in olive groves, statuary and avenues of acacia trees, tended by a small army of gardeners who had continued their daily labours without interruption following the Battle Lord’s assumption of residence. The rest of the mansion staff had acted similarly, going about their duties with mute servility which had done little to alleviate the Battle Lord’s insecurity. His guards watched the servants with a glowering vigilance and his meals were tasted twice before proceeding to his table. The dumb obedience of the mansion staff was, for the most part, mirrored in the city’s wider population. There had been some trouble with a few dozen wounded soldiers, survivors of the what had become known as the Bloody Hill, mounting a shambolic attack on the main gate when the first Realm Guard regiments had trooped through, and meeting a predictable end. But for the most part the Alpirans were quiescent, apparently at the order of their governor who, before drinking poison along with his family, had issued a proclamation ordering no resistance. Apparently the man had been in command of Alpiran forces the day of the Bloody Hill and, feeling he had enough slaughter on his conscience, had no wish to face the gods with yet more weighing the scales against him.
Despite the lack of resistance Vaelin could see the resentment of the people in every snatched glance they cast in his direction, marking the shame that made them shuffle wordlessly about their business and avoid the gaze of their neighbours. Many had no doubt lost sons and husbands to the Bloody Hill and would nurse their grudges in silence, waiting for the emperor’s inevitable response. The atmosphere in the city was oppressive, made worse by the mood of the Realm Guard which had soured by the time they marched through the gate, the jubilation of victory fading in the face of the Battle Lord’s decision to leave the most badly wounded behind and the lack of plunder to be had in the Realm’s newest city. The day after their arrival a gallows had appeared in the central forum, three corpses dangling from the scaffold, all Realm Guard with signs hung about their neck proclaiming one a thief, one a deserter and the other a rapist. The king’s orders had been clear, they were to take the cities, not ruin them, and the Battle Lord felt no compunction in ensuring his orders were followed without demur. The men had taken to calling him Blood Rose in grim mockery of his family emblem. It seemed Al Hestian’s facility for victory was matched by his talent for making his men hate him.
Vaelin guided Spit along the acacia-lined avenue leading from the mansion gate to the courtyard, dismounting and offering the reins to a nearby groom. The man stood still, head bowed, eyes downcast, sweat shining on his skin in the hot afternoon sun. Vaelin noted the way his hands trembled. Glancing around he saw the other grooms had adopted the same stance, all standing immobile, refusing to look at him or see to his horse, accepting the consequences. Eruhin Makhtar, he thought with a sigh, tying Spit to a post with enough slack to reach the trough.
The council was already underway in the mansion’s main hall, a large marble chamber impressively decorated with mosaics on the walls and floor illustrating scenes from the legends of the principal Alpiran gods. As usual the council discussion had quickly degenerated into a heated argument. Baron Banders, who Vaelin had once seen beaten unconscious by Lord Darnel at the Summertide fair and had since regained his position of chief retainer to Fief Lord Theros, was exchanging insults with Count Marven, captain of the Nilsaelin contingent. The words “jumped up peasant” and “horse-shagging dullard” could be heard amidst the tumult as the two men jabbed fingers at each other and shrugged off the restraining hands of their companions. There had been some bad blood between the Nilsaelins and the rest of the army since the Bloody Hill, their contingent hadn’t been ordered forward until the enemy were already in flight and most had seemed more interested in looting Alpiran corpses than pursuing their broken army.
“ You are late, Lord Vaelin,” the Battle Lord’s voice cut through the commotion, silencing the argument.
“ I had far to ride, my lord,” Vaelin replied. Al Hestian had ordered his regiment to camp at an oasis a good five miles outside the city walls, ostensibly to guard a supply of fresh water for their next march but also a sensible precaution against the potentially violent reaction of the city-folk to Vaelin’s continued presence within the walls. It also afforded the Battle Lord an opportunity to rebuke him for lateness every time he convened a council.
“ Well ride faster,” the Battle Lord told him curtly. “Enough of this,” he commanded the two fractious lords, now glowering at each in other furious silence. “Save your energies for the enemy. And before you ask Baron Banders, no I will not lift the stricture on challenges. Return to your seats.”
Vaelin took the only remaining chair and surveyed the rest of the council. Prince Malcius and Fief Lord Theros were present along with most of the army’s senior captains, joined by a comparatively junior figure from the Sixth Order, although he still outranked Vaelin in the Order’s hierarchy. Master Sollis was as lean as ever, with only a few more lines creasing his forehead and some grey in his close cropped hair to show the passing of the years. His cold grey eyes regarded Vaelin with neither warmth nor enmity. They had met only once in the years since the Test of the Sword, a brief, tense exchange of greetings at the Order House when the Aspect had summoned him for an account of the most recent Lonak raids. Vaelin knew he now commanded a company of brothers but had made no effort to seek him out, not trusting himself to control his anger at the inevitable rush of memories the sight of the sword-master provoked. My wife, Urlian Jurahl’s last breath. My wife…
“ I have called you here,” the Battle Lord began, “to issue orders for the next phase of our campaign.” He spoke with a slightly theatrical air, imparting his words with a grave importance, although the impression was spoiled somewhat when he glanced over at his son, seated at a desk outside the circle, to ensure he was making notes. Alucius smiled at his father and jotted down a line or two in his leather-bound notebook. Vaelin noticed he stopped as soon as Al Hestian turned back to the council.
“ We have won perhaps the greatest victory in the history of our Realm,” the Battle Lord went on. “But only a fool could imagine this war is over. We must strike swiftly if we are to fulfil our King’s commands. In six months the winter storms will sweep across the Erinean and our line of supply will be tenuous at best. Linesh and Marbellis must be in our hands before then. Word has come from the King that reinforcements will dock at Untesh within the month, some seven freshly raised regiments, five of foot and two of horse. They will make good our losses and garrison the city against siege. When they get here, we march. It only remains to decide where. Luckily we have new intelligence with which to formulate a strategy.” He turned to Sollis. “Brother?”
Sollis’s voice was coarser than Vaelin remembered, years of shouted commands adding a dry rasp to his tone. “At the Battle Lord’s order I conducted a reconnaissance of the defences at Linesh and Marbellis,” Sollis began. “From the scale of additional fortifications and numbers of troops visible it appears the remnants of the army defeated at the Bloody Hill have concentrated on Marbellis, as the largest city on the northern coast it offers the greatest chance for defence. Judging by the number of abandoned houses and villages in the environs it appears the common folk have also sought refuge there, no doubt swelling the garrison but also denuding supplies. In comparison Linesh appears less well prepared, I counted only a few dozen sentries on the walls and her garrison stays in the city, making no patrols. The walls are in a poor state of repair, although there appears to have been some effort to remedy this. However, there are no new fortifications and the ditch around the wall has not been deepened.”
“ Ripe for the plucking, eh?” Fief Lord Theros commented. “Linesh first then on to Marbellis.”
“ No,” the Battle Lord said. He assumed a thoughtful pose, a finger stroking his chin, although it was clear to Vaelin his strategy had been decided well in advance of this meeting. “No. It appears Linesh can be taken easily but to do so would add precious weeks to our march. The road between Untesh and Marbellis is more direct, and Marbellis is the pin on which ultimate victory rests, without it our efforts will have been for nothing. Our way is clear, we must divide the army. Lord Vaelin.”
Vaelin met the Battle Lord’s gaze, wishing for perhaps the thousandth time that the blood-song had not deserted him. At times like this he sorely missed its counsel. “My lord?”
“ You will take command of three regiments of foot, Count Marven’s forces and one fifth of the Cumbraelin archers. You will proceed to Linesh immediately, take the city by storm and hold it against siege. Prince Malcius and his guard will remain in Untesh to govern the city according the Realm Law. The main force will proceed to Marbellis when the King’s reinforcements arrive. We will therefore have all three cities in our hands well before the dawn of winter.”
There was a moment’s uncomfortable silence, several attendees registering surprise or confusion but Prince Malcius was the first to voice concern. “I am to be left here whilst the Realm Guard marches onwards into even greater peril?”
“ The decision was not mine, Highness. King Janus gave me specific orders before we sailed. I have written copies if you want them.”
The prince’s jaw clenched and Vaelin saw how he fought to control his fury and humiliation. After a moment he spoke again, a barely concealed choke in his voice. “You expect Lord Vaelin to take a city with barely eight
