Blood Song

Meal time proved to be something of a surprise. The hall was crowded with boys and the tumult of voices engaging in the habitual ridicule and gossip of youth. The tables were arranged according to age, the youngest boys near the doors, where they would enjoy the strongest draft, and the oldest at the far end next to the masters’ table. There seemed to be about thirty masters altogether, hard eyed, mostly silent men, many scarred, a few showing livid burns. One man, sitting at the end of the table quietly eating a plate of bread and cheese, appeared to have had his entire scalp seared away. Only Master Grealin seemed cheerful, laughing heartily, a drumstick gripped in his meaty fist. The other masters either ignored him or nodded politely at whatever witticism he had chosen to share.

Master Sollis led them to the table closest to the door and told them to sit down. There were other groups of boys about their own age already at table. They had arrived a few weeks earlier and been in training longer under other masters. Vaelin noted the sneering superiority some exhibited, the nudges and smirks, finding that he didn’t like it at all.

“You may talk freely,” Sollis told them. “Eat the food, don’t throw it. You have an hour.” He leaned down, speaking softly to Vaelin. “If you fight, don’t break any bones.” With that he left to join the other Masters.

The table was crammed with plates of roasted chicken, pies, fruit, bread, cheese, even cakes. The feast was a sharp contrast with the stark austerity Vaelin had seen so far. Only once before had he seen so much food in one place, at the King’s palace, and then he had hardly been allowed to eat anything. They sat in silence for a moment, partly in awe at the amount of food on the table, but mostly out of simple awkwardness; they were strangers after all.

“How did you do it?”

Vaelin looked up to find Barkus, the hefty Nilsaelin boy, addressing him over the mound of pastries between them. “What?”

“How did you parry the blow?”

The other boys were looking at him intently, Nortah dabbing a napkin at the bloody lip Sollis had given him. He couldn’t tell if they were jealous or resentful. “His eyes,” he said, reaching for the water jug and pouring a measure into the plain tin goblet next to his plate.

“What about his eyes?” Dentos asked, he had taken bread roll was cramming pieces into his mouth, crumbs fountaining from his mouth as he spoke. “Ye tellin’ us it was the Dark?”

Nortah laughed, so did Barkus, but the rest of the boys seemed chilled by the suggestion, except Caenis who was concentrating on a modest portion of chicken and potatoes, apparently indifferent to the conversation.

Vaelin shifted in his seat, disliking the attention. “He fixes you with his eyes,” he explained. “He stares, you stare back, you’re fixed, then he attacks while you’re still wondering what he’s planning. Don’t look at his eyes, look at his feet and his sword.”

Barkus took a bite from an apple and grunted. “He’s right you know. I thought he was trying to hypnotise me.”

“What’s hypnotise?” asked Dentos.

“It’s looks like magic but really it’s just a trick,” Barkus replied. “At last year’s Summertide fair there was a man who could make people think they were a pig. He’d get them to root in the ground and oink and roll in shit.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, some kind of trick. He’d wave a bauble in front of their eyes and talk quietly to them for a while, then they’d do whatever he said.”

“Do you think Master Sollis can do such things?” asked Jennis, the boy Sollis said looked like a donkey.

“Faith, who knows? I’ve heard the masters of the Orders know many Dark things, especially in the Sixth Order.” Barkus held up a drumstick appreciatively before taking a large bite. “It seems that they know cookery as well. They make us sleep on straw and beat us every hour of the day, but they want to feed us well.”

“Yeh,” Dentos agreed. “Like my uncle Sim’s dog.”

There was a puzzled silence. “Your uncle Sim’s dog?” Nortah enquired.

Dentos nodded, chewing busily on a mouthful of pie. “Growler. Best fightin’ hound in the western counties. Ten victories ‘fore he ‘ad ‘is throat torn out last winter. Uncle Sim loved that dog, ‘ad four kids of ‘is own, to three diff’rent women mind, but he loved that dog better’n any of ‘em, feed Growler ‘fore the kids he would. Best of stuff too, mind. Give the kids gruel and the dog beef steak.” He chuckled wryly. “Rotten old bastard.”

Nortah was unenlightened. “What does it matter what some Renfaelin peasant feeds his dog?”

“So it would fight better,” Vaelin said. “Good food builds strong muscles. That’s why war horses are fed best corn and oats and not set to grazing pasture.” He nodded at the food on the table. “The better they feed us, the better we’ll fight.” He met Nortah’s eyes. “And I don’t think you should call him a peasant. We’re all peasants here.”

Nortah stared back coldly. “You have no right to lead, Al Sorna. You may be the Battle Lord’s son…”