowing snow, and tried again, “HO! WHO’S THERE?”

Something shifted in the blizzard, a vague shape in the wall of white. Gone before he could make sense of it. Drawing another breath he began to fight his way towards where he thought the shape had been, heaving his legs out of the freezing drifts. He stumbled several times before he found them, two shapes, huddled together, partially covered by the blizzard, one large, one small.

“ Get up!” Vaelin shouted, prodding the largest shape. It groaned, rolling over, snow falling away from a frost encrusted face, two pale blue eyes staring out from the mask of ice. Vaelin drew back slightly. He had never seen a gaze so intense. Not even Master Sollis’s stare could pierce a soul like this. Unconsciously his hand closed over the knife beneath his cloak. “If you stay here you’ll freeze to death in minutes,” he shouted. “I have shelter.” He waved back the way he had come. “Can you walk?”

The eyes kept staring, the frost face immobile. My luck holds true, Vaelin thought ruefully. Only I could find a mad man in the middle of a snow storm.

“ I can walk,” the man’s voice was growl. He jerked his head at the smaller shape next to him. “I’ll need help with this one.”

Vaelin moved to the small shape, dragging it to its feet, drawing a pained gasp. As he pulled the figure upright a hood fell away to reveal a pale, elfin face and a shock of auburn hair. The girl remained standing for only an instant before collapsing against him.

“ Here,” the man grunted, taking one of her arms and laying it across his shoulders. Vaelin took the other arm and together they struggled back to the shelter. It seemed to take an age, incredibly the storm was growing in intensity and Vaelin knew that if they stopped for even a second death would follow soon after. Reaching the shelter he scraped the already re-grown drift away from the entrance and pushed the girl in first, gesturing for the man to follow. He shook his head. “You first, boy.”

Vaelin noted the adamant tone in his growl and knew lingering to argue would be pointless, and possibly deadly. He crawled into the shelter, pushing the girl’s body deeper as he did so, cramming them both in as tightly as he could. The man followed them in quickly, his bulk leaving little remaining space, and jammed Vaelin’s door into the entrance.

They lay together, mingled breath clouding the confines of the shelter, Vaelin’s lungs burnt from the effort of struggling through the snow and his hands trembled uncontrollably. He put them inside his cloak, hoping to stave off frostbite. An irresistible tiredness began to creep over him, clouding his vision as he slid towards unconsciousness. He had a final glimpse of the man next to him, peering out at the storm through a gap in the door. Before exhaustion overtook him completely Vaelin heard the man mutter, “A little longer then. Just a little longer.”

He surfaced with a splitting headache, a thin beam of sunlight lancing through the roof directly into his eye provoking a painful yelp. Next to him the girl shifted in her sleep, one of her boots leaving a bruise on his shin. The man wasn’t in the shelter and a strong, distinctly appetising aroma was wafting through the entrance. Vaelin decided he would rather be outside.

He found the man cooking oat cakes over his campfire on an iron skillet, the smell provoking an excruciating surge of hunger. Free of the mask of ice his features were lean though deeply lined. The rage that had clouded his eyes in the storm was gone, replaced with a bright friendliness Vaelin found disconcerting. He put the man’s age in the mid-thirties but it was difficult to tell for sure, there was a depth to the face, a gravity in his stare that spoke of a wide breadth of experience. Vaelin kept his distance, worried he would grab at the cakes if he got too close.

“ Went back for our gear,” the man said nodding at the two snow dusted packs nearby. “We had to drop them last night a few miles back. Too much weight.” He took the cakes off the heat and offered the skillet to Vaelin.

Vaelin, mouth flooded with drool, shook his head. “I can’t.”

“ Order boy, eh?”

Vaelin nodded, dumb with longing.

“ Why else would a boy be living out here?” He shook his head sadly. “Still, if you weren’t, Sella and I would be lying under the snow.” He got up, approaching to offer his hand. “My thanks, young sir.”

Vaelin took the hand, feeling the hard callous that covered the palm. A warrior? Looking the man over Vaelin doubted it. The Masters all had a certain way of moving and talking that marked them out. This man was different. He had the strength but not the look.

“ Erlin Ilnis,” the man introduced himself.

“ Vaelin Al Sorna.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “The name of the Battle Lord’s family.”

“ Yes, I’ve heard.”

Erlin Ilnis nodded and let the subject drop. “How many days to go?”

“ Four. If I don’t starve before then.”

“ Then accept my apologies for intruding on your Test. I hope it won’t spoil your chances of passing.”

“ As long as you don’t help me it shouldn’t matter.”

The man squatted down to eat his breakfast, cutting the cakes into portions with a thin bladed knife and lifting them to his mouth. Unable to bear it any longer Vaelin rushed off to collect his stash of hare meat from the tree hole. He had to dig through a thick covering of snow but was soon back at the camp with his prize.

“Haven’t seen a storm like that for many a year,” Erlin commented softly as Vaelin began roasting his meat. “Used to think it an omen when the weather turned bad. Always seemed like a war or a plague would follow soon after. Now I just think it means the weather turned bad.”

Vaelin felt compelled to talk, it took his mind of the endless growl of his stomach. “Plague? The Red Hand you mean. You couldn’t be old enough to have seen it.”

The man gave a faint smile. “I am… widely travelled. Plague comes to many lands, in many forms.”

“ How many?” Vaelin pressed. “How many lands have you seen?”

Erlin stroked his stubble grey chin as he pondered the question. “I honestly couldn’t say. I’ve seen the glories of the Alpiran Empire and the ruins of the Leandren temples. I’ve walked the dark paths of the great northern forest and trod the endless steppes where the Eorhil Sil hunt the great elk. I’ve seen cities and islands and mountains aplenty. But always, without fail, everywhere I go, I find myself in a storm.”

“ You are not from the Realm?” Vaelin was puzzled. The man’s accent was odd, possessed of vowels that jarred on the ear, but still clearly Asraelin.

“ Oh, I was born here. There’s a village a few miles south of Varinshold, so small it doesn’t even have a name. You’ll find my kin there.”

“ Why did you leave? Why travel to so many places?”

The man shrugged. “I had a lot of time on my hands and I couldn’t think of anything else to do.”

“ Why were you so angry?”

Erlin turned to him sharply. “What?”

“ I heard you. I thought it was a voice on the wind, one of the Departed. You were angry, I could hear it. It’s how I found you.”

Erlin’s face took on an expression of deep, almost frightening sadness. Such was the depth of his sorrow that Vaelin wondered again if he hadn’t rescued a mad man.

“ When a man faces death he says many foolish things,” Erlin said. “When they make you a full Brother I’m sure you’ll hear dying men say the most ridiculous nonsense.”

The girl emerged from the shelter, blinking dazedly in the sunlight, a shawl clutched about her shoulders. Seeing her clearly for the first time Vaelin found it hard not to stare. Her face was a flawless pale oval framed by light auburn curls. She was older than him by a couple of years and an inch or two taller. He realised he hadn’t even seen a girl for a long time and felt uncomfortably out of his depth.

“ Sella,” Erlin greeted her. “More cakes in my pack if you’re hungry.”

She smiled tightly, casting a wary glance at Vaelin.

“ This is Vaelin Al Sorna,” Erlin told her. “A novice brother of the Sixth Order. We owe him our thanks.”

She hid it well but Vaelin saw her tense when Erlin mentioned the Order. She turned to Vaelin and moved her hands in a series of intricate, fluid movements, an empty smile fixed on her face. Mute, he realised.

“ She said we are fortunate to find such a brave soul in the midst of the wilderness,” Erlin related.

In fact she had said: Tell him I said thank you and let’s go. Vaelin decided it would be better if he kept his knowledge of sign language to himself. “You’re welcome,” he said. She inclined her head and moved to the packs.

Vaelin began to eat, shovelling the food down with dirty fingers and not caring that Master Hutril would have been appalled at such a spectacle. Erlin and Sella conversed in sign language whilst he ate. The shapes they made were practised and formed with a fluency which shamed his own clumsy attempts to mimic Master Smentil. But despite the fluency of their communication Vaelin marked the sharp, nervous movements of her hands and the more restrained, calming shapes made by Erlin.

Does he know who we are? she asked him.

No, Erlin replied. He is a child. Brave and clever, but a child. They are taught to fight. The Order tells them nothing of other faiths.

She cast a brief, guarded glance in Vaelin’s direction. He grinned back, licking grease from his fingers.

Will he kill us if he knows? she asked Erlin.

He saved us, don’t forget. Erlin paused and Vaelin got the impression he was trying not to look at him. And he’s different, his hands said. Other Brothers of the Sixth Order are not like him.

Different how?

There is more in him, more feeling. Can’t you sense it?

She shook her head. I sense only danger. It’s all I’ve felt for days. She paused for a moment, a frown creasing her smooth brow. He has the Battle Lord’s name.

Yes. I think this is his son. I heard he gave him to the Order after his wife died.

Her movements became frantic, insistent. We have to leave now!

Erlin forced a smile in Vaelin’s direction. Calm down or you’ll make him suspicious.

Vaelin got up and went to the stream to wash the grease from his hands. Fugitives, he thought. But from what? And what was this talk of other faiths? Not for the first time he wished one of the Masters were here to guide him. Sollis or Hutril would know what to do. He wondered if he should try to hold them here somehow. Overpower them and tie them up. He wasn’t sure he could do it. The girl didn’t present a problem but Erlin was a grown man, and strong. And Vaelin suspected he knew how to fight even if he wasn’t a warrior by trade. All he could do was keep watching their conversation to learn more.

He caught it by chance, the wind shifted and brought it to him, faint but unmistakable: horse sweat. Must be close if I can smell it. More than one. Coming from the south.

He hurriedly climbed the south side of the gully, scanning the southern hills. He spotted them quickly, a dark knot of riders a half a mile or so to the south east. Five or six of them, plus a trio of hunting dogs. They had halted, it was difficult to make out what they were doing from this distance but Vaelin surmised they were waiting for the dogs to pick up a scent.

He forced himself to stroll slowly back to the camp, finding the girl sullenly prodding the fire with a stick and Erlin retying one of the straps on his pack.

“ We’ll be on our way soon,” Erlin assured him. “We’ve put you to enough trouble.”

“ Heading north?” Vaelin asked.

“ Yes. The Renfaelin coast. Sella has family there.”

“ You’re not her family?”

“ Just a friend and travelling companion.”

Vaelin went to the shelter and fetched his bow, feeling the girl’s mounting tension as he strung the bowstring and slung the quiver over his shoulder. “I have to hunt.”

“ Of course. I wish we could give you some of our food.”

“ It’s not permitted to take aid from others during this test. Besides I’m sure you can’t spare any.”

The girl’s hands moved irritably: True.

“ I suppose we should take our leave now,” Erlin said, coming over to offer his hand. “Once again, my thanks young sir. It’s unusual to meet such a generous soul. Trust me, I know…”

Vaelin moved his hands, the shapes he made clumsy compared to theirs but the meaning was clear enough: Riders to the south. With dogs. Why?

Sella’s hand went to her mouth, her pale face nearly white with fear. Erlin’s hand inched closer to the curve bladed knife at his belt.

“ Don’t do that,” Vaelin instructed him. “Just tell me why you’re running. And who’s hunting you.”

Erlin and the girl exchanged frantic glances. Her hands fidgeted as she fought the impulse to communicate. Erlin took her hand, Vaelin wasn’t sure if he was trying to calm or silence her.

“ So they teach you the signs,” he said, his tone neutral.

“ They teach us many things.”

“ Did they teach you about Deniers?”

Vaelin frowned, remembering one of his father’s infrequent explanations. It had been the first time he saw the city gate and the bodies rotting in the cages that hung from the wall. “Deniers are blasphemers and heretics. Those who deny the truth of the Faith.”

“ And do you know what happens to Deniers, Vaelin?”

“ They are killed and hung from the city walls in cages.”

“ They are hung from the walls whilst still alive and left to starve to death. Their tongues are cut out so their screams will not disturb passers by. This is done purely because they follow a different faith.”

“ There is no different Faith.”

“ Yes there is, Vaelin!” Erlin’s tone was fierce, implacable. “I told you I had been all over this world. There are countless faiths, countless gods. There are more ways to honour the divine than there are stars in the sky.”

Vaelin shook his head, finding the argument irrelevant. “And that’s what you are? Deniers?”

“ No. I follow the same Faith as you.” He gave a short bitter laugh. “I’ve little choice after all. But Sella has a different path. Her belief is different, but just as true as yours and mine. But if she’s taken by the men hunting us they will torture and kill her. Do you think that’s right? Do you think all Deniers deserve such a fate?”

Vaelin studied Sella. Fear dominated her face, her lips trembling, but her eyes were untouched by her terror. They stared into his, unblinking, magnetic, questing, making him think of Master Sollis during that first sword lesson. “You can’t trick me,” he told her.

She took a deep breath, gently disentangled her hands from Erlin’s and signed: I am not trying to trick you. I’m looking for something.

“ And what’s that?”

Something I didn’t see before. She turned to Erlin. He will help us.

Vaelin opened his mouth to retort but found the words dying on his lips. She was right: he would help them. There was no complexity to the decision. It was right, he knew it. He would help them because Erlin was honest and brave and Sella was pretty and had seen something in him. He would help them because he knew they didn’t deserve to die.

He went into the shelter and returned with the yallin root. “Here.” He tossed it to Erlin. “Cut it in half and smear the juice on your feet and hands. Whose scent do they have?”

Erlin sniffed the root uncertainly. “What is this?”

“ It’ll mask your scent. Which of you do they follow?”

Sella patted her chest. Vaelin noted the silk scarf around her neck. He pointed at it, motioning for her to hand it over.

My mother’s, she protested.

“ Then she’ll be glad it saved your life.”

After a moment’s hesitation she undid the scarf and gave it to him. He tied it around his wrist.

“ This is disgusting!” Erlin complained smearing the yallin juice on his boots, face contorted at the pungent stench.

“ Dogs think so too,” Vaelin told him.

After Sella had anointed her own boots and hands he led them into the densest part of the surrounding woodland. There was a hollow a few hundred yards from the camp, deep enough to hide two people but offering little protection against expert eyes. Vaelin was hoping whoever hunted them wouldn’t get close enough to see it. When they had settled into the hollow he took the yallin root from Sella and smeared as much juice as he could squeeze from it on the surrounding ground and foliage.

“ Stay here, keep quiet. If you hear the dogs lie still, don’t run. If I don’t return in an hour head south for two days then circle west, follow the coast road north, stay out of the towns.”

He made to leave when Sella reached out to him, her hand hovering close to his. She seemed wary of touching him. Her eyes met his again, not questing this time, just bright with gratitude. He smiled back briefly and was gone, running full pelt towards the hunters. The sparse woods blurred around him, his hunger wracked body aching from the effort. He pushed his pains away and ran on, the scarf on his wrist trailing in the wind.

It took five long minutes of hard running before he heard the dogs, distant high pitched yelps growing into sharp threatening barks as they drew closer. Vaelin chose a defensible position atop a fallen birch trunk and quickly took the scarf from his wrist, tying it around his neck and tucking it out of sight. He waited, arrow notched tight to his bowstring, breath steaming as he dragged air into his lungs and fought the tremble from his limbs.

The dogs were on him quicker than he expected, three dark forms bursting from the undergrowth twenty yards away, snarling, yellow teeth flashing, churning snow as they sped towards him. Vaelin was momentarily shocked by the sight of them, they were an unfamiliar breed. Larger, faster and more thickly muscled than any other hunting dog he had seen. Even the Renfaelin hounds in the Order’s kennels seemed like pets in comparison. The worst thing was their eyes, glaring yellow, filled with hate, they seemed to glow with it as they closed on him, drool trailing from snarling maws.

His arrow took the first one in the throat, sending it tumbling into the snow with a surprised, piteous whine. He tried for another arrow but the second dog was on him before the shaft was clear of the quiver. It leapt, sharp nailed paws scrabbling at his chest, head angled to fix the flashing teeth on his neck. He rolled with the force of the lunge, letting his bow slip away, his right hand pulling the knife free from his belt to stab upwards as his back connected with the ground, the dog’s momentum helping bury the blade in its chest, punching through ribs and cartilage to find the heart, blood gouting from the mouth in a thick black spray. Fighting nausea, Vaelin put his boots under the twitching body and heaved it away, rolling upright, knife levelled at the third dog, ready for the charge.

It didn’t come.

The dog sat, ears flattened, head lowered near the ground, eyes averted. Whining, it raised its muscular form to edge closer then sat again, glancing at him with a strange, fearful but expectant expression.

“ You better be rich, boy,” a gruff, deeply angry voiced said. “You owe me for three dogs.”

Vaelin whirled, knife ready, finding a ragged, stocky man emerging from the bushes, his heaving chest indicating the hardship of running in the wake of the dogs. A sword of the Asraelin pattern was strapped across his back and he wore a soiled dark blue cloak.

“ Two dogs,” Vaelin said.

The man glowered and spat on the ground, reaching back to draw his sword in a practised easy movement. “These are Volarian slave-hounds, you little shit. The third’s no good to me now.” He came closer, his feet moving over the snow in a familiar dancing motion, sword point low, arm slightly bent.

The dog growled, a low menacing rumble. Vaelin risked a glance at it, expecting to find it advancing on him once again, but instead its yellow, hate filled gaze was fixed on the man with the sword, lips trembling over bared teeth.

“ You see!” the man shouted at Vaelin. “See what you’ve done? Four years to train these bastards in the shitter.”

It came to Vaelin then, a rush of recognition he should have felt as soon as the man appeared. He raised his left hand slowly, showing it to be empty, and reached inside his shirt to pull out his medallion, holding it up for the man to see. “My apologies, brother.”

Momentary confusion played over the man’s face, Vaelin realised he wasn’t puzzled at the sight of the medallion, he was calculating if he was still permitted to kill him even though he was of the Order. In the event the decision was made for him.

“ Sheath your sword, Makril,” said a strident, cultured voice. Vaelin turned as a horse and rider emerged from the trees. The sharp faced man on the horse nodded at him cordially as he guided his mount closer. It was a grey Asraelin hunter from the southlands, a long legged breed renowned for stamina rather than aggression. The man reined in a few feet away, looking down at Vaelin with what might have been genuine good will. Vaelin noted the colour of his cloak, black: the Fourth Order.

“ Good day to you, little brother,” the sharp faced man greeted him.

Vaelin nodded back, sheathing his knife. “And you, master.”

“ Master?” He smiled faintly. “I think not.” He glanced the remaining dog, now growling at him. “I fear we may have provided you an unwelcome companion, little brother.”

“ Companion?”

“ Volarian slave-hounds are an unusual breed. Savage beyond belief at times but possessed of a rigid hierarchical code. You killed this animal’s pack leader and the one who would have replaced him. Now he sees you as the pack leader. He’s too young to challenge you so instead will provide you with unswerving loyalty, for now.”

Vaelin looked at the dog seeing a snarling, drooling mass of muscle and teeth with an intricate web of scars on its snout and fur matted with mingled dirt and shit. “I don’t want it,” he said.

“ Too late for that, you little sod,” Makril muttered behind him.

“ Oh stop being so tiresome, Makril,” the sharp faced man admonished him. “You lost some dogs, we’ll get some more.” He bent down to offer Vaelin his hand. “Tendris Al Forne, brother of the Fourth Order and servant of the Council for Heretical Transgressions.”

“ Vaelin Al Sorna,” Vaelin shook the hand. “Novice Brother of the Sixth Order, awaiting confirmation.”

“ Yes, of course.” Tendris sat back in his saddle. “Test of the Wild is it?”

“ Yes, brother.”

“ I certainly don’t envy your Order’s tests.” Tendris offered a sympathetic smile. “Remember your tests, brother?” he asked Makril.

“ Only in my nightmares.” Makril was circling the clearing, eyes fixed on the ground, occasionally crouching to peer closely at a mark in the snow. Vaelin had seen Master Hutril do the same thing, but with considerably more grace. Hutril gave off an aura of calm reflection when he looked for tracks. Makril was a sharp contrast, constantly on the move, agitated, restless.

The crunch of hooves on snow heralded the arrival of three more brothers from the Fourth Order, all mounted on Asraelin hunters like Tendris, and possessing the hardy, weathered look of men who spent most of their lives on the hunt. They each greeted Vaelin with a brief wave when Tendris introduced him, before going off to scour the surrounding area. “They may have tracked through here,” Tendris told them. “The dogs must have scented something beyond a likely meal in our young brother here.”

“ May I ask what you’re searching for, brother?” Vaelin enquired.

“ The bane of our realm and our Faith, Vaelin,” Tendris replied sadly. “The Unfaithful. It is a task charged to me and the brothers with whom I ride. We hunt those who would deny the Faith. It may be a surprise to you that such folk exist, but believe me they do.”

“ There’s nothing here,” Makril said. “No tracks, nothing for the dogs to scent.” He made his way through a heavy snow drift to stand in front of Vaelin. “Except you, brother.”

Vaelin frowned. “Why would your dogs track me?”

“ Have you met anyone during your test?” Tendris asked. “A man and a girl perhaps?”

“ Erlin and Sella?”

Makril and Tendris exchanged a glance. “When?” Makril demanded.

“ Two nights ago.” Vaelin was proud of the smoothness of the lie, he was becoming more adept at dishonesty. “The snow was heavy, they needed shelter. I offered them mine.” He looked at Tendris. “Was I wrong to do so, brother?”

“ Kindness and generosity are never wrong, Vaelin.” Tendris smiled. Vaelin was disturbed by the fact that the smile seemed genuine. “Are they still at your camp?”

“ No, they left the next morning.

They said little, in fact the girl said nothing.”

Makril snorted a mirthless laugh. “She can’t speak, boy.”

“ She did give me this.” Vaelin pulled Sella’s silk scarf from under his shirt. “By way of thanks the man said. I saw no harm in taking it. If offers no warmth. If you’re hunting them perhaps your dogs scented this.”

Makril leaned closer, sniffing the scarf, nostril’s flared, his eyes locked on Vaelin’s. He doesn’t believe a word of it, Vaelin realised.

“ Did the man tell you where they were going?” Tendris asked.

“ North, to Renfael. He said the girl had family there.”

“ He lied,” Makril said. “She has no family anywhere.” Next to Vaelin the dog’s growls deepened. Makril moved back slowly, making Vaelin wonder what kind of dog could provoke fear in its own master.

“ Vaelin, this is very important,” Tendris said, leaning forward in his saddle, studying Vaelin intently. “Did the girl touch you at all?”

“ Touch me, brother?”

“ Yes. Even the slightest touch?”

Vaelin remembered the hesitancy as Sella reached to him and realised she hadn’t touched him at all, although the depth of her gaze when she found something in him had felt almost like being touched, touched on the inside. “No. No she didn’t.”

Tendris settled back into the saddle, nodding in satisfaction. “Then you were indeed fortunate.”

“ Fortunate?”

“ The girl’s a Denier witch, boy,” Makril said. He had perched on the birch trunk and was chewing a sugar cane that had appeared in his weathered fist. “She can twist your heart with a touch of that dainty hand of hers.”

“ What our brother means,” Tendris explained. “Is that this girl has a power, an ability that comes from the Dark. The heresy of the Unfaithful sometimes manifests itself in strange ways.”

“ She has a power?”

“ It’s better we don’t burden you with the details.” He tugged his horse’s reins, guiding it to the edge of the clearing, looking around for tracks. “They left yesterday morning, you say?”

“ Yes, brother.” Vaelin tried not to look at Makril, knowing the stocky tracker was subjecting him to an intense, dubious scrutiny. “Heading north.”

“ Mmm.” Tendris glanced at Makril. “Can we still track them without the dogs?”

Makril shrugged. “Maybe, won’t be easy after last night’s storm.” He took another bite from his sugar cane and tossed it away. “I’ll do some scouting north of the hills. Best if you take the others and check towards the west and east. They may have tried to double back to throw us off their trail.” He gave Vaelin a final, hostile glare before disappearing into the trees at a dead run.

“ It’s time for me to take my leave, brother,” Tendris said. “I’m sure I’ll see you again when you’ve passed all your tests. Who knows, perhaps there’ll be a place in my company for a young brother with a brave heart and a quick eye.”

Vaelin looked at the bodies of the two dogs, streaks of blood staining the white blanket of snow. They would have killed me. That’s what they’re bred for. Not just tracking. If they’d found Sella and Erlin… “Who knows down what paths the Faith leads us, brother,” he told Tendris, not having the stomach to force more than a neutral tone into his voice.

“ Indeed.” Tendris nodded, accepting the wisdom. “Well, luck go with you.”

Vaelin was so surprised that his plan had worked that he let Tendris guide his horse to the edge of the clearing before he remembered to ask a vital question.

“ Brother! What do I do with this dog?”

Tendris looked over his shoulder as he rode away, spurring his mount to a canter. “Kill it if you’re smart. Keep it if you’re brave.” He laughed, raising a hand as his horse accelerated into a gallop, snow rising into a thick cloud that shimmered in the winter sun.

Vaelin looked down at the dog. It gazed up at him with adoring eyes, long pink tongue lolling from a mouth wet with drool. Again he noted the numerous scars on its snout. Although still young, this animal clearly had endured a hard life. “Scratch,” he told it. “I’ll call you Scratch.”

Dog flesh proved a tough, sinewy meat but Vaelin was long past being choosy over his food. Scratch had whined continually as Vaelin butchered one of the carcasses back at the clearing, slicing a rear haunch off the largest dog. He had kept his distance as Vaelin carried the prize back to the camp and cut strips of meat to roast over his fire. Only when the meat had been eaten and Vaelin had hidden the remainder in his tree hole did the dog venture closer, snuffling at Vaelin’s feet in search of reassurance. Whatever the savage traits of Volarian slave-dogs it appeared cannibalism was not among them.

“ Don’t know what I’m going to feed you if you won’t eat your own kind,” Vaelin mused, patting Scratch awkwardly on the head. The dog was clearly unused to being petted and shrank warily when Vaelin first tried it.

He had been back at the camp for over an hour, cooking, building the fire, clearing snow from his shelter and resisting the temptation to go and see if Erlin and Sella were still hiding in the hollow. He had felt a sense of wrongness ever since Tendris had ridden away, a suspicion that the man had accepted his word a little too easily. He could be wrong, of course. Tendris had struck him as the kind of brother whose Faith was absolute and unshakeable. If so then the concept of a fellow brother lying, lying to protect a Denier at that, simply wouldn’t occur to him. On the other hand, could a man who spent his life hunting the realm for heretics remain so free of cynicism?

Without answers to these questions Vaelin couldn’t risk checking on the fugitives. There was nothing on the wind to warn him otherwise, no change in the song of the wild threatening ambush but still he stayed in his camp, ate dog flesh and puzzled over what to do with his gift.

Scratch seemed an oddly cheerful animal considering he had been bred to hunt and kill people. He scampered about the camp, playing with sticks or bones he dug out of the snow, bringing them to Vaelin who quickly learned trying to wrestle them away was a pointlessly tiring task. He wasn’t remotely sure he would be allowed to keep the dog when he returned to the Order. Master Chekril, the keeper of the kennels, was unlikely to want such a beast near his beloved hounds. More likely they would pull a dagger across its throat as soon as he appeared at the gates.

They went hunting in the afternoon, Vaelin expecting another fruitless search but it wasn’t long before Scratch picked up a trail. With a brief yelp he was off, bounding through the snow, Vaelin struggling in his wake. It wasn’t long before he found the source of the trail: the frozen carcass of a small deer no doubt caught in the storm the night before. Oddly it was untouched, Scratch sat patiently beside the corpse, eyeing Vaelin warily as he approached. Vaelin gutted the carcass, tossing the entrails to Scratch whose ecstatic reaction took him by surprise. He yelped happily, gulping the meat down in a frenzy of teeth and snapping jaws. Vaelin dragged the deer back to camp pondering the an odd change in his circumstances. He had gone from near starvation to an abundance of food in less than a day, more food in fact than he could eat before Master Hutril returned to take him back to the Order house.

Darkness came swiftly, a cloudless, moonlit night turning the snow into folds of blue silver and laying out a vast panorama of stars above him. If Caenis had been here he could have named all the constellations but Vaelin could pick out only a few of the more obvious ones; the Sword, the Stag, the Maiden. Caenis had told him of a legend that claimed the first souls of the Departed had cast the stars into the sky from the Beyond as a gift for the generations to come, making patterns to guide the living through the path of life. Many claimed to be able to read the message written in the sky, most of them seemed to congregate in market places and fairs, offering guidance for a palmful of copper.

He was wondering at the meaning of the Sword pointing towards the south when his sense of wrongness hardened into cold certainty. Scratch tensed, lifting his head slightly. There was no scent, no sound, no warning at all, but something wasn’t right.

Vaelin turned, glancing over his shoulder at the unmoving foliage behind him. So silent, he wondered, a little awed. No assassin could be that skilful.

“ If you’re hungry, brother,” he called. “I have plenty of meat to spare.” He turned back to the fire, adding some logs to keep the flames high. After a short interval there was a crunch of boots on snow as Makril stepped past him to crouch opposite, spreading his hands to the fire. He didn’t look at Vaelin but glowered at Scratch.

“ Should’ve killed that bloody thing,” he grumbled.

Vaelin ducked into his shelter to fetch a portion of meat. “Deer.” He tossed it to Makril.

The stocky man speared the meat with his knife and arranged a small mound of rocks to secure it over the fire before spreading his bedroll on the ground to sit down.

“ A fine night, brother,” Vaelin said.

Makril grunted, undoing his boots to massage his feet. The smell was enough to make Scratch get up and slink away.

“ I am sorry Brother Tendris did not find my word trustworthy,” Vaelin continued.

“ He believed you.” Makril picked something from between his toes and tossed it into the fire where it popped and hissed. “He’s a true man of the Faith. Whereas I am a suspicious, gutter born bastard. That’s why he keeps me with him. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a man of many abilities, finest horseman I ever saw and he can extract information from a Denier quicker than you could blow your nose. But in some ways he’s an innocent. He trusts the Faithful. For him all the Faithful have the same belief, his belief.”

“ But not yours?”

Makril placed his boots near the fire to dry. “I hunt. Tracks, signs, spoor, a scent on the wind, the rush of blood that comes from a kill. That’s my Faith. What’s yours boy?”

Vaelin shrugged. He suspected a trap in Makril’s openness, luring him into an admission best kept silent. “I follow the Faith,” he replied, forcing certainty into his words. “I am a brother of the Sixth Order.”

“ The Order has many brothers, all different, all finding their own path in the Faith. Don’t kid yourself the Order is filled with virtuous men who spend every spare moment grovelling to the Departed. We’re soldiers, boy. Soldier’s life is hard, short on pleasure and long on pain.”

“ The Aspect says there’s a difference between a soldier and a warrior. A soldier fights for pay or loyalty. We fight for the Faith, war is our way of honouring the Departed.”

Makril’s face took on a sombre cast, a craggy, hairy mask in the yellow fire light, his eyes distant, focused on unhappy memories. “War? War is blood and shit and men maddened with pain calling for their mother as they bleed to death. There’s no honour in it, boy.” His eyes shifted, meeting Vaelin’s. “You’ll see it, you poor little bastard. You’ll see it all.”

Suddenly uncomfortable, Vaelin added another log to the fire. “Why were you hunting that girl?”

“ She’s a Denier. A Denier most foul, for she has power to twist the hearts of virtuous men.” He gave a short, ironic laugh. “So I think I’d be safe if she ever met me.”

“ What is it? This power?”

Makril tested the meat with his fingers and began to eat, biting off small mouthfuls, chewing thoroughly then swallowing. It was the practised, unconscious action of a man who did not savour food but merely took it into himself as fuel. “It’s a dark tale, boy,” he said, between mouthfuls. “Might give you nightmares.”

“ I’ve got those already.”

Makril raised a bushy eyebrow but didn’t comment. Instead he finished his meat and fished in his pack for a small leather flask. “Brother’s Friend,” he explained, taking a swig. “Cumbraelin brandy mixed with redflower. Keeps the fire in a man’s belly when he’s walking a wall on the northern frontier waiting for Lonak savages to cut his throat.” He offered the flask to Vaelin who shook his head. Liquor wasn’t forbidden in the Order, but it was frowned upon by the more Faithful masters. Some said anything that dulled the senses was a barrier to the Faith, the less a man remembered of his life the less he had to take with him to the Beyond. Clearly Brother Makril didn’t share this view.

“ So you want to know about the witch.” He relaxed, resting his back against a rock, intermittently sipping from his flask. “Well, the story goes she was arrested on Council orders following reports of Unfaithful practises. Allegations are usually a load of nonsense; people claiming to have heard voices from the Beyond that don’t come from the Departed, healing the sick, communing with beasts and so on. Mostly it’s just frightened peasants blaming each other for their misfortunes, but every once in a while you get one like her.

“ There’d been trouble in her village. She and her father were outsiders, from Renfael. Kept to themselves, he made a living as a scribe. A local landowner wanted him to forge some deeds, something to do with a dispute over the inheritance of some pasture. The scribe refused and ended up with an axe in his back a few days later. The landowner was a cousin of the local magistrate so nothing was done. Two days later he walked into the local tavern, confessed his crime and cut his own throat from ear to ear.”

“ And they blamed her for that?”

“ It seems they had been seen together earlier in the day, which was odd because there was said to be hatred between them even before the bastard killed her father. They said she touched him, a short pat on the arm. Didn’t help that she was mute, and an outsider. Being a little too pretty and a little too smart didn’t do her any favours either. They always said there was something about her, she wasn’t right. But they always say that.”

“ So you arrested her?”

“ Oh no. Tendris and me, we only hunt the ones that run. Brothers from the Second Order searched her house and found evidence of Denier activity. Forbidden books, images of gods, herbs and candles, the usual stuff. Turned out she and her father were followers of the Sun and the Moon, a minor sect. They’re pretty harmless mostly since they don’t try to convert others to their heresy, but a Denier’s a Denier. She was taken to the Blackhold. The next night she escaped.”

“ She escaped the Blackhold?” Vaelin was unsure if Makril was mocking him. The Blackhold was a squat, ugly fortress in the centre of the capital, its stones stained with soot from the nearby foundries, famed as a place where people were taken and didn’t come out again unless it was to walk the path to the gallows or the gibbet. If a man went missing and his neighbours heard he was taken to the Blackhold they stopped asking when he would return, in fact they didn’t mention him at all. And no-one ever escaped.

“ How is such a thing possible?” Vaelin wondered.

Makril took a long pull from his flask before continuing. “Did you ever hear of Brother Shasta?”

Vaelin recalled some of the more lurid battle stories told by the older boys. “Shasta the Axe?”

“ That’s him. A legend in the Order, a great brute of a man, arms like tree trunks, fists like hams, they said he’d killed over a hundred men before they sent him to the Blackhold. Truly he was a hero… and quite the stupidest shit-head I ever met. Mean with it too, ‘specially when he’d had a drink. He was her gaoler.”

“ I had heard he was a great warrior who did the Order much service,” Vaelin said.

Makril snorted. “The Keep is where the Order puts its relics, boy. The ones that survive their fifteen years who’re too stupid or too mad to be masters or commanders, they get sent to the Keep to live out their time locking up heretics, even if they’re no bloody good at it. I’ve seen plenty of Shastas, big, ugly, brutish idiots with no thought in their heads but the next battle or the next tankard of ale. Usually they don’t last long enough to be a problem but if they’re big and strong enough they linger, like a bad smell. Shasta lingered long enough to be sent to the Blackhold, Faith help us.”

“ So,” Vaelin ventured carefully, “this oaf left her cell open and she walked out?”

Makril laughed, a hard unpleasant sound. “Not quite. He gave her the keys to the front gate, took his axe down from the wall of his quarters and started killing the other brothers on watch. Cut down ten men before one of the archers put enough shafts in him to slow him down. Even then he killed two more before they gutted him. Weird thing, he died with a smile on his face, and before he died he said something: ‘She touched me.’”

Vaelin realised his fingers were playing on the subtle weave of Sella’s scarf. “She touched him?” he asked, auburn curls and elfin features looming large in his head.

Makril took another long gulp from his flask. “So they say. Didn’t know the nature of her Dark affliction, see? If she touches you, you’re hers forever.”

Vaelin was feverishly engaged in recalling his every encounter with Sella. I pushed her into the shelter, did I touch her then? No, she was well clothed… She reached to me though… I felt her, in my head. Was that how she touched me? Is that why I helped her? He felt an urge to ask Makril for more information but knew it would be folly. The tracker was suspicious enough already. Drunk as he was it would be unwise to question him further.

“ Tendris and me’ve been hunting her ever since,” Makril continued. “Four weeks now. This is the closest we’ve got. It’s that bastard she’s with, swear I’m gonna make him squeal good and long before I kill him.” He cackled and drank some more.

Vaelin found his hand inching closer to his knife. He was forming a deep dislike of brother Makril, he reminded him too much of the assassins in the forest. And who knew what conclusions he had drawn. “He told me his name was Erlin,” he said.

“ Erlin, Rellis, Hetril, he’s got a hundred names.”

“ So who is he really?”

Makril gave an extravagant shrug. “Who knows? He helps Deniers. Helps them hide, helps them run. Did he tell you about his travels? From the Alpiran Empire to the Leandren Temples.”

The knife hilt was tight in Vaelin’s grasp. “He told me.”

“ Impressed were you?” Makril belched, a long rumble of escaping gas. “I’ve travelled, y’know. I’ve bloody travelled. Meldenean Islands, Cumbrael, Renfael. Killed rebels, heretics and outlaws all over this great land, I have. Men, women, children…”

Vaelin’s knife was halfway out of its sheath. He’s drunk, won’t be too difficult.

“ One time, me and Tendris found a whole sect, families, bowing to one of their gods in a barn in the Martishe. Tendris got angry, it’s best not to argue with him when he gets like that. He ordered us to lock the doors and douse the place in lamp oil, then he struck a flint… Wouldn’t have thought children could scream so loud.”

The knife was almost clear of its sheath when Vaelin saw something that made him stop: beads of silver were shining in Makril’s beard. He was crying.

“ They screamed for such a long time.” He lifted his flask to his mouth but found it was empty. “Shit!” Grumbling he got unsteadily to his feet and stumbled off into the darkness, a short while later came the distinctive sound of piss hissing into snow.

Vaelin knew if he was going to do it now was the time. Slit the bastard’s throat when he’s having a piss. A fitting end for such a vile man. How many more children will he kill if I let him live? But the tears were troubling, tears that told him Makril was a man who hated what he did. And he was a brother of the Order. It seemed wrong to kill a man whose fate he might be sharing in years to come. A sudden conviction rose in him then, fierce and implacable: I’ll fight but I won’t murder. I’ll kill men who face me in battle but I won’t take the sword to innocents. I won’t kill children.

“ Is Hutril still there?” Makril slurred, stumbling back to collapse onto his bedroll. “Still teaching you little shits how to track?”

“ He’s still there. We are grateful for his wisdom.”

“ Fuck his wisdom. Was supposed to be my job, y’know. Commander Lilden said I was the finest tracker in the Order. Said when he got made Aspect he’d bring me back to the House to be master of the wild. Then the silly bastard got a Meldenean sabre through his guts and Arlyn was chosen. Never liked me, the sanctimonious shit. Chose Hutril, legendary silent hunter of the Martishe forest. Sent me off to hunt heretics with Tendris.” He slumped onto his back, his eyes half lidded, his voice softening to a whisper. “Never asked for this. I just wanted to learn how to track… Like my old man could… Just wanted to track…”

Vaelin watched him pass out and added more wood to the fire. Scratch crept back to camp and settled next to him after a few wary glances at Makril. Vaelin scratched his ears, reluctant to go to bed, knowing his dreams would be full of burning barns and screaming children. Although his urge to kill Makril had evaporated he still he didn’t feel comfortable sharing a camp with the man.

He spent another hour studying the stars with Scratch beside him. On the other side of the fire Makril slept his drunken sleep in silence. It was odd that the tracker made so little noise, not a snore or a grunt, even his breathing was soft. Vaelin wondered if this was a skill that could be learned or was it an instinct all brothers gained after years of service; no doubt the ability to sleep in silence could prolong a man’s life. He took to the shelter when tiredness made his eyelids droop, settling into his blanket with Scratch between him and the entrance. He had decided Makril hadn’t come to kill him but it was best to be safe and it seemed highly unlikely the man would attempt an attack if he had to get past the dog.

Vaelin huddled close to the animal, drawing warmth and feeling glad he had kept him. A boy could do worse than have a slave-dog for a friend…

In the morning Makril was gone. Vaelin searched thoroughly but found no sign the tracker had ever been close by. As expected the hollow where he had hidden Sella and Erlin was empty. He took Sella’s scarf from his neck, studying the intricate pattern woven into the silk, gold threads describing various sigils. Some were clearly recognisable, a crescent moon, the sun, a bird, others unfamiliar. Probably icons of her Denier beliefs. If so he should discard it, any Master finding it would mete out severe punishment, maybe more than a beating. But it was such a well made thing, so finely woven, the gold thread glittered like new. He knew Sella would grieve its loss terribly, it had been her mother’s after all.

Sighing he tucked the scarf into his sleeve and sent a silent plea to the Departed to see the pair safely to wherever they were going. He made his way back to the camp, lost in thought. He had to decide what to tell Master Hutril and needed time to consider his lies carefully. Scratch scampered ahead of him, snapping at the snow joyfully.

It was a silent ride back with Master Hutril, Vaelin was the only boy in the cart. He asked about the others and received only a grunted response: “Bad year, the storm.” Vaelin shivered, suppressing panicked thoughts about his comrades, and climbed onto the cart. Hutril started off with Scratch scampering after in the deep ruts left in the snow. Hutril had listened to Vaelin’s story in silence, staring expressionlessly at Scratch as Vaelin stumbled through his partially invented account. He stuck mostly to the same story he had told Tendris but left out Makril’s visit the night before. Hutril’s only reaction had come when Vaelin mentioned the tracker’s name; a raised eyebrow. Otherwise he said nothing, letting the silence drag out when Vaelin had finished talking.

“ Erm, I suggest we take the dog back to the House, master,” Vaelin said. “Master Jeklin may find a use for him.”

“ The Aspect will decide that,” Hutril said. “Get in.”

At first it seemed the Aspect would have even less to say than Master Hutril, sitting behind his large oak wood desk staring wordlessly at Vaelin over steepled fingers as he repeated his tale, desperately hoping he remembered it correctly. The presence of Master Sollis, seated in the corner, did little to alleviate his discomfort. Vaelin had been to the Aspect’s rooms only once before, on an errand to deliver parchment, and found the piles of books and papers that littered the place had grown since. There must have been hundreds of books crammed in here, stacks stretching from floor to ceiling, with countless scrolls and ribbon bound sheaves of documents occupying the remaining space. It was a collection that made his mother’s library seem paltry in comparison.

Vaelin had been surprised at the lack of interest in Scratch. The Masters seemed preoccupied, besides which they were difficult men to impress at the best of times. Sollis met him in the courtyard as he got down from the cart, favouring Scratch with a brief look of incurious disgust, he said, “Nysa and Dentos made it back so far, the others are due in tomorrow. Leave your gear here and follow me to the Aspect’s chambers. He wants to see you.”

Vaelin assumed the Aspect wanted an explanation as to why he had returned with a large and savage animal in tow and repeated his story when the Aspect asked for a report on his test.

“ You seem well fed,” the Aspect observed. “Usually boys return thinner and weaker.”

“ I was fortunate, Aspect. Scr- the dog, helped by scenting a stag killed in a storm. I didn’t think it would breach the conditions of the test as we are permitted to use whatever tools we find in the wild.”

“ Yes.” The Aspect clasped his long fingers together, resting them on the desk. “Very resourceful. Pity you couldn’t help Brother Tendris in his search. He is one of the Faith’s most valued servants.”

Vaelin thought of burning children and forced an earnest nod. “Indeed, Aspect. I was impressed with his devotion.”

Vaelin heard Sollis make a small noise behind him and couldn’t decide it was a laugh or a snort of derision.

The Aspect smiled, an odd sight on such thin face, but it was a smile of regret. “There have been… events beyond our walls since your test began,” he said. “That is why I called you here. The Battle Lord has resigned from the King’s service. This has caused disharmony in the Kingdom, the Battle Lord was popular with the common folk. That being the case, and in recognition of his service, the King has granted him a boon. Do you know what that is?”

“ A gift, Aspect.”

“ Yes, a King’s gift. Anything which it is in the King’s power to give. The Battle Lord has chosen his boon and the King looks to us to fulfil it. Except our Order cannot be commanded by the King, we defend the Realm but we serve the Faith and the Faith is above the Realm. But still, he looks to us, and it is not an easy thing to refuse a King.”

Vaelin stirred uncomfortably. The Aspect seemed to be expecting something from him but he had no idea what it could be. Eventually, finding the silence unbearable he said, “I see, Aspect.”

The Aspect exchanged a brief glance with Master Sollis. “You understand Vaelin? You know what this means?”

I am the Battle Lord’s son no longer, Vaelin thought. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, in fact he wasn’t sure he felt anything at all about it. “I am a brother of the Order, Aspect,” he said. “Events outside these walls do not concern me until I pass the Test of the Sword and am sent forth to defend the Faith.”

“ Your presence here was a symbol of the Battle Lord’s devotion to the Faith and the Realm,” the Aspect explained. “But he is Battle Lord no longer and wishes his son returned to him.”

Vaelin wondered at the absence of joy or surprise, no leap of the heart or stomach churning surge of excitement. Just numb puzzlement. The Battle Lord wishes his son returned to him. He remembered the drumbeat thud of hooves on damp sod fading into morning fog, the stern command in his father’s words, Loyalty is our strength.

He forced himself to meet the Aspect’s eye. “You would send me away, Aspect?”

“ My wishes are not at issue here. Neither are Master Sollis’s, although rest assured he has made them plain. No, this decision falls to you, Vaelin. As the King cannot command us, and it is a cherished maxim of our Order that no student is forced to leave unless they fail a test or transgress the Faith, the King has given the choice to you.”

Vaelin suppressed a bitter laugh. Choice? My father made a choice once. Now so will I. “The Battle Lord has no son,” he told the Aspect. “And I have no father. I am a brother of the Sixth Order. My place is here.”

The Aspect looked down at his desk, suddenly seeming older than Vaelin had seen him before. How old is he? It was difficult to tell. He had the same fluid movements of the other masters but his long features were lean and worn with outdoor living, his eyes aged and heavy with experience. There was a sadness too, a regret as he pondered Vaelin’s words.

“ Aspect,” Master Sollis said. “The boy needs rest.”

The Aspect looked up, meeting Vaelin’s gaze with his old, tired eyes. “If that is your final word.”

“ It is, Aspect.”

The Aspect smiled, Vaelin could tell it was forced. “You gladden my heart, young brother. Take your dog to Master Chekril, I think he’ll prove more welcoming than you might expect.”

“ Thank you, Aspect.”

“ Thank you Vaelin, you may go.”

“ A Volarian slave-dog,” Master Chekril breathed in awe as Scratch stared up at him, his scarred head angled in puzzlement. “Haven’t seen one in twenty years or more.”

Master Chekril was a cheerful, wiry man in early middle age, his movements more jerky and less measured than the other masters, mirroring the hounds he cared for with such dedication. His robe was dirtier than any Vaelin had seen, stained with earth, hay and a mixture of urine and dog muck. The odour he emitted was truly spectacular but he didn’t seem to mind, or pay the slightest heed to any offence it might cause anyone else.

“ You killed its pack brothers you say?” he asked Vaelin.

“ Yes master. Brother Makril said it saw me as pack leader now.”

“ Oh yes. He’s right about that. Dogs are wolves, Vaelin, the live in packs, but their instincts are dulled, the packs they run in are temporary, they quickly forget who is leader and who is not. But slave-dogs are different, got enough of the wolf left in them to keep the pack order but they’re more vicious than any wolf, bred that way centuries ago. Only the nastier pups got bred, some say there was a touch of the Dark in their breeding. They were changed somehow, made more than a dog but less than a wolf, and different to both. When you killed the pack leader it adopted you, saw you as stronger, a worthy leader. Doesn’t happen every time though. You’ve certainly got a measure of luck young man.”

Master Chekril took a small piece of dried beef from the pouch at his belt and crouched lower to offer it to Scratch, Vaelin noting the hesitant, wary movements of the man. He’s scared, he realised, appalled. He’s frightened of Scratch.

Scratch sniffed the meat cautiously, glancing uncertainly at Vaelin.

“ See?” Chekril said. “He wont take it from me. Here.” He tossed the morsel to Vaelin. “You try.”

Vaelin held the meat out to Scratch who snapped it up and wolfed it down in an instant.

“ Why’s he called a slave-dog, master?” Vaelin asked.

“ Volarians keep slaves, lots of them. When one of them runs they bring him back and cut the small fingers off his hands. If he runs again they send the slave-dogs after him. They don’t bring him back, except in their bellies. It’s not an easy thing for a dog to kill a man. Men are stronger than you think, and more cunning than any fox. For a dog to kill a man it must be strong and swift but also cunning, and vicious, very vicious.”

Scratch lay down at Vaelin’s feet and rested his head on his boots, tail thumping slowly on the stone floor. “He seems friendly enough.”

“ He is, to you. But never forget, he’s a killer. It’s what he’s bred for.”

Master Chekril went to the rear of the large stone store room that served as his kennels and opened a pen. “I’ll put him in here,” he said over his shoulder. “You better lead him in, he won’t stay otherwise.”

Scratch obediently followed Vaelin to the pen and went inside, briefly circling a patch of straw before laying down.

“ You’ll have to feed him too,” Chekril said. “Muck him out and so on. Twice a day.”

“ Of course master.”

“ He’ll need exercise, plenty of it. Can’t take him out with the other hounds, he’d kill them.”

“ I’ll attend to it master.” He went into the pen and patted Scratch on the head, provoking a slobbering attack of licks that knocked him off his feet. Vaelin laughed and wiped the drool away. “I had wondered if you would be happy to see him, master,” he told Chekril. “I thought you might want him killed.”

“ Killed? Faith no! Would a blacksmith throw away a finely made sword? He’ll be the start of a new blood line, he’ll sire many puppies and hopefully they’ll be just as strong as him but easier to manage.”

He stayed in the kennels for another hour, feeding Scratch and making sure he was comfortable in his new surroundings. When it came time to leave Scratch’s whines were heart rending but Master Chekril told him he had to get the dog used to being left so he didn’t turn around after he closed the pen door. Scratch started howling when he went out of his sight.

The evening was subdued, an unspoken tension reigning in the room. He exchanged stories of hardship and hunger with the others. Caenis, like Vaelin looking better fed than when he left, had taken shelter in the hollow trunk of an ancient oak only to find himself attacked by an angry eagle owl. Dentos, never fleshy at the best of times but now distinctly gaunt, had spent a miserable week fighting starvation with roots and the few birds and squirrels he managed to catch. Like the masters, neither seemed all that impressed with his story. It was as if hardship bred indifference.

“ What’s a slave-dog?” Caenis asked dully.

“ Volarian beast,” Dentos muttered. “Nasty buggers. Can’t use ‘em for fighting, they turn on the handlers.” He turned to Vaelin, his gaze suddenly interested. “Did you bring any food back with you?”

They spent the night in a sort of exhausted trance, Caenis honing the edge on his hunting knife with a whet stone and Dentos nibbling at the dried venison Vaelin had hidden in his cloak with the small bites they knew were best when you had an empty stomach, bolting would only make you sick.

“ Never thought it was gonna end,” Dentos said eventually. “Really thought I’d die out there.”

“ None of the brothers I went out with came back,” Vaelin commented. “Master Hutril said it was the storm.”

“ Starting to see why they’re so few brothers in the Order.”

The next day was probably the least punishing they had endured so far. Vaelin had expected a return to the harsh routine but instead Master Sollis filled the morning with a sign language lesson, Vaelin found his meagre ability had improved after his brief exposure to Sella and Erlin’s fluid signs although not by much and he still lagged behind Caenis. The afternoon was taken up with sword practice, Master Sollis introducing a new exercise, throwing rotten fruit and vegetables at them with blinding speed as they tried to fend off the putrid projectiles with their wooden swords. It was smelly but strangely enjoyable, more like a game than most of their exercises which normally left them sporting a few bruises or a bloody nose.

Afterwards they ate their evening meal in uncomfortable silence, the dining hall was much quieter than usual, the many empty places seemed to stall attempts at conversation. The older boys gave them a few looks of sympathy or grim amusement but no one commented on the absences. It was like the aftermath of Mikehl’s death only on a grander scale. Some boys were already lost and wouldn’t be coming back, others were yet to return and the tension of worrying over their possible non-appearance was palpable. Vaelin and the others exchanged some grunted comments about stinking like compost from the afternoon practice but there was little real humour in it. They concealed a few apples and bread rolls in their cloaks and returned to the tower.

It grew dark and still no one returned. Vaelin began to feel a sinking certainty that they were the only boys left in their group. No more Barkus to make them laugh, no Nortah to bore them with another of his father’s axioms. It was a truly chilling prospect.

They were climbing into bed when the sound of footsteps on the stone staircase outside caused them to freeze in wary anticipation.

“ Two apples says its Barkus,” Dentos said.

“ Taken,” Caenis accepted.

“ Ho there!” Nortah greeted them brightly, coming into dump his gear on his bed. He was thinner than Caenis and Vaelin, but didn’t quite match Dentos’s haggard emaciation, and his eyes were red with exhaustion. Despite it all he seemed cheerful, even triumphant.

“ Barkus here yet?” he asked, stripping his clothes away.

“ No,” Caenis said smiling at Dentos who curled a disgusted lip.

Vaelin noticed something new about Nortah as he pulled his shirt over his head, a necklace of what looked like elongated beads around his neck. “Did you find that?” he asked, gesturing at the necklace.

There was a flash of smug satisfaction on Nortah’s face, a mingled expression of victory and anticipation. “Bear claws,” he said. Vaelin admired his off-handed manner and imagined the hours of rehearsal it must have taken. He decided to keep quiet and force Nortah to tell the tale of his own volition but Dentos spoilt it.

“ You found a bear claw necklace,” he said. “So what? Took it off some poor fool caught in the storm eh?”

“ No, I made it from the claws of a bear I killed.”

He continued to undress, affecting disinterest in their reaction but Vaelin saw clearly how much he was enjoying the moment.

“ Killed a bear my arse!” Dentos sneered.

Nortah shrugged. “Believe me or not, it’s of no matter.”

They lapsed into silence, Dentos and Caenis refusing to ask the inevitable question despite their obvious curiosity. The moment stretched and Vaelin decided he was too tired to let the tension endure.

“ Please brother,” he said. “Tell us how you killed a bear.”

“ I put an arrow in its eye. It took a fancy to a deer I’d brought down. Couldn’t have that. Anyone who tells you bears sleep through the winter is a liar.”

“ Master Hutril says they only wake up when their forced. You must have found a very unusual bear, brother.”

Nortah fixed him with an odd look, coldly superior, which was usual, but also knowing which was not. “I must say I’m surprised to find you here brother. I met a trapper in the wilds, a rough fellow to be sure, and a drunkard if I’m any judge. He had a lot of news to share about events in the wider world.”

Vaelin said nothing. He had decided not to tell the others about the King’s boon to his father but it seemed Nortah would leave him little choice.

“ The Battle Lord left the King’s service,” Caenis said. “Yes, we heard.”

“ Some say he asked a boon of the King to return his son from the Order,” Dentos put in. “But since the Battle Lord don’t have a son, how could he be returned?”

They knew, Vaelin realised. They knew ever since I arrived. That’s why they’ve been so quiet. They were wondering when I was going to leave. Master Sollis must have told them I was staying today. He wondered if it was truly possible to keep a secret in the Order.

“ Perhaps,” Nortah was saying. “The Battle Lord’s son, if he had one, would be grateful for an opportunity to escape this place and return to the comfort of his family. It’s not a chance any of the rest of us will ever get.”

Silence reigned. Dentos and Nortah glaring at each other fiercely and Caenis fidgeting in uncomfortable embarrassment. Finally Vaelin said, “It must have been a fine piece of bow work, brother. Putting an arrow in a bear’s eye. Was it charging?”

Nortah gritted his teeth, controlling his anger. “Yes.”

“ Then it’s to your credit that you held your nerve.”

“ Thank you, brother. Do you have any stories to share?”

“ I met a pair of fugitive heretics, one with the power to twist men’s minds, killed two Volarian slave-dogs and kept another. Oh, and I met Brother Tendris and Brother Makril, they hunt Deniers.”

Nortah threw his shirt onto his bed, standing with his muscular arms on his hips, face set in a neutral frown. His self-control was admirable, the disappointment he felt barely showing but Vaelin saw it. This was to be his moment of triumph, he had killed a bear and Vaelin was leaving. It should have been one of the sweetest moments of his young life. Instead Vaelin had refused the chance of escape, a chance Nortah hungered for, and his adventures made Nortah’s look paltry in comparison. Watching him Vaelin was struck by Nortah’s physique. Although still only thirteen, the shape of the man he would become was clear; sculpted muscle and lean, handsome features. A son to make his King’s Minister father proud. If he had lived his life outside the Order it would have been a tale of romance and adventure played out under the admiring gaze of the court. Instead he was doomed to a life of war, squalor and hardship in service to the Faith. A life he hadn’t chosen.

“ Did you take its pelt?” Vaelin asked.

Nortah frowned in irritated puzzlement. “What?

“ The bear, did you skin it?”

“ No. The storm was brewing and I couldn’t drag it back to my shelter so I hacked its paw off to take the claws.”

“ A wise move, brother. And an impressive achievement.”

“ I dunno,” Dentos said. “I thought Caenis’s eagle owl thing was pretty good too.”

“ An owl?” Vaelin said. “ I brought back a slave-dog.”

They bickered good naturedly for a while, even Nortah joined in with caustic observations of Dentos’s thinness, they were family once more, but still incomplete. They went to bed later than usual, nervous of not greeting the next arrival, but tiredness overtook them. Vaelin’s sleep was dreamless for once and when he woke it was with a startled shout, hands instinctively scrabbling for his hunting knife. He stopped when his eyes fixed on the bulky shape on the next bunk.

“ Barkus?” he asked groggily.

There was a soft grunt, the shape immobile in the gloom.

“ When did you get in?”

No answer. Barkus sat still, his silence disconcerting. Vaelin sat up, fighting the deep seated desire to snuggle back into his blankets. “Are you all right?” he asked.

More silence, stretching until Vaelin wondered if he should fetch Master Sollis, but Barkus said, “Jennis is dead.” His voice was chilling in its complete lack of emotion. Barkus was the sort of boy who always felt something, joy or anger or surprise, it was always there, writ large in his face and his voice. But now there was nothing, just cold fact. “I found him frozen to a tree. He didn’t have his cloak on. I think he wanted it to happen. He hadn’t been the same since Mikehl died.”

Mikehl, Jennis… How many more? Would any of them be left by then end? I should be angry, he thought. We are just boys and these tests kill us. But there was no anger, just fatigue and sorrow. Why can’t I hate them? Why don’t I hate the Order?

“ Go to bed, Barkus,” he told his friend. “In the morning we’ll offer thanks for our brother’s life.”

Barkus shivered, hugging himself closely. “I’m scared of what I’ll see when I sleep.”

“ As am I. But we are of the Order and therefore of the Faith. The Departed do not want us to suffer. They send us dreams to guide us, not to hurt us.”

“ I was hungry, Vaelin.” Tears glittered in Barkus’s eyes. “I was hungry and I didn’t think about poor Jennis being dead or how we’d miss him or anything. I just looked through his clothes for food. He didn’t have any so I cursed him, I cursed my dead brother.”

At a loss Vaelin sat and watched Barkus crying in the darkness. The Test of the Wild, he thought. More a test of the heart and the soul. Hunger tests us in so many ways. “You didn’t kill Jennis,” he said eventually. “You can’t curse a soul that’s joined the Departed. Even if our brother heard you he would understand the weight of the Test.”

It took a lot of persuading but Barkus went to bed about an hour later, his tiredness now too acute to be denied. Vaelin settled back into his own bed, knowing sleep would evade him now and the next day would be spent in a fugue of clumsiness and confusion. Master Sollis will start caning us again tomorrow, he realised. He lay awake and thought about his test and his dead friend and Sella and Erlin and Makril crying like Barkus had cried. Was there a place for such thoughts in the Order? A sudden, unbidden thought, loud and bright in his mind, shocking him: Go back to your father and you could think what you like.

He squirmed in his bed. Where had that come from? Go back to my father? “I have no father.” He didn’t realise he had spoken aloud until Barkus groaned, turning over restlessly. On the other side of the room Caenis too had been disturbed, sighing heavily and pulling his blankets over his head.

Vaelin sank deeper into his bed, seeking comfort, willing himself to sleep, clinging to the thought: I have no father.