“That war ended,” Vaelin replied. “Whereas this one never seems to.”
“Was I any less wretched than these men? Any less deserving of death?”
“Perhaps not. But then I . . . knew there to be a chance for you. If the Bear People found you, there was a path to peace. Such insights are beyond me now, and the queen’s justice is all I have to offer.”
Ellese let out a small whimper at the sight of the outlaw’s body spasming, the crotch of his trews becoming sodden as his bowels loosened in death. Just a child after all, Vaelin mused, watching the blood drain from the girl’s face. The thrill of the hunt and the fight is one thing, this is another.
The outlaw’s legs kicked a few more times before he slackened. Piss mingled with shit to cover his boots before dripping to the ground where it steamed in the chilled night air. Ellese gagged and turned away, hurrying off to a shadowed corner to loudly disgorge the contents of her stomach.
“She will truly be Lady Governess of Cumbrael one day?” Tallspear asked, eyebrow raised to a dubious angle.
“As is her mother’s wish,” Vaelin told him.
“I did so much in service to the World Father and the Fief.” Tallspear shook his head, a new depth of sorrow in his voice. “It all seems like a dream now. An old nightmare that troubles me only rarely. Sometimes I wonder if I deserve this life. Iron Eyes, our children, the people who took in a starving madman they found wandering the woods. It feels like gifts to an unworthy soul. I suppose that’s when I lost him, the Father. For why would he ever reward one such as me?”
Vaelin found himself seized by sudden anger. This man he had spared, this former assassin and fanatic bemoaning his lost god. He had an urge to beat this self-pitying fool to the ground. As it often did, anger carried Vaelin back to the craggy hilltop in northern Volaria, the wind and the rain beating at his benumbed flesh as he held Dahrena, her body a small, limp thing in his arms. She spoke of how much she loved you, the Ally had said. But mostly she worried for the child you made together . . .
“My lord?”
Vaelin blinked, realising Tallspear had retreated a step, face wary. Vaelin turned back to the gate, where another outlaw was being dragged towards the noose, feet scrabbling at the muddy ground, his face rendered childlike by desperate sobs. “Captain Nohlen!” Vaelin called out.
“My lord?”
“This is taking too long. Behead the rest and have done. I’m keen to be gone from here.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
He left Nohlen and half the North Guard at the gulch as security against any outlaw gangs who might attempt to seize the mine. At Alum’s urging the Moreska agreed to remain, though most seemed disinclined to keep working the seams. Only half the gold ore accrued by the outlaws could be packed onto the mules they found in the stables. Vaelin told Nohlen he would send a suitably well-protected caravan for the remainder on return to North Tower.
Before setting off he watched Alum consult with a small group of Moreska. There were six of them, four men and two women comprising the oldest souls to be found amongst the freed captives. They joined hands to form a circle with Alum kneeling in the centre, head lowered as he spoke in a tongue Vaelin didn’t know. He was struck by the sadness of the other Moreska, each face drawn in sorrow, tears visible on their cheeks.
When Alum had finished speaking, one of them, a woman marginally older than the others, raised her eyes to look at Vaelin. Like Alum, her brows were inscribed with a series of precisely placed scars, but hers were more numerous. Vaelin found her gaze uncomfortably direct, possessed of a piercing quality that he knew saw a great deal. A faint, plaintive echo of something lost stirred in his heart as the woman continued to regard him, making him wonder what tune the blood-song would have sung at this moment. The loss of his gift was several years distant now, but there were occasions when he felt its absence keenly, like an old wound aching on a cold morning. There were even times like this, when he fancied he still heard it, a faint tune just out of reach, a tune that brought insight and surety, a tune that had saved him more times than he could count. A tune lost in the Beyond, he reminded himself, straining for it once again but failing to grasp more than the faintest echo that may have just been born of his yearning. But, blood-song or not, he somehow still sensed this woman’s gift. What does she see?
As if hearing his unspoken question, the woman blinked and returned her gaze to Alum, speaking softly in their shared language. It had a melodious quality, possessed of a near-musical cadence that made it seem as if she were reciting poetry. When she fell silent she and the other Moreska all unclasped their hands and turned their backs on Alum, walking away with neither glance nor word as he continued to kneel on the ground.
“If you would, my lord.”
Vaelin looked down from his horse to find Tallspear proffering a piece of parchment. “The name of our factor in North Tower,” the hunter explained. “He’ll oversee receipt of payment for our efforts here.”
“The Bear People have a factor now?” Vaelin asked.
“As you know, the Reaches are full of rogues keen to cheat the unwary. Last winter a merchant came to the Sound offering strings of beads for all the beaver pelts we could provide. He was lucky to be chased off with only a spear jab to the arse.”
“I’ll see to it.” Vaelin pocketed the parchment. “I would ask that you have a care for these people,” he added, gesturing to the Moreska. “Provide food until they can hunt for themselves.”
“It’s not our way to shun those in need.” Tallspear smiled tightly and moved back, then paused, a cautious look in his eye. “Hunting outlaws is not truly a war, my lord. Merely the management of vermin. The wars are over. You do know that, I trust?”
Vaelin gave a very small laugh as a long-remembered phrase came to mind. “There’s always another war.”
“Only if you go looking for it.” Tallspear gave a formal bow of farewell and strode away.
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“Your walls aren’t big enough,” Alum observed eight days later as they reined in atop a hill from which the whole of North Tower could be seen. Vaelin had to concede the man had a point. In the years since his return to the Reaches a once-small but bustling port had transformed into a minor city. Homes and storehouses now extended a good distance beyond the walls. Some months ago, Vaelin had commissioned plans for a new defensive barrier, much to the objections of the Merchants’ Guild, dismayed at the prospect of a levy to cover the costs, despite their ever-more-swollen coffers. But such greed-inspired grumbling hadn’t been the reason he put the plans aside; at the rate the place was expanding, any new walls would soon also be rendered obsolete.