Blood Song

Finally he was through the throng and drew up short at the scene before him. There were five of them, soldiers of the Twenty-Seventh Cavalry judging by the black tail-feathers in their tunics which gave them their informal name: the Blackhawks. Reputedly a favourite with the King because of their service during the wars of unification, the Blackhawks were often given the honour of policing public events or ceremonials. One of them, the largest, had Nortah by the throat, a beefy arm wrapped around his neck as two of his comrades attempted to restrain him. A fourth man stood back a little, his sword raised, poised for a strike. “Hold the bastard still, Faith’s sake!” he shouted. They all bore bruises or cuts showing Nortah had not been easily captured. A fifth man was kneeling nearby, clutching at a bloody wound in his arm, his face grey with pain and tense with fury. “Kill the fucker!” he snarled. “He’s bloody crippled me!”

Seeing the man with the sword draw his arm back further Vaelin acted without thought. His one remaining throwing knife left his hand before he knew he had drawn it. It was the finest throw he had ever managed, the blade catching the swordsman just below the wrist. The sword dropped to the ground instantly, its owner gaping in shock at the shiny piece of metal impaling his limb.

Vaelin was already moving, his sword hissing from the scabbard on his back. One of the men holding Nortah’s arms released him as Vaelin charged, scrabbling at his belt for his own sword. Nortah saw the opportunity and brought his elbow round to smash into the soldier’s face, making him stagger into Vaelin’s flying kick. He stumbled a few more paces, blood streaming thickly from his nose and mouth, before collapsing heavily to the earth.

Nortah snatched a throwing knife from his belt and stabbed backwards, sinking the blade deep into the thigh of the man choking his neck, forcing him to release his hold. Vaelin moved in and dropped him with a blow to the temple from his sword hilt. The remaining Blackhawk had released his hold on Nortah and was backing away, sword drawn, the trembling point flicking between them.

“You’re…” he stammered. “You’re breaking the King’s peace. You’re under arr-”

Nortah moved with blinding speed, ducking under the sword and smashing his fist into the man’s face. Two more punches and he was down.

“Hawks?” Nortah spat on the unconscious soldier. “More like sheep.” He turned to Vaelin, a hysterical desperation shining in his eyes. “Thank you brother. Come,” he turned away wildly. “We have to rescue my fa-”

Vaelin’s blow took him under the ear, a technique they had learned after much painful tutelage under Master Intris, it rendered the victim unconscious but without lasting damage.

Vaelin knelt down next to his friend, checking the pulse in his neck. “I’m sorry brother,” he whispered before sheathing his sword and gathering him up, hoisting his inert form over his shoulder with difficulty. He was bigger than Nortah but still his brother’s weight was a substantial burden as he moved towards the cordon of stunned spectators. Not one of them said a word as he gestured for them to make way.

“Hold there!” a shouted command breaking the silence like glass, the crowd’s shock giving way to sudden babble of incomprehension and amazement.

“Beat five Blackhawks, just the two of them…”

“Never seen the like…”

“It’s treason to strike a soldier. King’s edict said so…”

“HOLD!” the voice again, cutting through the noise. Looking round Vaelin saw a mounted figure kicking his horse forward through the crush, occasionally laying about himself with a riding crop to speed progress. “Make way!” he commanded. “King’s business. Make way!”

Emerging from the throng he drew his mount up and Vaelin saw him clearly. A tall man on a black war horse, a thoroughbred of Renfaelin stock. He wore a ceremonial uniform with a black feather in his tunic and the short-plumed helmet of an officer on his head, beneath the visor the rider’s lean, clean-shaven face was hard with fury. The single four pointed star on his breast-plate depicted his rank: Lord Marshal of the Realm Guard. Behind the mounted man a troop of Blackhawks on foot emerged and fanned out, swords drawn, pushing the crowd back with the aid of a few kicks and punches. Some of them tended to their fallen comrades, casting vengeful glances at Vaelin as they did so. The man with Vaelin’s knife through his wrist was weeping openly in pain.

Seeing no avenue of escape, Vaelin gently laid Nortah on the earth and stepped away, careful to keep himself between his friend and the man on the horse.

“What is this?” the marshal demanded.

“I answer to the Order,” Vaelin replied.

“You’ll answer to me, Order whelp or I’ll string you from the nearest tree by your guts.”

Vaelin resisted the impulse to draw his sword as some of the Blackhawks moved closer. He knew he couldn’t fight them all, not without killing a few which was unlikely to help Nortah.