His vision blurred as the song rose to a deafening, near-agonising pitch, turning the world into a reddish grey haze. He was aware of his hand on the reins, of the sword’s handle turning against his palm and the flex of his arm, but had no control over any of it. He couldn’t say how long it took for the song’s tune to fade and his vision to clear—it might have been just a few seconds or an hour—but when it did he found himself staring down at the Stahlhast woman, now slumped against the flank of her slain horse. Her features were a curious mirror of Ahm Lin’s at the end, whitened by blood loss and imminent death. She looked up at Vaelin and blinked once before turning to regard the jet of blood pulsing from the stump of her severed arm, watching her life drain away in rapt fascination rather than horror.
Dragging his gaze away, Vaelin slid his sword into the sheath on his back and spurred Derka into a gallop, disappearing into the fog once more. Shouts and bowstrings continued to echo through the haze but faded soon enough. Slowing Derka to a walk, Vaelin cast around for a landmark, some indication of where he might be. The fog had thinned to a low-lying mist unveiling the sun and revealing a plain of tall grass that rose into undulating hills to the south. The dim conical bulk of Keshin-Kho dominated the skyline to the north and he could see the unerringly straight line of the canal a few hundred paces to the west. The only appreciable cover consisted of a dense patch of woodland off to the east and, knowing pursuit would not be long in coming, he turned Derka towards it and set off at a steady canter.
As he rode, the sight of the dying Stahlhast woman’s face lingered. He had taken many lives but always, he preferred to think, out of necessity. With the Stahlhast dismounted he could have ridden on. Killing her was unnecessary, and yet he had done it. A sharp snarl came from the song then, the tone one of harsh rebuke that carried a new thought: An enemy is deserving only of death.
He found his hands tightening on the reins, bringing Derka to a halt. Glancing over his shoulder Vaelin peered into the misted grass, hearing the faint but growing shouts of his pursuers. They killed Ahm Lin, he thought as the song’s tune grew more melodious, becoming almost seductive in the promise it held. They killed Sho Tsai and so many others, all in service to a false god. And I have a blood-song once again. Would it be so hard to kill them all? Would it not, in fact, be an insult to Ahm Lin’s memory if I didn’t? He gave me a gift, after all.
Derka gave a loud, irritated nicker, breaking through Vaelin’s burgeoning hunger and provoking another snarl from the song. Vaelin clenched his teeth and determinedly turned his gaze east once more, kicking the stallion into motion. No, he decided as the hungry tune persisted, setting a continual ache in his head as he refused to answer its call. This is not a blood-song. Blood is the stuff of life. This is a song of death. A black-song.
By the time they reached the trees the song had diminished into a sullen murmur and the ache in his head subsided to a dull throb. He brought Derka to a halt a few yards in, dismounting and crouching with his eyes closed to gauge the sounds and smells of the forest. Earth damp from recent rain, he concluded, fingers probing the ground. Bird calls muted . . . Woodsmoke, drifting from the south. There were people in these woods.
The forest was dense and the branches low, obliging him to lead Derka through the trees, maintaining an eastward course to avoid whatever lay south. He intended to reach the far end of these woods before striking out to find the canal, an easy task and following it south would inevitably lead him back to Nortah, Ellese and the others. He hoped they had had the good sense not to come looking for him and consoled himself with the knowledge that, for all his faults, Nortah was no fool and not easily swayed by sentiment, especially when sober. He’ll lead them on, he decided. All I need do is find them.
His progress, however, stalled when the song, the black-song, rose in sudden insistent volume once more. The tune remained harsh and grating but the tone lacked the vengeful hunger from before, possessing instead a note that combined warning with necessity. It also prodded him south towards the persistent scent of woodsmoke. Something there, he thought, finding the song too compelling to ignore. Something that must be dealt with.
He led Derka through a quarter mile of thick forest until he spied wispy tendrils drifting through the treetops ahead. At least three fires, Vaelin surmised, eyeing the smoke then wincing as a scream sounded through the trees. This time it didn’t come from within, but was the unmistakable product of a human throat and shot through with the plaintive terror unique to torture. It continued for several seconds before abruptly choking off, the subsequent silence filled by a faint ripple of laughter. Something that must be dealt with, he repeated to himself, the scream and the laughter having dispelled any doubts about the song’s course.
Derka gave a truculent snort and tossed his head in annoyance when Vaelin began to fasten his reins to the fallen branch of a yew. I sang to him, the Jade Princess had said during the trek across the Iron Steppe. Just a small tune to bind you together. “Wait here,” Vaelin whispered, letting the reins fall and smoothing a hand over the stallion’s snout before crouching and slipping into the concealment offered by a stretch of ferns.
The laughter grew louder and more discordant as he crept forward, making out several voices speaking a language he didn’t know. Pausing to listen, he detected some resemblance to both the Stahlhast tongue and the form of Chu-Shin spoken in the borderlands, but the phrasing and accents rendered the words unintelligible. Lowering himself to the earth he began to crawl, moving with steady, practised slowness, his hands sweeping the ground free of twigs or fallen branches that might betray his presence. He stopped as a familiar hissing sound reached his ears, his eyes picking out a rising patch of steam beyond the trunk of an ash tree. A slow sideways creep revealed the sight of a man in leather armour, face set in bored distraction as he pissed into the undergrowth.
Tuhla, Vaelin concluded, recognising the man’s garb. His eyes flicked left and right, finding no others whilst the laughter and conversation continued in the distance. Never a good plan to piss alone in a time of war. Vaelin watched the man finish his task and turn away, looking down to fasten his britches as he walked off. Vaelin rose to a crouch, moving swiftly, the sound of his footfalls causing the Tuhla to pause and turn, but too late to ward off the arms that encircled his chest and throat. Vaelin kicked the Tuhla’s legs away and jerked his head up and to the right as they fell, Vaelin taking satisfaction from the double crack that told of a snapped neck. He clamped a hand over the man’s mouth to stifle his death cries, pinching the nose to prevent a last intake of breath, maintaining his grip until his twitches stilled.
Rolling the corpse off him, Vaelin checked it for anything useful. The Tuhla wore a scimitar on his belt along with a flask of some foul-smelling concoction with the sting of strong liquor. He also had a bone-handle hunting knife of good steel tucked into his boot. Vaelin took the knife and moved on, once again adopting his slow, steady crawl, keeping to the densest undergrowth. He found two more Tuhla twenty paces on, both markedly less careless than their recently despatched comrade. One held a strongbow with an arrow nocked to the string whilst the other gripped a drawn scimitar. Both were scanning the surrounding trees with the predatory awareness of men well versed in detecting fresh danger.
“Ulska!” the archer said in a restrained shout, presumably calling out to a man who had taken too long over a piss. Vaelin flattened himself to the soft ground as they came closer. He was partially concealed by the broad trunk of an aged oak and a covering of ferns, but this would prove scant protection when they drew closer. Vaelin palmed one of his own throwing knives in his left hand and adjusted his grip on the stolen Tuhla weapon, waiting until the two warriors closed the distance to five paces.