by Rj Barker
Aydor walked over to the rack, pushed me out of the way and picked up the first bow his hand touched. I wondered again if the squiremaster was the assassin—if not he was a brave man to talk to Aydor the way he had. The heir would one day hold the squiremaster’s life in his hand.
“There,” said Aydor, “I have a bow.”
“Well done,” said Nywulf. “And you, Girton? Will you hold us up further?” He stared at me and I finished looking over the bows. They were a poor lot but I picked the best of them. “Right, who will shoot first?”
“I will,” said Aydor. An offer which surprised everyone.
“Very well,” said Nywulf. “Take your mark.”
Aydor stepped forward to a line Nywulf had marked in the sand with a stick. Arrows had been stuck in the ground along it.
“Draw,” said Nywulf.
The heir’s armour creaked as he nocked an arrow and brought the bow up, pulling the string taut so it rested against his cheek and holding the bow like that for far longer than was needed for him to aim. It was bravado, a display of strength that would do nothing for his ability to hit a target. Then he spun on the spot and a little cloud of dirt rose around his feet. He pointed the arrow at the squiremaster. Nywulf did not flinch. He stared straight down the shaft of the arrow into Aydor’s eyes.
“And loose,” said Nywulf.
Sweat stood out on the heir’s brow.
He let the arrow fly.
“No!” The boy by me, Rufra, shouted the word, articulating what everyone on the field was thinking. Even Kyril, Borniya and Hallin, Aydor’s little clique, looked shocked.
With a sound like cloth ripping the arrow shot across the training yard, flying past Nywulf’s head in a blur and burying itself in the wooden wall.
A silence settled over the training yard. Nywulf did not move. He stared at Aydor.
“You missed,” he said.
Aydor spat on the ground. “It seems I have no skill with these thankful weapons.” He dropped the bow in the dirt.
“I doubt anyone else will shoot so poorly, Squire Aydor,” said Nywulf. It seemed inhuman that his voice did not waver or crack. “So you have placed last. You may leave now.”
Aydor seemed at a loss for a moment, his thunder stolen from him by the steel core that ran through Nywulf. Then he turned and walked out the gate watched by everyone on the field, Celot jogging after him like a loyal dog.
“Right,” shouted Nywulf, so loud it made me jump. “Who’s next?”
“Me,” said Tomas. He walked to the line, drew and loosed at the target in one fluid motion. He hit it dead centre. One by one the other squires followed. All were reasonably skilled—in that none missed the target—but some were better than others. Each archer had five arrows and those who scored lowest in each round of shooting were out. After five rounds it came down to Tomas, Rufra, Boros and myself—though only Tomas and I could win. The others shot for third place, which Boros won. Then Tomas and I stepped up. Tomas shot first. Both he and I had been shooting straight centres right through the competition. I was a little ahead as Tomas’s second shot had gone into the painted line of the centre rather than the actual centre.
Tomas took his last shot—a centre again.
I nocked an arrow to my bow and drew. I would not miss—we were far nearer the target than I generally practised at and it should be an easy win—but I was not here to win, even though I wanted to. I let the bow waver as if my strength was going and when I loosed the arrow it flew straight and true into the second circle, giving Tomas victory.
His small group of friends let out a roar of approval and ran over to clap him on the back. I shook my head and stared at the ground as if ashamed.
“You shoot well.” I looked up—it was Rufra again. “And you look surprised that I am talking to you.” He glanced around. His nervousness was contagious and I had to stop myself flinching as if in expectation of a blow. “We are not all like the heir.” He put out his hand to grasp. I was confused and annoyed. I had expected Tomas to talk to me not this nervous boy. After a near-run match it was normal for the winner to compliment the loser. I glanced over at Tomas. He smiled at me but it was a cold, aloof smile, and any friendship that may have been in it swiftly died when he saw I was talking to Rufra.
“Thank you,” I said to Rufra without taking his hand. There was an aura of barely suppressed frustration around the boy, as if he were a coiled spring ready to burst into violent action. When he smiled it seemed as much a mask as that of any priest.
“You are a hostage, I heard?” he said, letting his offered hand fall.
“Yes,” I replied, trying to work out why he was talking to me. Evidently the rest of Aydor’s clique were wondering the same as they watched us with interest. Hallin, the boy with the blinded eye, was running his thumb along the back of his knife. “My father was lax in his tributes so I am here as surety.”
“My family is not trusted either.” Rufra gave me an unconvincing smile and then glanced over his shoulder. “They are old country and still follow some of those ways. My aunt even rides a warmount and commands men.” His face lit up at the mention of his aunt but I did not return his smile. “She taught me to shoot a bow.”
“I thought women could not become Riders?”
“It is not common now,” said Rufra, and then his words came out in a jumbled rush, “but Aunt Cearis says it was not always the way. My uncle hates it and his wife says Cearis is not a proper lady. I know you may have heard bad things about my family, but it seems we are both held here under the sword, Girton.” He gave me another smile then added, “Do you think women should be allowed to become Riders?”
I could not think of a reply. Certainly my master had no trouble mastering a warmount but to say openly that I thought women should fight as cavalry would mark me out as unusual, and I wanted to fit in. Nywulf saved me from further uncomfortable conversation, calling us to go through a series of sword-work exercises, which I bungled expertly. Despite Nywulf splitting us up Rufra managed to find his way back to me again and again. I could feel any chance of getting near Tomas ebbing away. He clearly loathed Rufra and now I was tainted by association. Often the boy gave me tips on how I could improve my defensive work or make a certain move in a way that would tax my strength less. He was well meaning but I found his words increasingly irritating. What infuriated me the most was that he was often right.
It was hard not to compare Rufra to Tomas: Rufra, small and dark in ill-fitting armour, and Tomas who, although bruised, looked every inch the warrior from the tales we told as jesters. His sword moves were elegant, where Rufra looked like he was chopping wood, though there was a lethal, workmanlike efficiency in the way he went about it. And if Tomas was occasionally a little high-handed with his followers then that was only to be expected of a boy who should be a king—and he so clearly should have been. He was no cruel, overweight, tyrant-in-the-making like Aydor.
When training ended I was first out, keeping my armour on despite the discomfort. It squeaked where it needed more grease and pinched me painfully in places. My wrapped swords banged against my bruised legs as I limped quickly away.
“Girton!” My name echoed over the keepyard but I did not turn—I recognised Rufra’s voice. “Girton ap Gwynr!” This time his shout was followed by the sound of running steps. I knew I could not outrun him, not with my armour on and my club foot.
“Rufra,” I said, turning to meet him.
“Aye.” He smiled. Without his armour he looked taller, though everyone was taller than me, but he cut an altogether unremarkable figure, not handsome but not ugly. He had long unruly dull-brown hair that he was constantly having to scrape away from his face. Away from the other squires his eyes no longer jumped as if he expected to find a threat in every corner. “I missed you leaving, Girton. You did not stay to take off your armour.”
“No,” I said, keeping my voice dead. “No, I did not.” His smile faltered and when he spoke I could barely hear him.
“I am always hungry after training; you must be too. I wondered if you would like to come with me to the kitchens? Cook was making honey buns this morning.”
“I cannot,” I said, and watched him become more and more uncomfortable. “I must see to my mount.”
“Oh, of course.” He looked away, the smile falling from his face. “You must think, as I was with Aydor when you came, that …” He let the words tail off. “He hates me, you know, Aydor. And you must have insulted him somehow as he does not like you either.” He smiled again, as if this should form some bond between us. “Aydor cannot stand to be insulted,” he added quietly.
“I hope you enjoy the honey buns, Rufra,” I said. Something hopeful that had been in his eyes slowly faded. He nodded, pushing his hair behind his ears and bowing his head.
“I understand. I had just thought that you are an outsider and I …” he glanced at my club foot “… and I am also. I thought that maybe we could be …” He shook his head. “It was presumptive of me. I am sorry.” He walked away and I should have let him go. Alienating Rufra would put me in better standing with both Tomas and Aydor. My master would have watched him walk away but I am not as cold as she is, besides, I was curious about something.
“Rufra,” I said. He turned. “If Aydor hates you, why are you not in Tomas’s group?”
He laughed, though there was no humour in it. “Simple really. Aydor hates me, but Tomas hates me more. That is the only reason Aydor wanted me with him. He is kingly though, is he not—Tomas?” He kicked a stone along the ground. “It is all right, Girton. I understand that Tomas would make a better friend than I. I’ll not hold it against you or stand in your way.” He turned once more, but before I could walk away or call him back my name was barked out. Nywulf was stumping towards me from the squireyard, a huge filthy bucket in one hand.
“I have a job for you, boy. You can feed and clean out the dogs.” He handed me the foul-smelling bucket full of meat scraps and slops.
“The dogs?” I knew it was one of the squires’ tasks but had not expected it to come to me so soon. My insides shivered at the thought of sharp red teeth and hard muscled flesh.
“Are you questioning me, boy?” His bald head reddened in anger.
“No, Squiremaster.” I bowed my head and walked away with my filthy bucket, feeling his gaze all the way. I passed Aydor, surrounded by his guards, and he shouted after me, “Found your level, have you, country boy?” I ignored him. Tomas passed me soon after but said nothing, only stared at me as I struggled with the bucket. I tried to think of anything but dogs as I walked. I was distracted for a moment when I passed the stables and saw Drusl, but she was with Leiss and could not stop to talk. Seeing her with Leiss made me angry and I stamped along, spilling some of the slop on my skirts, which made me even more cross.
The kennels had little of the stables’ glory; they were a long low windowless building made from stone that had fallen from the walls, and if the builder’s intention was a construction that looked constantly on the edge of collapse then he had been entirely successful. I promised myself that once I had finished my reward would be a visit to Drusl, but that didn’t make me feel much better; the kennels continued to grow ominously in both size and stink as I approached. When I stood at the door, my heart racing, the animals inside sensed my presence and filled the air with angry noise. By the kennel door was a flaking wooden handle used to open the cages inside. I checked it was down and the animals locked up before I considered entering.
The kennel door opened onto darkness full of barking, shrieking animals that sounded as hungry and terrifying as any hedging. War dogs are huge creatures and I counted four pairs of eyes glowing in the darkness. Each animal was fed by way of a funnel which delivered food directly into a trough in an empty cage next to its own. The food would coax the animal out so its home cage could be cleaned. I took a step into the building and stood—Breathe out, no room for fear. Breathe in, I am the instrument—forcing my eyes wide open as I concentrated on the exercise of the False Lantern. Slowly, my eyes became unnaturally wide and the darkness changed. The kennel took on a curious look, becoming a collection of sketchy silhouettes outlined in shivering white against absolute black. Some lines were still: the edges of the cages, the handles which pulled up the inner gates to funnel the fierce animals from one cage to another. Other, more terrifying shapes bounced and snarled as they snapped furious teeth in my direction, eager to be at this stranger who stepped forward, stinking of fear.
I reached the first empty cage, and as I lifted the heavy bucket the huge animal next door threw itself against the mesh. I recoiled, spilling more of the filthy slop on my clothes. The three other dogs joined in with the noise, filling the stifling room with barking, growling and the clash of rattling cages. I forced myself back to the cage and emptied out a portion of food but the gelid slop of animal innards, old porridge and bones sliding into the empty cage did nothing to distract the huge animal next door. It seemed intent only on me. As I walked to the next cage it followed me down the length of its own. I put food into the remaining troughs but the other dogs were also more interested in my throat than the food. Then I walked to the handle which would lift the inner gates so the dogs would move to their eating cages.
As I touched the handle I thought I heard something above the dogs—a stifled laugh that turned the blood in my veins to ice. No one should be here. I turned. A silhouette filled the doorway, identity hidden by the glare from outside. In slow motion I saw an arm reach out for the edge of the door and before I could shout, “No!” the door was slammed shut and I heard the bar fall on the other side.
Panic flooded through me.
This was a prank, a cruel and stupid prank by some squire. No doubt to them this was little more than a game or a way of currying favour with Aydor or Tomas.
Breathe! Breathe out, breathe out.
With a screech of complaining metal, the shining lines of the outer gates on the cages began to move. Someone was pulling on the handle outside.
No.
Breathe in, breathe in.
I was frozen to the floor.
No room. No room for fear or … Breathe! Breathe.
I was moving, my body reacting while my mind remained clouded and chilled. I ran for the back of the room—Not away from the door, not away from the door—and grabbed the spade used to shovel dirt from the cages. The beasts scrabbled at the ground beneath their gates with huge luminous paws, clods of filthy hay flying as they dug and whined in their desperation to get at me. The space beneath the gates slowly grew. Glimpses in silver: a paw, a muzzle, an ear.
No time for fear no room for fear breathe out—fear— breathe in. I am an—breathe—instrument. I am—breathe—a weapon. Breathe!
The gate creaked up a little further.
Breathe!
Dead gods, whoever was doing this was taunting me. They were enjoying it.
Don’t scream for help.
The cages inched open further and one of the dogs, the biggest, managed to get its jaws underneath the gate, snapping out lines of phosphorescent saliva.
Everything in me wanted to run for the door. This was no prank; this was an attempt on my life and I’d take a hedging’s deal before I’d give them the satisfaction of hearing me banging on the door, screaming to be let out.
My tormentor became bored of the game and the gates opened with a screech. The first dog came at me, a huge beast of shimmering white ropes. Its mouth yawing open impossibly far as it jumped for my throat. I brought round my spade, smashing the blade into its head. The war dog yelped as it hit the floor but got straight back up, circling round to join the pack. I knew I was finished.
…if you escape the slavers will let the dogs rip you apart …
With a blade I’d be hard pressed to protect myself when the four animals attacked together, without one there was no way I would be able to hold them off.
Three dogs waited at bay, growling, while the dog I had hit gathered itsel
f to lead their attack. I could almost feel the gathering tension in their muscles as they prepared to leap.
The dogs growled, deep and hungry, and then there was a pause in the moment—an unexpected strangeness. An unreality where the air was honey-yellow and the filthy stink of the kennel was banished by something other, some exotic and spicy scent. It confused the dogs. Growls turned into whines, jaws closed, tails went between legs and the dark kennel was suffused with unworldly light. In my fear I felt as though another stood in the room with me, willing my escape.
I threw myself sideways and squeezed under a gate, making it into the cage that had housed the biggest dog just as the strange light vanished and the dogs rediscovered their fury. The gate was attached to its lifting mechanism by a piece of twisted old rope and I swung the shovel, cutting the ratty length and bringing the gate clattering down. Denied their prey the dogs descended into a form of insanity and my life became nothing but sharp teeth, angry barking and paws scrabbling at wire mesh that looked far too delicate to hold them back.
Breathe.
Time ceased to have meaning.
Can’t breathe.
All was teeth and claws and noise. I closed my eyes and let time flow over me.
A change in the timbre of the barking snapped me out of my terror. The dogs, instead of barking, were letting out low growls. I opened my eyes to see they had turned from me towards the door. It creaked open. I could just make out a figure. At first, as the dogs did not bark, I thought it must be someone they knew, but as my eyes became more used to the glare I recognised the slim form of my master in her motley. She stepped forward, slowly and carefully, placing her feet like she was doing a knife dance. She had one hand outstretched and the nearer she got to the dogs the more the growling subsided until I could hear her speaking in a whisper, repeating the same set of nonsense words again and again as she inched forward. The biggest dog took four stiff-legged steps towards her and stopped to sniff her outstretched hand. It let out a whimper and turned twice on the spot before lying down with its head on its big paws. Then its fellows did the same. My master was using the Wild Gaze to calm the beasts, a skill I had never managed to learn.