“He is, to you. But never forget, he’s a killer. It’s what he’s bred for.”
Master Chekril went to the rear of the large stone store room that served as his kennels and opened a pen. “I’ll put him in here,” he said over his shoulder. “You better lead him in, he won’t stay otherwise.”
Scratch obediently followed Vaelin to the pen and went inside, briefly circling a patch of straw before laying down.
“You’ll have to feed him too,” Chekril said. “Muck him out and so on. Twice a day.”
“Of course master.”
“He’ll need exercise, plenty of it. Can’t take him out with the other hounds, he’d kill them.”
“I’ll attend to it master.” He went into the pen and patted Scratch on the head, provoking a slobbering attack of licks that knocked him off his feet. Vaelin laughed and wiped the drool away. “I had wondered if you would be happy to see him, master,” he told Chekril. “I thought you might want him killed.”
“Killed? Faith no! Would a blacksmith throw away a finely made sword? He’ll be the start of a new blood line, he’ll sire many puppies and hopefully they’ll be just as strong as him but easier to manage.”
He stayed in the kennels for another hour, feeding Scratch and making sure he was comfortable in his new surroundings. When it came time to leave Scratch’s whines were heart rending but Master Chekril told him he had to get the dog used to being left so he didn’t turn around after he closed the pen door. Scratch started howling when he went out of his sight.
The evening was subdued, an unspoken tension reigning in the room. He exchanged stories of hardship and hunger with the others. Caenis, like Vaelin looking better fed than when he left, had taken shelter in the hollow trunk of an ancient oak only to find himself attacked by an angry eagle owl. Dentos, never fleshy at the best of times but now distinctly gaunt, had spent a miserable week fighting starvation with roots and the few birds and squirrels he managed to catch. Like the masters, neither seemed all that impressed with his story. It was as if hardship bred indifference.
“What’s a slave-hound?” Caenis asked dully.
“Volarian beast,” Dentos muttered. “Nasty buggers. Can’t use ‘em for fighting, they turn on the handlers.” He turned to Vaelin, his gaze suddenly interested. “Did you bring any food back with you?”
They spent the night in a sort of exhausted trance, Caenis honing the edge on his hunting knife with a whetstone and Dentos nibbling at the dried venison Vaelin had hidden in his cloak with the small bites they knew were best when you had an empty stomach, bolting would only make you sick.
“Never thought it was gonna end,” Dentos said eventually. “Really thought I’d die out there.”
“None of the brothers I went out with came back,” Vaelin commented. “Master Hutril said it was the storm.”
“Starting to see why they’re so few brothers in the Order.”
The next day was probably the least punishing they had endured so far. Vaelin had expected a return to the harsh routine but instead Master Sollis filled the morning with a sign language lesson, Vaelin found his meagre ability had improved after his brief exposure to Sella and Erlin’s fluid signs although not by much and he still lagged behind Caenis. The afternoon was taken up with sword practice, Master Sollis introducing a new exercise, throwing rotten fruit and vegetables at them with blinding speed as they tried to fend off the putrid projectiles with their wooden swords. It was smelly but strangely enjoyable, more like a game than most of their exercises which normally left them sporting a few bruises or a bloody nose.
Afterwards they ate their evening meal in uncomfortable silence, the dining hall was much quieter than usual, the many empty places seemed to stall attempts at conversation. The older boys gave them a few looks of sympathy or grim amusement but no one commented on the absences. It was like the aftermath of Mikehl’s death only on a grander scale. Some boys were already lost and wouldn’t be coming back, others were yet to return and the tension of worrying over their possible non-appearance was palpable. Vaelin and the others exchanged some grunted comments about stinking like compost from the afternoon practice but there was little real humour in it. They concealed a few apples and bread rolls in their cloaks and returned to the tower.
It grew dark and still no one returned. Vaelin began to feel a sinking certainty that they were the only boys left in their group. No more Barkus to make them laugh, no Nortah to bore them with another of his father’s axioms. It was a truly chilling prospect.
They were climbing into bed when the sound of footsteps on the stone staircase outside caused them to freeze in wary anticipation.
“Two apples says it’s Barkus,” Dentos said.
“Taken,” Caenis accepted.
“Ho there!” Nortah greeted them brightly, coming into dump his gear on his bed. He was thinner than Caenis and Vaelin, but didn’t quite match Dentos’s haggard emaciation, and his eyes were red with exhaustion. Despite it all he seemed cheerful, even triumphant.
“Barkus here yet?” he asked, stripping his clothes away.
“No,” Caenis said smiling at Dentos who curled a disgusted lip.
Vaelin noticed something new about Nortah as he pulled his shirt over his head, a necklace of what looked like elongated beads around his neck. “Did you find that?” he asked, gesturing at the necklace.
There was a flash of smug satisfaction on Nortah’s face, a mingled expression of victory and anticipation. “Bear claws,” he said. Vaelin admired his offhanded manner and imagined the hours of rehearsal it must have taken. He decided to keep quiet and force Nortah to tell the tale of his own volition but Dentos spoilt it.
“You found a bear claw necklace,” he said. “So what? Took it off some poor fool caught in the storm eh?”
“No, I made it from the claws of a bear I killed.”
He continued to undress, affecting disinterest in their reaction but Vaelin saw clearly how much he was enjoying the moment.
“Killed a bear my arse!” Dentos sneered.
Nortah shrugged. “Believe me or not, it’s of no matter.”
They lapsed into silence, Dentos and Caenis refusing to ask the inevitable question despite their obvious curiosity. The moment stretched and Vaelin decided he was too tired to let the tension endure.
“Please brother,” he said. “Tell us how you killed a bear.”
“I put an arrow in its eye. It took a fancy to a deer I’d brought down. Couldn’t have that. Anyone who tells you bears sleep through the winter is a liar.”
“Master Hutril says they only wake up when they’re forced. You must have found a very unusual bear, brother.”
Nortah fixed him with an odd look, coldly superior, which was usual, but also knowing which was not. “I must say I’m surprised to find you here brother. I met a trapper in the wilds, a rough fellow to be sure, and a drunkard if I’m any judge. He had a lot of news to share about events in the wider world.”
Vaelin said nothing. He had decided not to tell the others about the King’s boon to his father but it seemed Nortah would leave him little choice.
“The Battle Lord left the King’s service,” Caenis said. “Yes, we heard.”
“Some say he asked a boon of the King to return his son from the Order,” Dentos put in. “But since the Battle Lord don’t have a son, how could he be returned?”
They knew, Vaelin realised. They knew ever since I arrived. That’s why they’ve been so quiet. They were wondering when I was going to leave. Master Sollis must have told them I was staying today. He wondered if it was truly possible to keep a secret in the Order.
“Perhaps,” Nortah was saying. “The Battle Lord’s son, if he had one, would be grateful for an opportunity to escape this place and return to the comfort of his family. It’s not a chance any of the rest of us will ever get.”
Silence reigned. Dentos and Nortah glaring at each other fiercely and Caenis fidgeting in uncomfortable embarrassment. Finally Vaelin said, “It must have been a fine piece of bow work, brother. Putting an arrow in a bear’s eye. Was it charging?”
Nortah gritted his teeth, controlling his anger. “Yes.”
“Then it’s to your credit that you held your nerve.”
“Thank you, brother. Do you have any stories to share?”
“I met a pair of fugitive heretics, one with the power to twist men’s minds, killed two Volarian slave-hounds and kept another. Oh, and I met Brother Tendris and Brother Makril, they hunt Deniers.”
Nortah threw his shirt onto his bed, standing with his muscular arms on his hips, face set in a neutral frown. His self-control was admirable, the disappointment he felt barely showing but Vaelin saw it. This was to be his moment of triumph, he had killed a bear and Vaelin was leaving. It should have been one of the sweetest moments of his young life. Instead Vaelin had refused the chance of escape, a chance Nortah hungered for, and his adventures made Nortah’s look paltry in comparison. Watching him Vaelin was struck by Nortah’s physique. Although still only thirteen, the shape of the man he would become was clear; sculpted muscle and lean, handsome features. A son to make his King’s Minister father proud. If he had lived his life outside the Order it would have been a tale of romance and adventure played out under the admiring gaze of the court. Instead he was doomed to a life of war, squalor and hardship in service to the Faith. A life he hadn’t chosen.