Blood Song

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.