“Father!” the woman at my side cried out, sinking to her knees, tears streaming down a quivering face. “Why have you cursed me with this vision?”
“Oh, shut up,” I snapped, irritated by this distraction. “You should consider yourself privileged to witness this. For it is all as it should be. The Mestra-Skeltir will rise, and nothing will stop him. Long has it been foretold . . .”
I found my voice trailing to silence then as I watched the tall figure rein his horse to a halt. He sat regarding a group of kneeling Merchant soldiers, all with their weapons cast aside and heads bowed to the earth in a sign of utter supplication. My brother regarded them in unmoving contemplation for the space of perhaps a single heartbeat, then spurred his stallion forward, its hooves crushing the head of the nearest kneeling man as his sabre recommenced its deadly whirl.
I turned away, unwilling to watch the spectacle. The Stahlhast rarely took captives in the heat of battle, this I knew. Slaves would be harvested from the survivors in the aftermath. There was nothing unusual in my brother’s actions. But still, why did he pause? Was he enjoying their fear?
“Mercy is weakness,” I whispered, hoping the oft-spoken mantra would calm my pounding heart. “Compassion is cowardice.”
I felt the True Dream begin to dissolve then, the black veil creeping into the edges of my vision as the woman ranted on in her sorrow. “Why, Father? Why show me this triumph of a blade in service to the Dark? This portent of utter destruction? How can the holy stand against such evil?”
Then the veil closed in and she was gone, perhaps back to the wakefulness in her own land. Or perhaps she spent eternity wailing away in the True Dream. All I know is that I never saw her again, in either the dream or the waking world.
Kehlbrand waited for me outside the tent, sitting cross-legged at a fire, his shadow cast long by the rising sun. Although the dream had seemed brief, it had in fact consumed my mind for many hours. I stood shuddering for a moment, chilled by both the dawn air and the echo of the Blessed Maiden’s forlorn entreaties to her god.
“So, little colt,” Kehlbrand said, getting to his feet and moving to wrap a wolf pelt around my shivering form. “Do you have a name for me?”
“Yes,” I said, taking comfort in his smile, which had always possessed the power to banish uncertainty. “Yes, brother, I have a name.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
The next day Kehlbrand presented himself to the priests, standing naked and unarmed before the altar as ritual demanded. The lesser priests duly conveyed him to the presence of the Mestra-Dirhmar, who stood waiting before the Sepulchre.
The morning had been surprisingly uneventful. Usually, the rise of a new Skeltir would stir the Skeld’s most renowned warriors to challenge, but only one stepped forward. He was a grizzled fellow named Irhnar, an aged veteran of near sixty summers and as many battles who had been mentor to both Tehlvar and Kehlbrand in their younger days.
“Why, old wolf?” Kehlbrand had asked Irhnar as he stepped forward, sabre raised at a lateral angle to indicate a formal challenge.
“It’s ill luck for a Skeltir to ascend without blood,” the old warrior said with a shrug. “And I’m tired of rising from my mats to piss six times a night. Let’s get on with it, eh, boy?”
So they had fought and Kehlbrand honoured Irhnar with a suitably bloody and prolonged death. A swift end would have been an insult, after all.
I watched Kehlbrand stand before the Mestra-Dirhmar, seeing the priest’s lips move as he asked his question. The distance was too great to detect my brother’s answer. I could see the priest’s expression clearly enough to discern a mixture of profound disappointment mingled with grim acceptance as he nodded. The True Dream, as ever, had not led me astray.
The lesser priests brought forward the dark green garb of a Skeltir and set it at Kehlbrand’s feet. Once he had clothed himself, he and the Mestra-Dirhmar made their way to the altar.
“Here stands Kehlbrand Reyerik!” the priest intoned, raising my brother’s arm. “Recognised today by the Servants of the Unseen as Skeltir of the Cova Skeld!”
A cheer rose from the Stahlhast throng, enthusiastically voiced by the Cova, whilst the other Skeld were more restrained. As the cheers continued I saw my brother turn and say something to the priest. The Mestra-Dirhmar’s features hardened and he shook his head in stern refusal. I saw then that Kehlbrand had clasped the priest’s wrist, hard enough to make him wince. As the cheering subsided Kehlbrand spoke again, and this time I heard his words: “Tell them, old man.”
The Mestra-Dirhmar gritted his teeth, humiliation and pain twisting his face into a grimace. Even then I knew this to be a crucial moment, the moment when true leadership of the Hast had been decided.
“Here stands Kehlbrand Reyerik!” the great priest repeated, teeth bared as he called out to the throng, the words coloured by the rage of a defeated man. “To be known hereafter as the Darkblade!”
CHAPTER ONE
The arrow slammed into the trunk of a pine an inch from his head. Vaelin Al Sorna stared at the fletching as it vibrated before his eyes, feeling a sting on his nose and a trickle of blood left by the shaft’s barbed head. He hadn’t heard the archer who loosed the arrow, nor had he heard the betraying creak of string and stave.
To an onlooker his reaction would have seemed swift and immediate, rolling to the right, coming to his knees, bow drawn and arrow loosed in a single smooth movement. But he knew it to be slow, even as he saw the archer, running now with his horn raised to his lips, take the shaft directly in the back and fall dead. Slow.
There was a soft rustle at his side as Ellese appeared out of the surrounding carpet of ferns, nocked bow in hand. “The camp, Uncle,” she said, slightly breathless with eagerness as she started to rise. “We need to move quickly . . .”
Her words died as Vaelin reached out to clamp a hand over her mouth, exerting enough force to keep her crouching. He held her there until the next arrow came, arcing down from the forest canopy to sink into the earth half a dozen feet away. A searching arrow, Master Hutril would have called it. Always useful when flushing prey. But not today.
Vaelin met Ellese’s dark, glaring eyes and raised his own to the treetops before removing his hand. He won’t blow his horn just yet, he told her, hands moving in the sign language so laboriously taught to her over the preceding months. That would reveal his position. I’ll run to the right. He turned, tensing in anticipation of a sprint, then paused to add, Don’t miss.
He surged to his feet, boots pounding on the forest floor as he ran, describing a winding course through the trees. This time he heard the bowstring’s thrum and threw himself behind the broad trunk of an ancient yew, glimpsing an explosion of splintered bark in the corner of his eye. A second later came the sound of another bowstring, the note deeper, possessed of an almost musical precision that bespoke the power of the weapon and the skill of its wielder. A brief pause, then the thud of a body falling from a tall height to the forest floor.