“Any man found drunk without permission will be flogged. Those found drunk more than once will be dismissed from the regiment. Any of you shit heads thinking that means a free passage home should know that dismissed men will have to walk out of the Martishe on their own two feet with no weapons.” Makril paused a moment to let the import of his words sink in. A lone man walking through the Martishe with no means of defence was likely to find himself lashed to a tree and disembowelled in short order.

“Understand this you miserable bunch of thieving scum,” Makril growled. “Lord Al Hestian has given the Sixth Order leave to train you as we see fit. You belong to us now.”

“Didn’t sign up for this,” a sallow faced man in the front row muttered sullenly. “’Sposed to be in the King’s serv-”

Makril’s fist smashed into the man’s jaw, felling him instantly. “Brother Barkus!” he barked, stepping over the prostate soldier. “Ten lashes for this man. No rum for a week.” He glared at the remaining trainees. “Anyone else want to discuss their terms of service?”

Caenis and Dentos slipped into the forest the next day with instructions to find the Cumbraelins’ camp whilst the men were trained. The combined threat of flogging and death proved an excellent stimulus to both discipline and exertion. Their trainees scrambled to obey every order, running for miles through the snow, enduring bruising lessons in swordsmanship or unarmed combat, listening in respectful silence as Makril attempted to teach them the basics of woodcraft. If anything they seemed too respectful, too cowed by fear, and Vaelin knew fearful soldiers made bad soldiers.

“Don’t fret it,” Makril told him. “As long as they’re more scared of us than they are of the scum they’ll do fine.”

Vaelin took charge of the sword lessons whilst Barkus made himself a figure of dread with his rough and tumble approach to unarmed combat. Nortah quickly abandoned attempts to teach the men the bow, none of them had the muscle or the skill for it, and concentrated instead on the crossbow, a weapon even the clumsiest oaf could master in a few days. By the end of the first week their small company could run five miles without complaint, had lost their fear of sleeping outside the stockade, and most could hit a mark at twenty paces with a crossbow. Their sword skills and basic fighting ability were still lacking but Vaelin felt they had at least learned enough to survive an initial encounter with Black Arrow’s men.

As usual Vaelin’s legend had preceded him and the men regarded him with a mixture of awe and fear. They would occasionally exchange a word or two with Nortah and Barkus but maintained a rigid silence in Vaelin’s presence, as if one wrong word could earn a swift death. Their fear was deepened by Vaelin’s black mood, making him short tempered and prone to dishing out painful slaps with the wooden stave he used for sword practice. At times he found himself sounding like Master Sollis. It did nothing to lighten his mood.

Al Hestian had chosen to train with the men, running with them and sharing their bruises in practice. He proved a skilled swordsman and was sufficiently tall and strong to at least compete with Barkus in unarmed combat. All the while he strove to encourage the men, dragging slackers to their feet and pulling them along during the runs, applauding their meagre progress with the sword. Vaelin noticed their growing regard for the young noble, where before he had been “that snot nosed lackwit” behind his back now he was simply “his lordship”. The mood of the men was still sullen, they had no affection for Vaelin and his brothers, but Al Hestian had become a figure worthy of their solidarity. Watching him as he sparred with some of the men Vaelin felt his depression deepen yet further. Murderer.

The voice had begun to plague him the day they began the training, a soft, knowing murmur at the back of his thoughts, whispering awful truths. Assassin. You’re no better than the scum who killed Mikehl. The king has made you his creature…

“What do you think, brother?” Al Hestian was striding towards him through the snow, face flushed with exertion but also bright with optimism. “Will they do?”

“At least another ten days, my lord,” Vaelin replied. “They still have much to learn.”

“But they have improved greatly wouldn’t you say? At least now we can call them soldiers.”

Fodder more like. A mask for your deceit, bait for your trap. “Indeed, my lord.”

“Pity Brother Yallin didn’t live to see this, eh?” Brother Yallin had been the Fourth Order’s addition to their expedition. Nominally responsible for reporting their progress to Aspect Tendris, he had spent the first weeks in the forest claiming he couldn’t venture outside the stockade because his attempts to teach the men the Catechism of Devotion were of primary importance. Sadly he soon succumbed to a virulent bout of dysentery and died shortly after. It was fair to say he hadn’t been greatly missed.

“It seems odd that Aspect Tendris didn’t send a replacement for Brother Yallin,” Vaelin commented.

Al Hestian shrugged. “Perhaps he thought the journey too perilous.”

“Perhaps. Or he could be in complete ignorance of Brother Yallin’s death. One might almost think someone has been sending Aspect Tendris regular reports in Brother Yallin’s name.”

“Such a thing would be unthinkable, brother,” Al Hestian laughed and went off to shout encouragement at a group of men grappling nearby. Why couldn’t you have been hateful? Vaelin wondered. Why couldn’t you have made my task easy? The voice’s response was immediate, implacable: Should murder ever be easy?

Chapter 2

“About seventy men all told,” Dentos said around a mouthful of salt beef. “Ten miles west of here. It’s a well chosen site, a gully to the east, rocks to the south and a steep slope to the north and west. Hard to take unawares.”

They had returned on the fourteenth day of the training, Caenis bearing a sketched map showing the layout of the Cumbraelins’ camp. They huddled around the campfire with Al Hestian and Makril to plan the attack.

“Seventy’s a lot for these lads to face, brother,” Barkus advised Makril. “Even with our brothers they’ll still have numbers in their favour.”

“Each brother’s worth at least three of theirs,” Makril replied. “Besides, a surprised man is usually defeated before he even draws his sword.” He paused to ponder Caenis’s map, tracing a stubby finger over the gully leading to the camp’s eastern edge. “How well do they guard this?”

“Three men during in the day,” Caenis replied. “Five at night. Black Arrow is a cautious man it seems, knows we’re most likely to come for him in darkness. There is a route in.” He pointed to the cluster of rocks covering the camp’s southern border. “I got close enough to smell their pipe smoke. But it’s a path for one man only. Any more would be seen.”

“Five men guarding the best way in and only one man to open the door,” Makril mused. “That’s if he can get across the camp unseen.”

“We’ve kept some of their clothing and weapons,” Vaelin said. “In the dark they might take me for one of their own.”

“You mean me brother,” Caenis said.

“Five men at once…”

“As brother Makril says, surprised men are easier to kill. Besides, I’m the only one who knows the way.”

“He’s right,” Makril said. “I’ll take our brothers through the gully. My lord,” he glanced at Al Hestian, “I suggest you take your company to the southern approach, wait until you hear the clamour of our attack then charge straight in. We’ll have drawn most of their strength to us so you should catch them on their blind side.”

Al Hestian nodded. “A good plan, brother.”

“I should go with Lord Al Hestian,” Vaelin said. “The men may be less inclined to tarry in the charge if one of us is with them.”

He could tell from Makril’s narrowed eyes that his suspicion still lingered. He knows, the voice hissed in his mind. The others would never suspect but he knows, he smells it on you like blood.

“It’d be better if Sendahl and Jeshua went with his lordship,” Makril said, his narrow gaze still fixed on Vaelin. “Your sword will be much needed when we breach the camp.”

“They’re more afraid of Vaelin than they are any of us,” Barkus commented. “Lot less likely to run if he’s with them.”

“And I would be honoured to fight at brother Vaelin’s side!” Al Hestian enthused. “I believe it’s a fine idea.”

Makril slowly returned his gaze to the map. “As you wish, my lord.” He pointed at the slope north of the camp. “If this goes right they’ll flee down the hill towards the river. The perfect place to trap them. If the Departed favour us we should get them all.” He looked up, his expression suddenly fierce. “Even so this’ll be a hard and bloody fight. The scum don’t ask for quarter and won’t give any. Tell the men to get close, use their swords, don’t give them a chance to get their bows into play. Make sure they know defeat will mean death for all of us. There’s no retreat from this place, we kill them all or they’ll be sure to kill us.”