“Yes,” he said. “I killed him.”
Chapter 1
A Cumbraelin longbow was over five feet long when unstrung and fashioned from the heart-wood of a yew tree. It could propel an arrow over two hundred paces, almost three hundred in skilled hands, and was quite capable of piercing plate armour at close range. The one Vaelin held was slightly thicker than most, the smoothness of the stave evidence of the extensive use it had seen. Its owner had a keen eye, sending his steel tipped arrow clean through the armoured chest of one Martil Al Jelnek, an affable young noble with a fondness for poetry and a somewhat tiresome inclination to talk constantly about his betrothed who he claimed to be the fairest and kindest maid in all of Asrael, if not the world. Sadly, he would never see her again. His eyes were open but had lost all vestige of life. His mouth was stained with blood and vomit, the signs of a painful death; Cumbraelin archers tended to coat their arrowheads in a mixture of joffril root and adder venom. The bow’s owner lay a few yards away with Vaelin’s shaft in his arm, his neck broken by the fall from the birch in which he had hidden.
“Nothing,” Barkus said, trudging through the snow, flanked by Caenis and Dentos. “Looks like he was the only one.” He kicked the dead archer’s head, making it swivel on a twisted spine, before kneeling to divest the corpse of any valuables.
“Where’d all the soldiers go?” Dentos asked.
“Scattered,” Vaelin said. “Probably find most of them in the camp when we get back.”
“Bloody cowards.” Dentos peered down at Martil Al Jelnek. “Didn’t they like him? Thought he was a nice enough fellow, meself. For a high born.”
“These supposed soldiers are the sweepings of the Varinshold dungeons, brother,” Caenis told him. “They have no loyalty to any man save themselves.”
“Did you find his horse?” Vaelin asked. He didn’t relish the prospect of carrying the dead noble back to the camp.
“Nortah’s bringing it,” Barkus said, straightening from the archer, jingling the few coppers he had found. He tossed the Cumbraelin’s quiver to Vaelin. The arrows it held were stained ash black and fletched with raven’s feathers. Their enemies liked to sign their work. “You keeping that?” He nodded at the bow. “I could get ten silvers for it when we get back to the city.”
Vaelin kept hold of the weapon. “Thought I’d see if I could master it.”
“Good luck. These buggers train for a lifetime from what I hear. Their Fief Lord makes them practice every day.” He looked down at the meagre collection of coppers in his hand. “Doesn’t seem keen on paying them much though.”
“This lot fight for their god not their Lord,” Caenis said. “Money holds little interest for them.”
They stripped the armour from Al Jelnek and heaved him onto the back of his horse, Nortah slapping Barkus’s hand away when it strayed to the dead man’s purse.
“He won’t need it, will he?”
“We left the House seven months ago, for Faith’s sake!” Nortah snapped. “You don’t need to steal any more.”
Barkus shrugged. “It’s a habit.”
Seven months, Vaelin thought as they made their way back to camp. Seven months of hunting Cumbraelin Deniers in the Martishe forest aided, in the loosest sense, by Linden Al Hestian and his newly raised regiment of infantry. Linden Al Hestian who was conspicuously alive a full month longer than the King had ordained. With every passing day Vaelin felt the burden of his bargain weigh a little more heavily.
His mood was not lightened by his surroundings. The Martishe was not the Urlish, being both darker and denser, the trees so close to each other in some places that it was practically impassable. Added to this was the broken nature of the ground, dotted with hollows and gullies that made perfect ambush sites and forced them to abandon their horses. They walked everywhere with bows ready and arrows notched. Only the nobles amongst their contingent continued to ride, making themselves easy targets for the Cumbraelin archers that haunted the trees. Of the fifteen young nobles who had accompanied Linden Al Hestian to the Martishe four were dead and another three wounded so badly they had had to be carried out. Their men had suffered worse, six hundred had been enlisted or pressed into the regiment but over a third were gone, killed or lost amidst the trees, some undoubtedly deserting when the chance arose. Often they would find men who had been missing for weeks, frozen in the snow or tied to a tree and tormented to death. Their enemies had no use for captives.
Despite the losses their small Order contingent had won a few victories. A month ago Caenis led them in tracking a group of over twenty Cumbraelins as they moved along a creek, a clever move but of little value if Caenis was on their trail. They followed for hours until their enemies paused to rest, hard faced men in buckskin and sable pelts, their longbows on their backs, not expecting trouble. The first volley cut down half, the rest turning and fleeing back along the creek bed. The brothers drew their swords and hunted them down, none had escaped and none had asked for quarter. Caenis was right, their enemies fought for their god and displayed little reluctance in dying for him.
The camp came into view a few miles later, in truth it was a stockade rather than an encampment. When they first arrived they had tried mounting a sentry picket which had simply provided their enemies with an opportunity for some night time archery practice. Linden Al Hestian had been forced to order trees felled to provide timber for a stockade, a grim circle of spiked trunks sitting in one of the few clearings to be found in the Martishe. Vaelin and most of the Order contingent hated the damp oppression of the place and spent most of their time in the forest, patrolling in small groups, making their own camps which they moved every day, playing their deadly game of chase with the Cumbraelins whilst Al Hestian’s soldiers sheltered in their stockade. The sortie by the unfortunate Martil Al Jelnek had been the first for weeks, even then the men he led had to be threatened with a flogging before they would march. In the event it had taken a single arrow to set them to flight.
A stocky brother with bushy, frost adorned eyebrows and a fierce glower was waiting at the gate to the stockade. At his side was a very large mongrel with a grey flecked coat and a gaze that could match its master’s for fierceness.
“Brother Makril,” Vaelin greeted him with a short bow. Makril wasn’t much for formalities but as commander of their contingent he deserved a show of respect, especially in front of Al Hestian’s soldiery, some of whom were loitering near the gate, fearful eyes tracking from Al Jelnek’s corpse to the dark wall of the forest as if a Cumbraelin arrow might come hissing at them from the shadows at any moment.
Vaelin had managed to hide his surprise when the Aspect had called him to his room and he found Makril waiting, staring at the red diamond shaped cloth in his hand, a bemused expression on his blunt features.
“You two are acquainted, I believe,” the Aspect said
“We met during my Test of the Wild, Aspect.”
“Brother Makril has been appointed commander of our expedition to the Martishe forest,” the Aspect told him. “You will follow his orders without question.”
Apparently few men knew the Martishe as well as Makril, save for Master Hutril who couldn’t be spared from his duties at the Order House. Their contingent numbered only thirty brothers, mostly experienced men from the northern border who seemed to share Vaelin’s wariness of Makril, but he quickly proved himself an adept tactician, albeit with a somewhat abrupt style of leadership.
“One fucking hour,” he growled. “You were supposed to sweep to the south for two days.”
“Lord Al Jelnek’s men ran away,” Nortah said. “Didn’t seem much point staying out there.”
“Was I asking you, snot-boy?” Makril demanded. He had taken an instant dislike to all of them, but reserved most of his bile for Nortah. Beside him his mongrel, Snout, gave a growl of agreement. Where he found the animal Vaelin had no idea, apparently Makril had given up on slave-hounds after his experience with Scratch and opted for the largest and most ill-tempered hunting dog he could find, regardless of breeding. Several soldiers bore scars as evidence of Snout’s dislike of petting or eye contact.
Nortah stared back at Makril with fully reciprocated dislike. Vaelin worried continually what would happen if the two were left alone together.
“We thought it best to return with the body, brother,” Vaelin said. “We will patrol ourselves this evening.”
Makril turned his glower on Vaelin. “Some of the men made it back. Said there had been at least fifty scum out there.” Makril always referred to the Cumbraelins as scum. “How many did you get?”
Vaelin hefted the longbow in his hand. “One.”
Makril’s bushy eyebrows knitted together. “One out of fifty?”
“One out of one, brother.”
Makril sighed heavily. “We better report to his lordship. He’s got another letter to write.”
Lord Linden Al Hestian was tall and handsome with an easy smile and a lively sense of humour. He was courageous in battle and skilled with sword and lance. Contrary to the King’s description he also turned out to posses a quick mind and his apparent arrogance was merely the swagger of a young man who had achieved much in his short life and saw little reason to hide his self satisfaction. Vaelin, much to his regret, found himself liking the young noble, although he had to admit the man made a terrible leader, his nature simply lacked the necessary ruthlessness. He had threatened the men with flogging many times but had yet to inflict any punishment at all despite obvious cowardice, drunkenness and a camp that was a disgrace to soldierly conduct.