“You are dead,” Caenis greeted him with a smile, his lack of surprise confirming Vaelin’s long-held suspicion his tale of Nortah’s supposed demise had never been believed by his brothers.
Nortah just laughed and enfolded Caenis in a warm embrace. “It’s a great thing to see you, brother. Your niece and nephew have long wanted to meet you.”
Caenis drew back a little as Snowdance padded closer, sniffing curiously. “Don’t mind her,” Nortah said. “We found some more slavers today so she’s well-fed.”
“We’ve solved your weapon-supply problem,” Vaelin told him, pointing towards the dark mound of bodies to the south. The Eorhil didn’t understand the concept of prisoners, war was a matter of absolutes to them, shorn of restraint or misplaced compassion, though they had been careful to spare as many horses as possible.
“Might be an idea if they left some alive in future,” Nortah commented. “Dead men have no stories to tell.”
“I’d hazard we’ll have a few storytellers in hand tomorrow.”
Count Marven had taken no chances with the Volarian infantry, sealing the flanks with his cavalry whilst the archers weakened them with successive volleys. The full army was unleashed when he judged the enemy sufficiently decimated. The Volarian host consisted of one battalion of Free Swords and two of Varitai. Predictably, the Free Swords were the most keen to surrender whilst the Varitai had to be slaughtered to a man. Even then there were only a handful of prisoners, most of them wounded.
“No officers,” the count reported to Vaelin. “Highest rank amongst them seems to be a sergeant, or whatever they call a sergeant.”
He gave an irritated glance over at Fief Lord Darvus’s twin grandsons as one of them shouted in pain, his brother attempting to stitch a cut on his forearm.
“Didn’t piss their breaches then?” Vaelin asked quietly.
“Hardly. No holding those two, my lord. Bravery they have in abundance.” He dropped his voice. “Brains, however . . .”
“My lords,” Vaelin called to the twins. “Best take yourselves off to Brother Kehlan’s tent.”
The two lords rose and bowed with their customary uniformity, the one on the left voicing their response. Vaelin had noted he was the only one who spoke, possibly in order to prevent them speaking in unison. “More grievously injured men require the healer’s attentions, my lord. A true knight would not trouble him over a trifle.”
“Clearly, your experience with true knights is limited. Your grandfather won’t thank me if you return having lost limbs to festered stitching.” He nodded at the tent flap. “Get you gone.”
“We collected more than enough weapons for the Free Company, my lord,” Brother Hollun reported when the twins had left. “In fact, we should have enough for six such companies.”
“Our losses?” Vaelin asked.
“Thirty-five killed, sixty wounded,” the brother responded with his usual lack of hesitancy.
“Would’ve been less if the freed folk hadn’t joined in,” Count Marven said. “Hate makes people careless of their lives, I suppose.”
“Nevertheless it was well done, my lord,” Vaelin told him. “Brother Harlick has been drawing up maps of Alltor and the surrounding country. I should like you to take a look, judge our best line of approach.”
The Nilsaelin gave a hesitant bow of assent. Their time in Linesh had made the man wary of him, Vaelin knew, and in his turn he had distrusted the count’s obvious desire for martial distinction. Now though, circumstance made such concerns seem trifling. “I . . . am pleased to enjoy your trust, my lord,” Marven replied.
The prisoners were no different from any other group of defeated men Vaelin had seen over the years. Eyes full of fear, gaze downcast and wary of drawing attention as they shuffled under his scrutiny.
“They’re all fairly ignorant and barely literate,” Harlick reported. “Volarian education is notoriously poor. People are expected to teach themselves whatever they need to know. This lot know how to fight and follow orders. How to rape and murder too, no doubt. But they’re somewhat close-lipped about their prior exploits in the Realm, as you might expect.”
“Do they know the name of the man who commands their army?” Vaelin asked.
Like Brother Hollun, Harlick had no need to consult notes or pause before providing a response. “General Reklar Tokrev. A red-clad, as they usually are. Distinguished veteran of several border clashes with the Alpirans and renowned commander of numerous expeditions against the northern tribes. I have to say, I find the list of his achievements a little improbable since one of the campaigns he supposedly led took place over seventy years ago.”
“Any news of Alltor?”
“They’ve never heard of the place. Seems they were sent after the Realm Guard before the general marched on Cumbrael. I . . . doubt they have anything else to offer, my lord.”
Vaelin watched the wretched men fidget, some unable to keep the terrorised tremble from their limbs. The song rose as he saw their fear, a familiar complex note that denoted the birth of a stratagem. He turned to Orven, captain of the only company he could trust with this duty. “They’re coming with us,” he said. “Make sure they’re suitably fed and watered. And keep them well away from Captain Nortah’s people.”
Crossing into Cumbrael brought sights of an even greater level of destruction and murder than those already witnessed. The succession of ruined villages along their line of march seemed endless, littered with so many rotting corpses Vaelin was forced to order them left where they lay as they couldn’t afford the time needed to give them all to the fire. Unlike the Nilsaelin villages, these were extensively vandalised, mills and chapels burned, many bodies mutilated and showing signs of torture. Also the surrounding fields were often black from burning, the crops turned to ash and every well they found spoiled with a sheep or goat carcass.
“Doesn’t make any sense,” Adal said as they rode through a ruined cornfield. “All armies need to be fed.”
“The Volarians didn’t do this,” Vaelin replied. “I suspect the Cumbraelin Fief Lord was keen to deny them any succour from his own lands. May explain their viciousness towards the people.”
They came upon a macabre sight in the evening, ten men hanging from a large yew, eyes and tongues removed and the first two fingers of their hands severed and stuffed into their mouths. Vaelin saw his sister pale at the sight, swaying in her saddle a little.
“We’ll see to them,” he said, pressing his hand to her shoulder. “You don’t have to linger here.”
“Yes,” she replied, dismounting and extracting parchment and charcoal from her saddlebags. “I do. Leave them there a moment, please.”
She walked stiffly to a nearby tree stump and sat down, fixing her eyes on the scene and starting to draw.
“Must be archers,” Nortah commented. “Taking their fingers like that. Saw our own men do something similar in the Martishe.”
Vaelin saw that Alornis was crying as she sketched, tears streaming from her eyes as they constantly shifted from the hanging men to the image forming on the parchment. Dahrena went to her side as she finished, hunching over and weeping softly. “People will need to know,” he heard her whisper as Dahrena pulled her close. “They’ll need to remember.”
The town had been named Two Forks for the branching streams that surrounded it. Vaelin had once passed through it with the Wolfrunners during one of their fanatic-hunting expeditions prior to the Alpiran war. He recalled a bustling place of winepresses and merchants bartering for the best price on the latest casks. The people had been guarded but not so hostile towards him as most Cumbraelins, their priest a hearty fellow of broad girth and rosy cheeks who happily offered Vaelin a prayer of the Father’s forgiveness, wine cup in hand as he quoted the Ninth Book.
His church was a ruin now, the only sign of him some anonymous blackened bones in the scorched wreckage. The Seordah had found the place, the warriors standing in the streets and staring at the various horrors, more baffled than enraged. The town hadn’t been easily taken, barricades had been constructed across the roads and the surrounding waterways made for effective defensive barriers. Vaelin judged it had taken several days to fall from the bodies in the factor’s house, all lying in a row, bandages visible on the putrefying flesh. Fought it out long enough to have a care for the wounded, he thought.