by Rj Barker
“I am Aydor ap Mennix, and I am your—”
“Aydor!” shouted the squiremaster. “Rules of the ground!” Aydor stared at the squiremaster as if trying to make the man back down, but it was the heir who ended up lowering his eyes.
“These are my men, Kyril, Hallin and Borniya.” They were the three who had bullied the other boy. “You’ll get to know them. The tall stupid one is Celot.” He did not bother pointing out who was who in the rest of his group. Kyril sneered at me. He was a boy nearly as big as Aydor with a pinched, mean face. Borniya, by him, was just as big and stared at me, naked aggression radiating from the piggy eyes in his round, fleshy face. He must have fallen from a mount or been kicked by one as one of his cheekbones had been caved in, giving his face a lopsided look. Hallin was smaller, darker and sharper-featured, he lounged behind his friends, smiling as he peeled an apple with a small knife. A scar ran over his brow, across a milky white blind eye and down his cheek. Not one of them showed any sign of friendship towards me. Aydor glanced over at the other group and then added, “Oh, and we have Rufra as well.” He pointed at the smaller boy, the one who had been attacked and whose badly fitted armour made him look uncomfortable and strangely wide. Hallin spat on the ground near Rufra, who, rather than smiling at me, was grimacing. I wondered if he also held some grudge against me.
“Right,” said the squiremaster. He walked over to me, wooden blades under his arm. “Longsword,” he said, holding up the larger blade. “Goes in your right hand.” He grabbed my hand and forced the sword into it. “This is used primarily to keep your opponent at a distance and for lunging. It is sharp on the point and at the edge.” He took a few paces away from me and then turned, throwing me the smaller blade. I missed the catch, deliberately, and he shook his head. “That is your stabsword. Does what it says. Used for close work and defence. You’ll learn how to use it with a shield later, but for today we’ll see how you do in dual-blade work.”
“Dual blade?” I asked. It can never hurt to appear stupid. Then your enemies will underestimate you.
“Aye, both blades at once. Longsword in the right, stabsword in the left is usual. But do what feels right for you at the moment.”
I almost betrayed myself. I preferred close work and was about to reverse the stabsword so it pointed backwards and use the longsword only to feint and twist, but that was a highly skilled form of swordsmanship. Instead I followed the squiremaster’s instructions, taking a few clumsy practice swings at the air with the longsword.
“Celot,” said the squiremaster, “test Girton’s skills in the circle. Don’t kill him.”
The Heartblade took up a pair of wooden swords from a rack and went to stand in a chalk circle, where I joined him. Then he advanced with the longsword extended and the stabsword trailing. I stood, looking confused. Celot’s eyes barely focused on me as he went into position two and I realised I had seen his like before, but as fools rather than swordsmen. Men and women whose minds were mage-bent which locked them in their own world, though they were often capable of prodigious feats of concentration. A coldness settled on me. In battle he would be completely unreadable, which made him incredibly dangerous. Celot paused then looked from his own feet to mine. He did it again and again until I, clumsily, tried to copy his stance. Then he tested my guard, gently batting my sword aside to create an opening and making a slow thrust with his longsword. I tried to block it with my stabsword and failed; he let his sword prod me. It was hard enough to hurt but not to bruise.
“Celot is holding back, Squiremaster,” shouted Aydor.
Celot and I danced a little longer. All the time he gave me subtle hints on how to use my blades, and when I failed he punished me with blows hard enough that I did not want him to do it again, but he was not cruel with it. While Celot and I fenced Aydor and his group taunted us, claiming we were both cowards. I am not sure Celot was aware of the abuse; if he was it didn’t touch him, though I felt it as the sapping heat of an overly humid day. Eventually, the squiremaster tired of Aydor’s carping.
“Would you like to demonstrate bladework, Aydor?” roared the squiremaster.
“Yes,” he said. He stepped forward with a triumphant smile on his face, from the expression on the squiremaster’s face it was clearly rare for Aydor to volunteer to step into the circle. Unlike the squiremaster I understood why the heir was so eager to step forward—Aydor knew I had to lose. He knew he was free to punish me however he wanted and I could not fight back without breaking my cover.
Aydor was a good swordsman if not a brilliant one. He was exceedingly strong and preferred to use brute force rather than skill. If I had not been playing a part I would have cut him down in a moment, but I was, and he was a far better swordsman than poor Girton ap Gwynr so he punished me sorely. He held back no blows and only cleverly feigned clumsiness saved me from broken fingers. He clearly intended to cripple me if he could, though it was short-sighted on his part as his life could depend on my health. I feigned tiredness, stepping back and calling “Mercy!” but Aydor still advanced on me. Even when the squiremaster called out “Halt!” he did not stop. Aydor swept his blade low as I dropped my guard, catching me on my shin, and following up with a shoulder barge, sending me sprawling on the ground. He raised his wooden blade to bring down in a heavy strike to my head, and only the squiremaster pushing between us stopped him bringing the strike home.
“I’ll not have this,” hissed Nywulf. “Understand me, Aydor? I’ll not have this on my ground. Cripple a hostage and I have to answer to the king.”
Aydor took a step back and dropped his wooden blades onto the dirt.
“The hostage is already crippled,” he said, “and before long you’ll have to answer to a new king, Nywulf. You should keep that in mind.” There was no mistaking the threat nor the disrespect. The two stared at each other like grand boars in the swiller’s yard until Aydor walked away holding his arms in the air as if in triumph. You are weak, I thought. Weak, cruel and desperate to appear strong, which makes you dangerous and easily manipulated.
“You’re all dismissed for today,” said the squiremaster quietly. “Be here early in the morning. Girton, you should see a healer for your bruises.”
I stood and watched as the other boys replaced their wooden weapons and then bustled out through the door past racks of bows and shields.
“You did not see me shoot,” I said forlornly.
“You said you could,” replied the squiremaster as he picked up Aydor’s wooden blades and replaced them. “I’ll not call you a liar.”
“Thank you,” I said, turning away.
“Boy,” said the squiremaster. I stopped, turned back. “I will not say it will get easier, as training is as much a test of will as anything else. But today was a hard day for you. It might be best if you stayed away from the other squires.” He nodded his head to the door. “Now get off.”
Chapter 5
Heamus waited for me outside the door.
“Ah, Girton, I am glad I caught you. Your mount has arrived, and I thought you may want to see him stabled.” He noticed how I was limping on my good leg and favouring my left arm. “But it does not matter if you are hurt—our stablehands are good at what they do. They will see to your beast.”
“No,” I said quickly. “I am only bruised.”
“Would you see a healer?”
“For bruises? No. I am not hurt that badly.” Anwith, the god of healing, had been unable to save the gods, and to cross the path of his healer-priests was generally considered bad luck. “I will walk the bruises to stop my limbs stiffening.”
“Good lad,” said Heamus, clapping me on the back with an armour-clad hand and adding another bruise to my collection. “That’s exactly what I learned from my first years of swordplay.”
“I learned it falling from mounts,” I said.
“Well a bruise is a bruise is a bruise however it is earned. Come.” He put out an arm for me to lean on. “Did you enjoy the sword work?”
; “I’m not sure enjoy is the right word.”
“They were hard on you, but fair, I assume? They are good boys really, for the most part.”
“I practised with Aydor,” I said. Heamus stared up into the cold blue sky as we walked.
“Ah,” he said after a while. “He can be cruel, can the king-in-waiting, but cruelty is the prerogative of kings. His father was the same, back when … back when …” His voice faded away as if his mind was visiting a time when he had been young and his life less full of aches. “It is not easy to be a king, see, Girton. They are not like us. Just like the blessed must endeavour to see the living classes as tools and not feel pity at the plight of the thankful, so must a king be cruel and learn to see people as a means to an end and not as lives.”
“You are friends with the king?”
“Friends? Oh no. I don’t think anyone is ever truly friends with a king, but when I was a young man Doran ap Mennix and I were, well, as close as one can be with a king.”
“But you went away?” I nodded at the faded green of his armour, and the smile that had been a constant feature on his face since I met him faded away. I cursed myself. So far this old man was the only person who had showed me any kindness and I did not wish to offend him. “I am sorry, Heamus, I did not mean to pry.”
“Not at all. It is a well known story and best you hear it from my mouth than a gossip’s flapping lips.” He smiled again, but it was as weak as the watery yearsage sunlight. “There was a girl. No one important, a serving girl is all, but I liked her and she liked me. Doran did what kings do with pretty servants.”
“You were angry?”
“Dead gods, yes, I was angry.” A flash in the eye, a brief glimpse of the steel beneath the smiling old man he presented to the world. “But you cannot challenge a king to combat. So I left rather than commit treason.”
“And now you are back,” I said to the air.
“Aye, I am back. Age has a way of dimming the pain of the past and the girl is bonded to a smith. They have two children. No doubt a night with the king is something she looks back on fondly now, aye?”
I nodded but I did not agree. My master and I have met many who are haunted by such actions of the blessed. Our blades have helped them sleep a little easier. I did not believe that this woman would look back fondly on her night with the king, and from the look on Heamus’s face, neither did he.
We walked through the keepyard gate and across the wide townyard in silence. Festival was already beginning to gather, and its vanguard was setting up, a growing caravan city in the centre of the ghostly one that only existed from above. The caravans were huge—drawn by draymounts, a small and squat breed of mount with curling horns rather than antlers and long hair that fell in matted ropes to trail along the ground. The draymounts were all muscle, and it took six of the powerful beasts to draw the gaudy two-storey caravans that were the homes of the Festival Lords. The Tired Lands may be home to kings, queens and blessed, but, second only to the high king and his Landsmen at Cealdon, the Festival Lords were the only other real power. Festival controlled the majority of trade across the Tired Lands, and the Festival Lords controlled Festival. They travelled in a constant circle, two and a half thousand miles around, stopping at towns and castles to trade and put on shows. The castles and towns relied on Festival as much, and probably more in most cases, as Festival relied on them. From Maniyadoc, which was the centre of the Tidal Flats, they would pick up dried fish, fruit, sweet alcoholic perry, livestock and stock up for crossing the western sourlands. Last time I had seen the Festival caravan it had been five miles long and strewn out in such a way it took two days to pass. It was not only traders and entertainers; Festival had its own guards, Riders, rules, and if you were running from someone it was said you could find sanctuary there and start again—if the Lords had some use for your skills. Festival made itself open to all—faces of every colour and the clothes of every tribe could be found here—but at the same time it was secretive; few saw past the outside of its gaudy tents and caravans. Many were distrustful of it and talked of it being a hiding place for hedgings. Their distrust was heightened as Festival was by far the biggest and richest town in the Tired Lands; it just happened to be one on wheels and mountback.
This distrust did not stretch to stopping anyone coming to it, of course.
We passed Tomas and his group of squires playing some game with a ball and stick. I wondered what the game was, if I would be good at it and if they would let me join them. Their laughter echoed around the townyard, coming closer then receding. It made me think of the story of Eyol who chased eternal happiness: he found it elusive, often within his reach but never staying still.
“Here we are,” said Heamus after we had passed the massive caravans. “I have seen your mount—Xus, he’s called?” I nodded. “A fine beast, a war beast.”
“Not my Xus, he is only for riding. Though he is a fine animal,” I said. “My father breeds mounts.”
“Strange to name a mount bred for pleasure after the god of death.”
He seemed to be reaching for something.
“Not so strange, Heamus. Xus is a contrary and evil-tempered animal on occasion. Most of our stablehands feared him like they feared death so we named him for Xus the unseen.” It was not so far from the truth, though his name was actually a joke. Xus was my master’s mount and brought death wherever he went.
“That makes sense, I suppose.” Did Heamus look a little disappointed? “Anyway, go to your mount—no doubt it will be glad to see you.” Shouting came from the stable block. “As will our stablehands, from the sound of it.”
The stable block ran along the townyard wall and was built of the same black stone as the rest of the castle and the kennels opposite, from which came the faint yapping of hounds. Snaking columns, scarred where stone faces had been excised from them, rose to the stables’ high roof. It was tall of necessity as mounts are far taller than a man, even taller when you take their antlers into consideration.
In the stable block I was surprised by how light it was. The roof had been built of crystal so the mounts could enjoy basking in light. On either side of a wide aisle were stalls, about thirty a side, though only the stalls on one side were occupied. In the centre of the building two stablehands were fighting to control Xus as he reared and hissed, striking out with his clawed feet. They used ropes around his antlers to stop him goring them but were failing to get him into a stall.
“Xus,” I said, using the Whisper-that-Flies-to-the-Ear. He stopped his struggling and pawed at the floor with a front foot. The taller of the two stablehands looked from Xus to me and then threw his rope to the ground and walked out in disgust.
“Don’t mind Leiss,” said the other stablehand, a girl. “He considers himself an expert when it comes to mounts, and this beast was defying him.” She shook her head. “Is he your mount?” I nodded. “How did you do that, make him quieten? You are upwind of him and their eyesight is not good—he would see you only as a blur from where you are—but he stopped struggling almost as soon as you entered.”
“Yes,” said Heamus, studying both me and the girl with an odd look in his eye. “That was a good trick, Girton, one I would like to learn myself.”
I had made a mistake, using assassin skills in full view of strangers when I was not even meant to use them around other assassins.
“There was no trick, I am afraid. It is simply that Xus is unusually perceptive for a mount.” I walked up to the huge animal, not looking at the girl or Heamus in case they could see the lie in my eye. I reached out to scratch the mount’s long muzzle. “Aren’t you, Xus?” He cooed gently through his long downward-pointing front tusks.
“Will you introduce me to him?” asked the girl.
“Sorry?” She was pretty, her red hair cut short in a way that showed off high cheekbones. Her slim face was a shade darker than the usual tan of one who habitually spent their days outside, something startling in a castle where so many people seemed lik
e mirror images of each other. She must have come from far outside the castle, maybe even from outside Maniyadoc and the Long Tides.
“Introduce me to him.” She pointed at Xus while keeping a respectful distance. “Often when a mount has a strong connection with its owner it is best for them to introduce the animal to a new stablehand. You have stabled your mount with others before and done this, yes?” She smiled and took a step forward. Xus let out a distrustful snort and tossed his head.
“Of course,” I said, though I had not. My master was always the one to stable the mount. “What is your name?”
“Drusl,” she said.
“Xus,” I said, feeling foolish, “this is Drusl.” The girl laughed, clapping her hands and shaking her head. “You are funny, Blessed.”
“I’m no blessed.”
“You are still funny.” She walked forward. “Take my hand, like this.” She placed my open palm on the back of her hand, and it was like a fire went through me. No woman had ever touched me so candidly before. “And now you place your hand on his muzzle, as you would normally but with my hand between your skin and his fur.” I did as she asked. No doubt this was something totally innocent on her part but my heart was hammering fit to burst. Xus rolled his eyes and snorted through his nostrils, opening and closing them to take in this new scent mixed with mine. For a moment I thought he would rear but he let out a final snort and nodded his head, calmed. “See, now he will accept me,” she said. I was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the warmth of her body against mine. I stepped away and when I opened my mouth to speak I found my voice stifled by some unknown force. I was saved from making a further fool of myself by the stablemaster, Leiss.
“Country tricks are no way to work for a real stablehand. That beast needs a whip taken to it,” he said from behind me. He had the same squat body and unappealing features as so many others in Maniyadoc.
“Take a whip to Xus, Leiss,” I said, “and I will take that same whip to you, do you understand?”