"Well, Tesh," he said, "you seemed to do quite well, fencing with Aiella today." He gave her a meaningful look. "Better than I did, anyway."
The girl smiled and looked down at the floor, masking either embarrassment or outright laughter.
Caymus looked back to his blade. "I didn't know she had been giving you all fencing lessons."
Tesh looked up, surprised. "She hasn't," she said. "It was only today."
He narrowed his eyes at the girl. "You mean she specially came out just this one time to show you how to use a sword?"
The girl shook her head and gave him a curious smile. "No, silly," she said, "Miss Aiella comes to the mission sometimes, but she wasn't here to see us today. She said was looking for you."
***
Garrin shook his head and rolled his eyes as he lifted the small barrel into the back of the cart, his men laughing all around him. The sound brought an element of cheer to the otherwise dark alleyway.
"Seriously, Garrin, when are you going to stop chasing that poor girl?" Cyrus said, his face a picture of mockery.
Garrin couldn't help chuckling. "Leave Aiella out of it, will you," he said, giving his friend a knowing look, "unless you'd like to discuss the skirts you've been chasing of late. I heard that one of the barmaids at the Three Foals turned up pregnant this week."
"Oh no!" said Big Grant, his thunderous voice booming down the stone walls. "Not another one, Cyrus!" Even after all the time they'd spent together over the years, Garrin could never be sure if the big man was being serious or not.
Cyrus pushed his stringy, blonde hair out of his eyes and pointed a finger at Big Grant. "That had nothing to do with me!" He looked around at the other six men. "Still," he said, "I'd be grateful if my wife didn't find out about it."
"I think," said Mally, bringing up the last of the small barrels, "she knows you too well, Cyrus. If your wife isn't already well-aware of the barmaid's predicament, I'd be very surprised."
Cyrus had the good nature to look a bit sheepish at the remark. "Too right," he said. "Still, let's keep it to ourselves for the time being, eh?"
Garrin, dusting his hands off and leaning back against one of the small carts, smiled as he watched his men ribbing each other. They were nearly finished loading their carts with the small barrels of graysilt that they would be bringing to Falmoor's Pass, and he estimated they would be on their way out of the city in a few minutes' time, so he was more than happy to allow for some levity.
The two Grants were checking the tack on the horses, making sure the carts were secured properly to the beasts. Big Grant wasn't particularly tall. He earned his nickname from the sizable muscle mass he'd gained by, presumably, lifting heavy stones on a regular basis. Next to him was Bigger Grant. Bigger Grant had only joined the prince's guard a few years ago. While not particularly large of frame, he was a looming six and-a-half feet tall, so a moniker had been needed to differentiate him from Big Grant.
Garrin had never used these kinds of carts before. They reminded him of tiny chariots, each carrying three of the small kegs of graysilt on two wheels behind each horse. He was slightly concerned with the extra weight the animals would have to carry—each horse would also bear a rider up the northern road—but they needed to move quickly, and this was the only way they could carry the materials they needed and not have to worry about the plodding pace of draft animals.
Mally, standing next to Garrin, surveyed the rest of the men as they brought extra gear out of the stables and made themselves ready to travel. "You think he even knows if it's his?" he asked, in a voice meant for just Garrin's ears, referring to Cyrus and the pregnant barmaid.
Garrin chuckled. "As much as that man drinks," he said, nodding in Cyrus's direction, "I'd not be too surprised if he's sweating over exactly that question right now." He looked over at Harrison and Bernie, who were checking the group's provisions, and found himself flinching. Harrison hadn't pulled one of his infamous pranks in several months now, and he was a little concerned that they were due. He trusted Harrison, of course, trusted him with his life, but he wasn't sure if this particular mission could survive any mischief. He hoped Bernie's generally more stoic demeanor was influencing him for the better tonight. If anybody was likely to diffuse mischief, it was Bernie.
Six men, friends and companions, most of whom he'd known for many years, and now the safety of the kingdom, possibly the entire world, rested on their shoulders. Garrin smiled to himself; he couldn't ask for better company.
He tilted his head over and whispered, "When did Bigger Grant start growing a beard?" Garrin had noticed the scruffy growth, light and patchy, as soon as the group had arrived a half hour ago, but hadn't thought to mention it before now. Against the backdrop of the man's immense height, the scraggly-looking mass didn't look good at all.
"Ah, yes," said Mally, with an amused grimace, "the beard. He started not shaving a couple of weeks ago, and that mess on his face is the result." Mally, too, lowered his voice. "It's a bit of a sore spot, actually, so I'd give it a day or two before bringing it up."
Garrin shook his head sympathetically. For such a big man—he was nearly as tall as Caymus, in fact—one would think he'd be able to grow some half-decent facial hair.
"Are they ready for this?" the prince asked his longtime friend.
Mally, wearing his usual unflappable demeanor, reached back and tugged on his black ponytail. "What," he said, "you mean this mad, seven-men-against-several-thousand plan of yours? The one where we take the biggest risk any of us can remember, and from which we're unlikely to return?" He looked pointedly at Garrin. "Are they ready for that, you mean?"
Garrin took a deep breath. "Yes."
Mally nodded, smiling that placid smile of his. "They're ready." He looked out over the group again. "We're ready."
Garrin stole a look at the stars in the night sky. "You'd let me know, wouldn't you," he said, "if I was about to lead us into a needless slaughter?" Mally had been the captain of Garrin's personal guard, of the men before him, for eight years. He had been his best friend for a great deal longer. There was not a single other person in the entire world whom Garrin respected more, or on whose opinions he was more reliant.
"I would," Mally said. He affected a slight nod. "Don't worry, old chum," he said. "Slaughter it may be, but not a needless one."
Garrin was surprised at the grin that touched his lips.
"That's the last of it," said Bernie, tying down a barrel.
Garrin nodded and looked around at the men. "Good," he said. "Are we ready to go then?"
No one said anything, so everyone started mounting their horses. Garrin took a moment to grab his sword, still in its belt and scabbard, which he'd left leaning against a nearby wall as they'd worked. After he belted it on, he put his hand on the pommel and took a deep breath. The Black Sword of the Prince had been passed down through the line of the royal family for more generations than had been recorded. It was as much a family heirloom as it was a functional weapon, but that didn't stop it being incredibly sharp and dangerous. He'd carried it into battle ever since he'd first become the Champion-Protector of Kepren, on the day of his twentieth year. It was completely black from pommel to point, perfectly balanced, and never needed sharpening. It had always felt comfortable in his hand. His father had once told him, before he'd lost so much of himself to sickness, that the sword had looked different when he'd held it, that it had seemed wider and heavier back in the days when it had been Prince Lysandus who'd served as Kepren's Champion-Protector. Garrin had always wondered about that story, whether the weapon could actually mold itself to its wielder, or if the tale had just been the first evidence of the king's decent into madness.
Now, as he got up on his horse, he only hoped he'd somehow get away with not having to use the sword in the next few days.
Quietly, quickly, each man responding fluidly to the movements of the others, the prince and his guard made their way down the alley that would take them to one of the main thoroughfa
res of the Guard District, and then the North Gate. Mally took the lead. Garrin rode close behind him. After him came Bernie, Harrison, Big Grant, and Cyrus. Bigger Grant brought up the rear, as was his usual way. "May'uswell put the tallest felluh' at the back, since he can see everythin'," he liked to say. Within a minute, they were heading north on the main road through the Guard District.
As the group made its way out of the city, Garrin thought about what Cyrus had said, about Aiella and what he planned to do about her. He genuinely cared for the girl, and the two of them got along fine, but he supposed his friend was right. She'd shown absolutely no interest in him romantically, and while, politically, the two of them were a good match, he respected her too much to want to force any issue of marriage. He should probably stop trying to see her so often.
His father wouldn't have approved, of course. He'd have hated the idea of his son being in his thirties and not having yet produced an heir to the throne of Kepren. At least he didn't have to worry about his father's scoldings any more.
"Who's that?" said Mally. Garrin, who had been lost in his own thoughts, looked up and peered ahead. They had almost reached the North Gate, but someone seemed to be waiting for them. In the darkness between the lanterns, the figure was hard to make out. Mally was already loosening his sword in its sheath.
When they got a bit closer, Garrin caught himself grinning. The figure was actually two figures. One was a horse. The other was a very tall, very big man. "Stay your swords, boys," he said, then he rode ahead to meet the dark shapes. He pulled his horse and cart up alongside the figure and met the man's eyes. "You should be careful about lurking in shadows, Caymus," he said. "Someone might mistake you for some kind of highwayman."
Caymus offered up a small smile in response. "Sorry, your Highness," he said, "I didn't mean to lurk, exactly."
Garrin nodded. "So, what are you doing out here, then?"
Caymus's smile faded, his countenance becoming stone serious. "I've decided I'm going with you."
A smattering of muffled laughter rose up from the men behind Garrin. The prince regarded the young man through narrowed eyes. It hadn't been a demand, but it hadn't been a request either. Caymus seemed to have simply stated a fact.
Garrin was about to chide Caymus for taking such liberties, but the intense look on the young man's face stopped him, and he found himself considering the idea. He glanced back at the others. Every one of them was a trusted friend. More to the point, they had fought together as a unit for a long time, and so they knew how to get along, how to read one another, both on and off the field of battle. Garrin knew from Be'Var that Caymus knew how to fight, but if he simply dropped him into this group, he might net them more harm than good.
He looked back at Caymus. "Why?" he asked, simply.
"Because," Caymus replied, "I'm not going to just stay here and wait for the enemy to come and kill the people I care about." The look in his eyes intensified, and Garrin could clearly see the fire-worshiper in the face before him. "Also, I know more about the krealites than any man living," he said. "If there's going to be a strike against them, I need to be there."
Garrin sat quietly. His horse nickered and stamped at the ground as he considered the words, considered the man before him. Garrin didn't know Caymus all that well, but what he did know, he liked. He had a genuine sort of way about him, a way that engendered a kind of simple trust. Be'Var had also said that the boy had a quick mind that picked up new ideas quickly.
Then, there was the kreal. Caymus was right about that. Garrin didn't understand this new element, didn't know what it was doing in his world, but the kreal and Caymus seemed, somehow, to be linked, and just having this singular point of view along for the ride might be the single most important reason to take him along.
As he sat there, thinking, Mally rode up next to him and poked him in the ribs. Garrin flinched, but then turned and read the look on his friend's face. The look said, "Don't worry about us. We'll manage either way."
"I don't suppose," Garrin said, turning back to Caymus, "you feel like telling me who let it slip that we were actually leaving tonight and not tomorrow?"
Caymus, who couldn't quite keep a small grin off his face, shook his head. "No, Sir, I don't."
"Fine. Get in line."
As the group rode out of the North Gate and sped up into a trot, Garrin could hear Mally and Caymus talking behind him. When the men's voices rose in cheerful laughter, Garrin smiled to himself. Caymus might just fit in, after all.
CHAPTER 18
"I couldn't believe you were still walking upright, you were so covered in muck!"
The prince gave Mally a withering look, then shook his head and smiled. "I suppose I must have looked a bit of a mess."
Caymus looked back and forth between the two men as they rode through the chilly, desert landscape. They'd spent two days riding at a quick pace and were now traveling nearly alongside the Greatstones. In that time, he hadn't had much chance to get to know these men, the ones the prince called his personal guard, though he seemed to get along with them without issue. At the moment, he was hearing the story of how Garrin and Amalwyn, the captain of the guard whom everyone called Mally, had met.
Mally was an earth worshiper, though his devotions were completely different from those of the mitre. The mitres’ Aspects had all seemed to be about the changing, the manipulating of the element around them. Mally's Aspect, from what Caymus had been able to glean, had more to do with understanding the ways that the earth below them was formed, how it was put together. Caymus had to admit that he didn't quite understand what that meant, but Mally had just smiled an easy smile and assured him he'd figure it out, eventually.
"A mess?" called out Cyrus, riding behind. "Garrin, the only way I could tell you apart from everyone else was that sword of yours, and only because it was blacker than the mud!"
From the story he was hearing, it seemed that the prince, along with a group of soldiers that had included Cyrus and Harrison, had been traveling through an area of swampland, many miles east of Kepren, in an attempt to come at a Mael'vekian position from an unguarded flank. The swamp, however, had been more than they'd bargained for, and most of the men, along with several of the wagons, had found themselves mired in mud. Mally, who before this time had not served directly under the prince, had used his Aspect to find a clear path through the mess and, in doing so, had saved the company from almost certain disaster.
"I remember that," said Harrison. "We all looked so uniformly muddy that I'd been considering playing the part of the prince for a while."
Knowing smiles and a few chuckles emerged from the men. Caymus couldn't help but join in. He was surprised to find how comfortable he felt here. He felt like he was back at the Temple, playing around with his friends. The group around him was easily as diverse as were the boys there.
Mally was officially the captain of the prince's personal guard, and was Garrin's second-in-command on this mission. His long, dark brown hair, when not tied back in a tail, framed a squared-off face. He had an easy-going demeanor and a calm, confident smile. He was thoughtful and considerate, and he always listened to the concerns of the other men, even when they appeared trivial. Mally and Garrin spent a good deal of time having private conversations between themselves; Caymus got the impression of two men who'd known each other a great deal longer than they actually had.
Cyrus was the smallest man in the group, though he easily had the biggest, loudest personality. His wispy, blonde hair seemed somehow at odds with the crooked teeth of his smile, as though they came from different heads, but the smile was one that got used a lot, so one quickly became accustomed to the disparity. He was the quickest with a joke and, Caymus had discovered on their first full day of travel, was also a bit of a prankster. Caymus wished he had a mirror so he could find out if his teeth were still stained green.
Cyrus was rarely far from Harrison's side. Harrison was, at the most, three inches taller than Cyrus, and only slightly larger of
build. His hair was as black as Cyrus's was blonde. He didn't smile nearly as much, and he didn't say a whole lot, either. Caymus had thought him to be very serious, but the other men assured him that his outward demeanor was deceptive; he was even more incorrigible than Cyrus when it came to jokes and pranks. "Cyrus will cause you an afternoon's annoyance," Mally had confessed to him, early on the second day. "When Harrison pulls off one of his schemes, though, it can make a man question reality for a while."
Caymus was certain he didn't want to know what he'd meant by that.
The two Grants were an odd pairing, too. Big Grant wasn't particularly tall, but was heavily muscled. Bigger Grant wasn't particularly muscular, but was the tallest man Caymus had ever known, other than himself. They both had hair that was somewhere between brown and red, though Big Grant cut his to stubble atop his head, while Bigger Grant wore his down to his shoulders. Garrin had said that the two of them had never met each other before entering into his service, which had surprised Caymus. The two were so alike in personality and coloring that they could have been brothers.
Caymus had learned that Big Grant was an avid, though unusual, worshiper of earth, and that he had devised methods of lifting heavy objects to make his muscles bigger and stronger, making himself appear more stone-like. There had apparently been some bad blood between him and Garrin a long time ago, though if anybody knew the details of it, they weren't telling Caymus.
Bigger Grant liked to pick the prince up sometimes, which everybody but Garrin found hysterical.
The final man, Bernie, was still a mystery to Caymus. He was the same height and build as the prince and had straight, black hair which fell to about the middle of his back and was kept in a thick braid. He was the only member of the party who didn't use some kind of sword, instead favoring a pair of short spears, which he kept hanging loosely on his back. His sharp, delicate features made him appear more like a foppish dandy than a soldier, but Mally had informed Caymus that Bernie might just have one of the finest strategic minds in military history.
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