“That’s very good,” said Daddy when we’d finished. “Reminds me of the tumblers. They visited at the Festival, do you remember, Dana?”
I nodded, patted my hot face. Would Daddy think this undignified? I tried not to pant.
“You seem to enjoy fighting,” he said.
How could I not? “It’s like dancing, but more powerful. It’s about using your opponent, about finding his weakness.”
Will smiled at me, his eyes bright, and I knew he was pleased that I’d put it like that.
“Dana.” Daddy rubbed his beard, looking troubled. “At the end of the day, fighting is about winning. By any means necessary. And killing, if you have to.” He stared at Will and me. “Are you prepared to kill?”
“Your Majesty,” N’tombe’s precise accent demanded attention. “Neither of these children has killed. But I have seen enemies searching for us, and when they find us, they will come upon us like a storm. These children must be prepared to fight, and to win.”
Daddy stared at her. There were worry lines on his face and in the winter morning light he seemed suddenly old. I felt a strange sympathy for him; he was responsible for a whole kingdom.
He shook his head. “I don’t understand. Rosa said something similar – and yet, we are a peaceful land. We harm no one. Why would anyone want to take this away from us?”
“Because the rest of the world has so little.” Will’s voice was bitter.
“The boy is right, Your Majesty,” said N’tombe.
“And you really believe this?” Daddy asked her. “That there is an enemy? For I tell you, I have seen no sign.”
“You are not looking in the right places then,” she said. “I am sorry to tell you this, Sir. Yet, it is not news to you, I think.”
Daddy stared at her for a moment. He shuffled a foot through the sand, looked down at the groove it made. “No,” his voice was almost inaudible, “this isn’t news. Yet, I was hoping Rosa was wrong.”
“The Guardian is never wrong.”
My father sighed, then looked at Will quite sternly, as if he was investing him with land, or an important task. “Boy, teach my daughter well. But remember this: when you fight for real, it must be in earnest. And you must be prepared to kill. Such antics look impressive, I grant you. But you need to think of weapons. Tumbling will not kill an armed man. You need blades for that. And,” he turned to me, “Dana?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t speak of this to your mother.”
Chapter Fifteen
Military Strategy
Sometimes, Will could barely believe how much his life had changed since that journey down the hill to the Crossing with the pots.
Was it only twelve months ago when he had left the Castle, with a set of pots and a donkey? Twelve months back, if anyone had told him that he would meet an enchantress and a princess, he’d have thought they were dreaming, or mad.
Sometimes he thought nostalgically of that morning. In a way, that day had been the last day of his freedom. He reached the ferry by noon, where the Ferryman was expecting him. That morning, Will had crossed to the Outside with ease. The margins between the Kingdom and the Outside were so slight as to be unnoticeable. Merely cross a stretch of water, and you were somewhere else.
Brightly painted wooden caravans, shaded by willows, marked the camp of the tinkers. Black-haired children saw him and called to him, laughing.
“Tell your fortune, young man?” called a woman. She had gold earrings and a red headscarf. “Only a silver penny.”
“It’s not a fortune I’m after,” said Will. “It’s repairs. For the pots.”
“Pots, is it?” laughed the dark-eyed woman. “We can do that too.” She told his fortune for him anyway, while her man repaired the pots. “You’ll travel far, young man. Very far. Look.” She traced a palm crease with a dirty fingernail. “And I see love, true love. There’s death, and friendship and maybe, maybe ...” she stooped closer to Will’s hand, peering hard. She whistled, long and low. “Well, I never! You must take care, young man.” Will snatched his hand back.
The woman smiled at him. Her teeth were black and broken but her eyes were kind. She stood up, and curtsied. “My Lord,” she said. “It is an honor to serve you.” Then she laughed again and called to her man in her own tongue.
As he loaded the pots back onto the donkey, she whispered, “Be wary on the road ahead.”
“Why?”
“This morning, another traveler passed over the strait.”
“I saw no one on the road.”
“She is not easily seen,” said the woman, seriously. “Now, mind,” she added, “watch over the girl. She is young, but she is strong. You must take care.” She grabbed Will’s hand firmly. “You must take care.”
What, Will wondered, had the woman seen?
* * *
That day had been the last day of normality. Now Will felt as though he was caught on a wheel that turned relentlessly, dragging him with it.
Autumn sped past like a runaway horse. A brief pause for Christ’s Mass, and a visit to his aunt and uncle at their bleak and unloving farm. At least now Will was older and somewhat larger, Aled was politer to him than previous. Aunt Agnes, awed that he saw the Princess near on every day, said little to him save to ask him questions about royalty.
Uncle Wavern barely spoke at all, but then he’d never been a man for speech. There were no more belts on the back, though. Will part-wished that his uncle would try it; then he’d really show him a thing or two.
* * *
Usually the practice bell caught Will unawares, so he had to scramble from bakery clothes into his fighting jerkin. The ’prentices laughed at him as, day after day, he’d dash from the kitchens with garments hanging from him.
Guard practice lasted until the light failed. Sergeant Ryngell – usually just known as “the Sergeant’ – varied the topic daily, and neither Will nor the other guardsmen could figure any method to his teaching. Sometimes, it might be falls and tumbles. Or weaponry – how to build a bow or a spear. Once they paid a visit to the armory, a place of heat and steam, where the Master Armorer explained how to make a sword.
On Mondays, if the light was good, they spent two hours at target practice with a longbow and arrows.
“Don’t look at the arrow, men,” called the Sergeant. “Think only of the target. Be the target.”
They learnt close-quarter fighting with staves. They were too young, Sergeant Ryngell said, for swords. They’d only hurt themselves and he’d be held to blame. Will thought of Aled and his missing thumb. On wet days the boys studied tactics and the Sergeant taught them chess. Sometimes they discussed ancient battles and how long-dead kings had won ancient victories. Will found this boring. It wasn’t his history; it wasn’t his land.
Besides fighting, they learnt other skills: moving with stealth; concealment; rope work. This last was terrifying, but strangely interesting. How to build a bridge with a rope, and how to climb sheer cliffs. The outer walls of the Castle were surprisingly easy to climb, provided one had a good anchor for the rope and didn’t look down. The tower, though, said the Sergeant, was near impossible.
Will wandered into the inner keep to see the tower for himself. The ramparts surrounding the innermost keep had been built of the same honey-colored stone of the outer walls and its gates were of the same heavy oak, but here they were unguarded and open. The open space felt strangely eerie; an empty courtyard pierced by a central tower. Will walked around it slowly, studying the gray stone of its walls. The stones had been tightly laid, with no crevice or ledge to give one grip. It was a different color to the outer walls; almost blue in the sun. He stroked it. It was cold under his fingers.
His breathing sounded too loud. From above a crow called. Will jumped. Trying not to run, he stepped back through the empty gates.
Later, he thought about the stonework. It had appeared far older than the rest of the Castle. And what was the purpose of that tower? Where was its entry?
He’d circled the entire building but had never seen a door.
* * *
When the mid-morning bell rang, the Princess had to leave, which annoyed her.
“I hate lessons,” she said. “I’d much rather fight.”
“What do you learn?” Will asked.
“Sums and grammar. And French. I hate French verbs. N’tombe insists I learn them.”
“Why?”
Blue eyes dancing, the Princess whispered in his ear, “To mess with my mind!” Her breath was sweet on his face.
* * *
For a girl, the Princess was a good fighter. She was surprisingly fast. Sometimes, she seemed to blur and once, when Will was really tired, she appeared to break apart, to drift into light. He’d called a break at this point. Really, he needed to stop the early mornings.
How much longer could he continue this double life? Baking until sun-up, sparring to sundown. But how to say no to a princess? She needed him. Well, not him exactly. What she needed was freedom – and that was what fighting gave her.
Although, there were moments, when she touched his hand or they locked together in a hold, that he felt a flood of warmth. Such moments, felt thrilling yet terrifying. That he, an orphaned foreigner, would ever meet the royal family had seemed unlikely enough. And now he saw the Princess every day.
The King’s advice still troubled him. How could he, who’d only killed a boar, and that by accident, train a lady to kill? And why would she ever need to do so? And what of N’tombe, and her telling of enemies. Throughout the winter, N’tombe never spoke of such again, and Will never had the courage to ask her, but oftentimes he wondered: what armies had she seen?
* * *
Will rarely dreamt. When he hit his bunk he was too tired to do anything but sleep. Rising early before the other guards meant he tended to go to bed earlier than most, too. One night in winter, straight after the compline bell, he headed for his bunk. Shivering, he crept into bed, pulling the rug up over his shoulders.
Thinking of fire and warmth, Will fell asleep. Only to see a fire in his dreams. He hovered above a burning town. Not his own; here the land was flat and there was no sea. In the distance were more fires – other towns burning. The moon was full. The fire leapt high, casting flickering orange shadows over the gray, moon-washed fields. A crowd of men stood at the edge of the flames, laughing as the tall buildings burned. They were dressed in mail that glowed orange from the fires.
Behind them, horses grazed and tents, gray-white in the moonlight, billowed in the breeze. Flags, black against the darkness, were decorated with shaggy ropes, like the tails of the horses. Equipment of war surrounded them: carts and bags and piles of weapons.
Dreaming, Will traveled closer to the watching warriors. They seemed slight, almost woman-like in their build. He’d always imagined soldiers as large, heavy-set warriors with enormous beards. The flames crackled and roared, but not loud enough to drown the screams. The soldiers laughed and held their hands to the warmth of the burning town.
A man, his clothes alight, dashed from the gate directly toward the army. Calmly, a soldier fixed an arrow to a bow and shot the man in the chest. He fell directly in front of Will. The arrow quivered as the man gasped. Air hissed from the wound in his chest.
The moment changed. Daylight. Like a bird, Will watched from the air as the soldiers called their horses to them. The village was a blackened ruin. Smoke drifted from the remains of the houses, and corpses dotted the plains.
The soldiers mounted quickly, forming small groups. They seemed well armed. All had curved swords and large quivers, stuffed full with arrows, attached to their saddles. Most carried bows. So many men, so many horses. Flags cracked, spreading wide in the wind. A red beast on a green background. A dragon.
Was this the army N’tombe had seen?
Will woke sweating. Today, he would talk with the Sergeant. How could one overcome such a host?
* * *
The Sergeant didn’t laugh as Will told him about his nightmare. Instead, he’d listened intently, his eyes concerned. Once he’d nodded, as if in answer to an unasked question. Will found this unquestioning acceptance of his dream more concerning than the dream itself.
Again, Will told of the soldier, the arrow and the man collapsing in front of him.
“The weapons,” said the Sergeant. “What type of mail did they wear?”
Will shrugged. “It was just a dream. What does it matter?”
“It matters, lad. It matters.” Sergeant Ryngell walked to the window and stared out across the practice ground below. In the distance, the forest was the bleached brown of late autumn and there was snow on the distant mountains. “Do you remember any detail at all? The flags? The shape of the spears? The bows?”
The flag. “There was something on the flag. An animal, of some sort.”
“Ah! Now we’re getting somewhere. An animal, eh? Was the flag colored?”
“Green, I think.” Suddenly, Will wasn’t sure. Colors look different in dreams. “You should ask the Princess.”
“Why?”
“She had a dream once. She told me of it. I think her telling made me dream too.”
“She dreamt of this army?” The Sergeant stood at the window, but he didn’t seem to notice the view, or the boys at their practice.
“Sir? Is it important?”
Sergeant Ryngell went to his table. Maps, partially unrolled, covered the surface like paper logs. Impatiently, he pushed them aside. One fell on the floor and rolled under a chair. Will picked it up.
“You don’t survive as many battles as I have, boy, without learning to tell what is needful from what is not. And if the princess dreams of armies, it behooves us to pay attention. Tell me what she told you, then tell me again of your dream. And tell me about the shapes of their weapons. You learn a lot about an army from the weapons they carry.”
Chapter Sixteen
Fighting to Win
Will was quieter than usual for the next week. Every day we did our usual morning’s practice, but he said little afterwards, just shrugged himself into his tunic and departed the practice arena, leaving me staring. Had I offended him?
After a week he admitted yes, something had been worrying him. “I’ve been talking to Sergeant Ryngell,” Will said, “about fighting to kill.”
“And?”
“He said he’d help us.”
“Will I learn how to fight with a sword?” I liked this idea. I would cut an impressive figure with a blade in my hand. My name could be engraved on it. Gems would be nice too. Rubies would be best, as they’d match my hair.
Will shook his head. “Have you ever held a blade?”
“No.”
“They’re very heavy. The Sergeant says: “You bludgeon your opponent to death or chop bits off him.” In the end, the fight comes down to how strong you are. I’m sorry to break it to you, Princess, but you will never be as strong as a fully grown man.”
I pouted. “Do you think I could use a lance, then?”
“A what?”
“You know. A lance. Like at the tourneys. You gallop along the lists with it held out in front of you and try to poke the other knight off his horse.”
He stared at me, eyes bulging, then choked. “You can’t be serious!”
“What’s so funny?” I would look majestic in armor. I could get it gilded. It would sparkle in the sun.
He snorted. “Look. Lance work is effective if you’re on horseback, fighting against people in armor. It looks exciting in a tournament, doesn’t it?”
I nodded enthusiastically, imagining myself galloping in front of a cheering crowd.
“And what,” said Will witheringly, “if your opponent is an archer?”
“What do you mean?”
“A good archer could stop a knight without getting near his lance.”
“How?” I didn’t think an arrow could go through metal armor.
“By shooting the horse.”
Shoot a horse? How
terrible!
“Listen,” he spoke patiently, as though I was a slow-witted child. “You’ve got to think outside the rules. That’s what the Sergeant said the army would do.”
“Army? What army?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, a lance might look good, but it probably won’t work for you.”
I sighed. He was right, but still. It would have been nice to look impressive like my brothers, Owein and Alden, who had great chargers and armor that sparkled in the sun. They would never give up their lances or their swords.
In my dream, the warriors who had so nonchalantly beheaded children had had bows attached to their saddles. I felt suddenly cold.
“What do you think your advantages are?” Will asked.
I tried to focus my thoughts. “I’m fast,” I said slowly. “My punches are accurate. I’d probably be good with a blade, provided I can get in close.” I was accurate in tennis, too. Perhaps I could try archery.
He nodded and tousled my hair. “And you’re short. You can duck under your opponent’s field of vision.”
I grabbed his hand and twisted it behind his back.
Will laughed up at me. “Deceit. That’s your weapon. One peek from your blue eyes – and your man is helpless.”
I pulled his arm harder and set my knee in his back. I’d dislocate his shoulder if he spoke again.
* * *
And so we began training with weapons. At first it was just Will and I, playing with sticks. Which doesn’t sound terribly impressive and unfortunately didn’t have the glamor of a ruby-inlaid blade or gilded armor. We began by getting the feeling for the weight of the staves, just a little longer than Will’s forearm and made of thick oak.
The SoulNecklace Stories Page 13