“Seems the Baron made it back,” Vaelin observed as Dentos reined in.

“Glad someone did.” Dentos upended a canteen and let the water bathe his face. Behind him Vaelin could see their pursuers were closing fast, barely a mile behind. He was right, they weren’t going to make it.

“Here,” he said making to dismount. “I have the faster horse. It’s me they want.”

“Don’t be fucking stupid, brother,” Dentos said wearily. He unhitched his bow from the saddle and notched an arrow, wheeling his horse around to face the oncoming horsemen. Vaelin knew there was no dissuading him.

“I’m sorry, brother,” he said, voice laden with guilt. “This fool’s war, I…”

Dentos wasn’t listening, looking off to the south, a puzzled frown on his brow. “Didn’t know they had them here. Big bugger too, isn’t he?”

Vaelin followed his gaze and felt the blood-song surge in a fiery tumult of recognition as his eyes picked out the form of a large grey wolf sitting a short distance away. It regarded him with the impassive, green eyed stare he remembered so well from that first meeting in the Urlish. “You can see him?” he asked.

“’Course, he’s hard to miss.”

The blood-song was raging now, a piercing cacophony of warning. “Dentos, ride for the city.”

“I’m not going anywhere…”

“Something’s going to happen! Please, just go!”

Dentos was going to argue further but his gaze was drawn by something else, a great dark cloud rising above the southern horizon, ascending from the desert to at least a mile into the sky, swallowing sunlight in its billowing fury as it swept towards the city, dunes disappearing as it gathered them to its hungry breast.

An arrow thumped into the ground a few feet away. Vaelin turned to see their pursuers now barely fifty yards distant, at least a hundred men, preceded by a swarm of arrows launched at the gallop, a desperate attempt to end the chase before the sand storm bore down.

“RIDE!” Vaelin shouted, taking hold of Dentos’s reins and pulling him along as he kicked Spit into a gallop, arrows raining down as they descended the rise and rode for the city. The storm hit before they had covered a third of the distance, the sand blasting into face and eyes like a cloud of vicious needles. Dentos’s mount reared in the fury of it and Vaelin lost his grip on the reins, horse and rider disappearing in the whirling red mist. He tried to call for him but instantly choked on the sand which sought to fill his mouth. He could only do his best to shield his face and cling on as Spit ran blindly through the storm.

In desperation he turned to the blood-song, trying to calm it, master it enough to guide its music, to sing. At first there was only the discordant shriek of wrongness and alarm that had erupted at the sight of the wolf, but as he exerted his will the confusion began to calm, a few clear notes forming amongst the storm raging in his mind. Dentos! he called, seeking to cast the song into the storm like a grapple. Find him!

The song changed again, more notes forming, the music becoming more melodious, almost serene but tinged with something more, a tone so strange as to be vastly unknowable. The realisation dawned like a blow. This is not my song! This is not the song of any man!

Who? he sang. Who are you?

The other song changed again, all music fading to be replaced by a single impatient growl.

Please! he begged. My brother…

The wolf’s growl became a shout in his mind, strong enough to make him reel in the saddle. Spit whinnied and reared in alarm as he heaved himself upright, feeling blood begin to pour from his nose. NO! he screamed back with every fibre of strength he could force into the song. I DO NOT WANT YOUR HELP!

Instantly the wind dropped, the harsh blast of grit on his face dissipating to a faint breeze, the wind-tossed sands slowly descending with a sound like a thousand whispering voices. Through the fading mist he saw the dark shape of a rider, no more than ten yards away, Dentos clearly recognisable from the sword on his back. Relief flooded Vaelin as he trotted over, reaching out to clasp his brother’s shoulder.

“Not a good time to linger, brother…”

Dentos pitched from the saddle and fell heavily to the ground. His eyes were open, face pale with a familiar pallor, the arrow that had killed him jutting from his chest, the steel barb wet with blood.

They told him later how he had sat there, still and frozen, like one of Ahm Lin’s creations appearing out of the ebbing sandstorm, raising shouts from the sentries on the walls and compelling Caenis to frantic efforts to re-open the gate. The Alpiran pursuers, scattered by the storm, were quick to recover their wits and close in on the immobile Hope Killer. One galloped to within twenty yards, leaning low over his stallion’s neck, bow drawn and shaft ready, teeth bared with hate and triumph. Bren Antesh leapt atop the gatehouse battlements, put an arrow clean through the rider’s chest then barked an order at his archers. A thousand arrows rose from the walls and descended on the Alpirans in a black hail. Near a hundred riders cut down by a single volley.

Vaelin had no knowledge of any of it. There was only Dentos, his slack, empty face, and the arrowhead, gleaming metal shining amongst the red gore. Voices called to him from the walls but he heard nothing. Caenis and Barkus sprinted through the re-opened gate, stumbling to a halt in shock. Vaelin couldn’t hear their grief or their questions. Dentos and the arrow…

“Vaelin.”

It was the only voice he could have heard. Sherin was at his side, reaching up to clasp his wrist, his knuckles white as they gripped the reins. “Vaelin, please.”

He looked down at her, drinking in the sight of her compassion, the familiar ache dispelling his numbness with a desperate need and hopeless shame. “I am a murderer,” he said, forming each word with cold precision.

“No…”

“I am a murderer.” He gently pulled her hand away and kicked Spit into a walk, guiding him through the gate and into the city.

Chapter 9

He stayed in his room for two days, slumped fully clothed on his bunk. Janril knocked and left food outside his door but he ignored it. Caenis, Barkus and Frentis each came in turn to call through the door but he barely heard them. He felt no need of sleep, no hunger, no thirst. There was only Dentos and the arrowhead, and the song, the great unknowable song of the wolf like a deafening echo in his mind. And the truth of course, the hateful truth. I am a murderer.

He remembered when he had gone to Dentos to ask for his presence on the mission. “You’re the best horse archer we have…” he had begun but Dentos was already packing his kit.

“Nortah was better,” he said, stringing his bow.

“Nortah’s dead.”

Dentos had simply smiled and for the first time Vaelin realised he had never believed his lie about Nortah’s fate. How much more had he known? What other secrets had he kept? All of his knowledge gone in an instant, stolen by an arrow loosed by a stranger who probably thought he had felled the Hope Killer himself. Vaelin wondered if the man had died happy under the hail of Cumbraelin arrows, perhaps expecting a hero’s welcome from the gods. It must have been a terrible disappointment.

Towards evening of the second day his attention was finally drawn by a scratching at the door, accompanied by an plaintive whine. He blinked, gazing at the dim room with blurred eyes, fingers scraping the stubble on his chin, smelling his own stink. “I need a bath,” he muttered, rising to open the door.

Scratch’s weight bore him down effortlessly, his harsh tongue scraping over face and chin with desperate affection. “Alright daft dog!” he groaned, pushing the slave-hound away with some difficulty. “I’m alright.”

“Really?” Sherin was standing in the doorway, arms folded, her expression an echo of the severity he remembered from their first meeting. “Because you look terrible.”

She turned and descended the steps, returning a few minutes later with a cloth and a steaming bowl of water. She closed the door and sat on the bed as he stripped to the waist and washed, Scratch’s head in her lap as she rubbed the fur behind his ears. He could feel her gaze on his torso, knowing her eyes lingered on his scars, sensing her sorrow. “Nothing I didn’t earn, sister,” he told her, reaching for his razor. “All of it, and more besides.”

“So you hate yourself now?” There was an edge of anger to her tone. Clearly her bitterness at his beating of Brother Commander Iltis was taking a while to fade.

“The things I’ve done. This war…” He trailed off, closing his eyes briefly before lathering his face and lifting the razor to his skin.

“Here.” Sherin rose and moved to his side, taking the razor from him. “You haven’t slept, your hands are unsteady.” She pulled over a stool and made him sit. “Relax, I’ve done this more times than I can remember.” He had to admit many barbers would envy the skill with which she wielded the razor, sliding the blade over his skin with deft precision, her healer’s hands gentle and soothing. For a moment he was lost in the scent and the closeness of her, the grief and self-loathing vanished by this new intimacy. He knew he should tell her to stop, that this was inappropriate, but found himself too intoxicated to care.