Kellanved's Reach

Chapter 11

Tayschrenn returned to the isle of Nap. Here, in Dariyal, he sought out a certain inn that catered to foreigners. Entering, he spotted the renegade mage at table and sat down opposite him. When the burly, muscular fellow glanced up and saw him there he nearly choked on his wine. ‘Hairlock,’ Tayschrenn greeted him.

‘Tayschrenn,’ the fellow grunted, recovering, and leaning back. ‘What in the name of the Enchantress are you doing here?’

‘Why didn’t you warn us? You were supposed to warn us.’

The mage shrugged his thick, meaty shoulders. ‘Look – when I found out it was too late. And I wasn’t about to go up against Jadeen. That wasn’t the agreement.’

Tayschrenn tapped his fingers to the scarred table. ‘And Calot?’

The fellow shrugged his rounded shoulders once more. ‘Same for him, I suppose.’

‘And where is he?’

Hairlock gulped his wine; Tayschrenn noticed he was sweating now. ‘Best bordello in town, no doubt. Why? It’s over. Our agreements are null and void.’

‘No they aren’t.’

The mage, who was either naturally dark-hued or deeply tanned a rich nut brown, cocked one hairless brow. ‘Bullshit. You’re kiddin’ me. That little ancient …’

Tayschrenn gave a slow serious nod.

‘Really?’ Hairlock shook his head. ‘Thin. Too thin.’

‘Then consider me his representative and honour our agreement.’

‘You?’ The squat mage snorted. He returned his attention to his meal of boiled pork and parsnips, shoved a forkful into his mouth, and chewed. Swallowing, he took up his wine and sipped, eyeing Tayschrenn over the rim. ‘Whatcha gonna do?’ he asked, grinning lopsidedly.

Tayschrenn crossed his arms. ‘Enforce it.’

The mage grunted, finished his wine. He tapped the glass. ‘Proprietor! More wine!’ Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘Really? Right here? In front of everyone?’

Tayschrenn made a show of raising his eyes to the timber ceiling above, as if to say, Must you bore me so? ‘If necessary,’ he sighed.

A serving girl refilled Hairlock’s glass. He swirled the wine, eyeing Tayschrenn speculatively, then shrugged. ‘So … he’s alive, you say?’

‘Last I saw, yes.’

‘He actually finished Jadeen?’

‘No. They’re both chasing something else.’ Tayschrenn’s gaze drifted aside, and he added distractedly, ‘Something I hope neither discovers.’

The bald mage frowned momentarily at this, then gulped his wine. ‘Well, if he is, then yeah, I’m in – for a while.’

‘Fine.’

‘What’s the plan?’

Tayschrenn uncrossed his arms. ‘We finish what we came here for.’

They found Calot in the best room of the bordello, but as he was not alone they retreated immediately and waited in the salon. Hairlock gulped more wine and Tayschrenn sampled a Kanese fruit liqueur. Calot soon descended, adjusting his shirt and pushing back his hair.

‘Yes?’ he asked, his cherubic face rather bemused, while he perused the choice of wines.

‘Our agreement still stands,’ Tayschrenn said bluntly.

Calot raised one brow. ‘I’d heard Jadeen ate our benefactor.’

‘Not so. Apparently,’ Hairlock growled.

Calot’s brow remained raised. ‘Indeed. When shall we know?’

‘When we know – which will be when we’re done.’

Calot, looking like a young boy, smiled winningly. ‘Excellent.’ He raised a finger. ‘Question. Do we still get paid? Because I have debts. Rather a lot, I’m afraid.’

Tayschrenn sighed. ‘Yes. I’m sure you’ll get paid.’

Calot raised a glass to that.

Outside, Calot, a skinny youth, bundled himself in a thick fur coat while Hairlock, seemingly indifferent to the weather, remained in his leather vest. Tayschrenn wore the same plain dark robes he’d picked up in Malaz, and he asked, ‘Surly?’

‘The dungeons beneath the palace,’ Calot supplied.

‘Do you know the way?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then let’s go.’

‘That’s it?’ Hairlock grumbled as they walked the evening streets of Dariyal. ‘That’s your plan? Go get her?’

‘She’s probably not even there any more,’ Tayschrenn sighed. ‘But it’s a place to start.’ He eyed the rising dark silhouette of the palace, thought of the many guards within, and glanced to his two companions. ‘Neither of you know any Mockra or Rashan, do you?’

Hairlock cracked his large knuckles. ‘Not my forte.’

Calot shook his head. ‘Sorry.’

Tayschrenn was beginning to reconsider his haste. This could get very loud and very destructive very quickly. Fortunately, a figure stepped out of the dark ahead and he relaxed, recognizing her from among Surly’s guards – one of her Claws.

This woman inclined her head to him. ‘She said you might show up.’

‘And where is she?’

The woman invited them to follow her. ‘This way.’

The Claw led them to a side entrance – one curiously unguarded – and up narrow stone staircases and back servants’ ways to the main reception halls of the palace proper. All were dark and empty, save one doorway where firelight flickered. The Claw pushed open the door and moved to one side, guarding. Within stood Cartheron, Urko and Tocaras.

Tayschrenn frowned his appreciation. Well, well. Everything seemed to be in hand. And why not? Why should he have doubted Surly? He turned to his two companions. ‘Wait here and stand guard.’

Hairlock peered inside and rolled his eyes. ‘The Inner Circle. I get it.’ He jabbed at Tayschrenn’s chest, ‘Just make sure we get paid for tonight’s work.’

‘Yes,’ Tayschrenn hissed in answer. ‘You will get paid.’ And he pulled the door shut behind him. Within, he asked, ‘Where is she?’

Cartheron glanced to the tall arched stone ceiling far above. ‘Dealing with Tarel.’

Tayschrenn couldn’t keep a frown of disapproval from his face. ‘She’s not going to …’

‘She’s offering him one more chance,’ Urko explained, scowling his disapproval.

‘And Kellanved? Dancer?’ Cartheron asked. ‘What happened?’

‘Still alive last I saw. We shall see what happens.’ He peered round, spotted a comfortable-looking chair, and sat. ‘So I suppose we wait.’

Urko grunted his impatience and paced the room.

*

Despite having specifically chosen a windowless room with one barred and locked door, Tarel slept poorly. He kept thinking he’d heard the door open, and had to glance at it, checking it in the light of his single candle, again and again. It was the spectre of his sister, of course. Haunting him.

But he’d beaten her. Finally. After so many years. And soon she would be a ghost, in a very real headless sense. The thought calmed him, and he lay back once more.

Then he stiffened, unable even to breathe. In the chair, in the shadows, had someone been …?

Very slowly, he raised his head to peer over. Indeed, someone was now occupying the one chair. His sister. Sureth.

His breath left him in an explosive gasp – almost a cry.

‘I gave you every chance,’ she said, sounding her old disappointed self.

‘I beat you,’ he whispered back. ‘Beat you.’

She shook her head. ‘This was inevitable. I’m sorry.’

He managed to swallow. ‘And if I were to call for the guards?’

‘They are my guards.’

‘Damn you! Damn you, damn you! I won!’

She raised a hand, as she always did to silence his tirades. ‘You have one choice.’

‘And what is that choice? Death?’

‘Abdication. Relinquish your authority to the Council of Elders. Retire to the family villa on Rueth Isle.’

‘Relinquish authority to you, you mean!’

She shook her head once more. ‘No. The Council. They can have it. I’m interested in … other things.’

He waved a finger at her. ‘No, no, no. It’s a trick. A trick! You’ll take it.’

She surged from the chair. ‘I have no need for tricks, do I?’

Tarel pulled the covers higher. ‘You’re threatening me. Your own brother! Why can’t I rule?’

Now she rubbed her forehead, sighing. ‘Just abdicate. In the morning. I will have the Council summoned.’

He was thinking ahead now. He could abdicate – for the moment. But on Rueth he could plan anew. Regroup. Try again. Yes! A better plan. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I will do as you ask. Devolve power to the Council.’

‘Very good,’ she answered, and headed to the door. Unbarring it, she paused, and turned back to him. ‘By the way. Remember that half the people you will contact to plot with, and half your guards, and half the servants at the villa … will all, secretly, be working for me. You’ll just never know which half.’ She shut the door behind her.

Tarel pressed his face into his pillow and screamed.

*

When Surly entered the hall, Tayschrenn thought that for the very first time he detected emotion upon her features. And strangely enough, she appeared almost sad, or regretful. Cartheron spoke then, asking, ‘Tarel?’ and the mask snapped back into place and she straightened.

‘Retiring to his villa.’ The Napans all nodded at this, perhaps secretly relieved. ‘The Council will rule,’ she added, and Urko’s great bushy brows rose in surprise. ‘We have bigger concerns,’ she finished, looking at Tayschrenn. ‘Kellanved and Dancer?’

‘Both still alive, as far as I know.’

She frowned, a touch perplexed. ‘And Jadeen?’

He rose and went to a sideboard and examined the decanted wines, selected a deep red, and poured himself a glass. Turning, he leaned back against the table and sipped the wine – rather disappointing. ‘It’s very complicated,’ he began. ‘They chanced upon a mystery, she and Kellanved, and now they are both off pursuing it.’ He rubbed his forehead, grimacing. ‘Frankly, I hope neither succeeds.’

‘Yet another mystery,’ Surly echoed with a tired sigh. ‘Very well … we proceed as usual.’

‘And that is?’ Cartheron asked.

‘We refurbish the fleets and pick our targets.’

‘What of the Council?’ Tocaras asked.

‘The Council will do what I tell them to.’

Cartheron and Urko exchanged looks; Cartheron cleared his throat. ‘So … we wait for the announcement tomorrow.’

‘Yes.’

Tayschrenn set down his wine. ‘I will inform Malaz.’

Surly nodded to him. ‘Thank you.’

Bowing, Tayschrenn took his leave. Without, he waved Hairlock and Calot to him. ‘Your employment still stands – for the time being. Now we must look to the mainland.’

Hairlock crooked a sideways eager smile.

* * *

It was beginning to look to all involved, Gregar included, that the siege of Jurda was shaping into the engagement to end this, the latest of a long line of Bloor–Gris wars. Even if ‘siege’ really wasn’t the proper term for what the Bloorian League allies were currently up to. ‘Camping’ was more the word Gregar would apply to the ring of bivouacs surrounding Castle Jurda. All contingents of the League ran their own troops; the Yellows, the Vorian, the Rath, each pursuing its own plans for the siege – the result being complete chaos and confusion.

And all the while the surrounded Jurdan forces kept watch from their layered battlements, no doubt rather bemused, if not downright amused.

The Fourth Company of the Second Yellows, with Gregar and Haraj, had laid claim to an abandoned outbuilding, half roofless, but built of a sturdy cobblestone – which was fortunate as the ruin lay just within the longest bowshot range of Jurda’s outermost cantonments. Here they cooked common meals and bedded down, if not actively besieging, then at least contributing to the circumvallation.

Gregar tended to stand his watch from the building’s ruined loft, exposed to bowshot, but confident that the defenders, mindful of wasting arrows and bolts, wouldn’t bother with a single target. This day had been overcast and cold, with a few snow flurries, and he was thankful for the roaring cookfires below and looking forward to warming himself at one later that evening.

He eyed the imposing grey, cliff-like bulk of Castle Jurda and frankly didn’t think much of the League’s chances. This ancestral home had withstood determined sieges from both sides of the interminable Bloor–Gris wars. It contained an entire town within its layered curtain walls, and its outlying cantonments alone stood as large as some of the independent fortress-keeps brazen enough to field forces against it.

A voice called from the timber stairs and he turned. Haraj was gesturing him over. ‘What is it?’ he called.

‘Over here!’ the lad urged, waving.

Sighing, he came to the stairs where Haraj crouched behind cover. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s the—’ the skinny fellow cast a wary eye to the rearing castle walls.

‘Don’t worry. They won’t fire.’

‘But we’re exposed here.’

‘They won’t bother.’

The lad hunched, regardless. ‘Have you heard the news?’

‘What news?’

‘The Guard – they’re here! Arrived yesterday.’

Gregar leaned more of his weight on the rain-slick haft of his spear and looked across to the snow-obscured grey walls. ‘What of it?’

‘What of it? Now’s our chance! We should head over.’

‘Your chance, you mean.’

Haraj coughed into a fist, wincing. ‘Well, won’t you come with me? Aren’t you even curious?’

For a time he tapped the butt of the haft to the ruined, fire-blackened timbers beneath his feet. ‘Fine. I’ll have a look.’

Haraj raised a fist. ‘Fantastic! Let’s go.’

Below, their new sergeant, Leah – Teigan having been promoted to master-sergeant – met them at the broad doorless entry. ‘Where are you two going?’

‘Word is the Guard’s here,’ Gregar explained, and was surprised when the woman stiffened, as if shocked.

‘But I thought you’d—’ she began, only to clamp her lips shut. Then she stepped in front of them. ‘You’re not relieved, soldier.’

There was a question as to whether Leah could pull rank on Gregar, as among all the promotions he’d been made colour-sergeant. So he simply motioned to the roof. ‘My watch is almost over, and you know Haraj here … well, you know.’

‘Yeah, Haraj, I know,’ she answered, her gaze narrowing. ‘Well … all right.’ And she stepped aside.

Gregar was a little mystified by her attitude, but gave her a half-salute, and pushed by. ‘You’d think she’d be curious too,’ he told Haraj, who shrugged.

They traced the broad circle of the envelopment, passing encampments, corrals, and tent towns of camp-followers. A few crofters’ huts had been taken over as quarters for the various nobles, but most preferred to erect their large field tents. One such collection displayed the bright orange pennants of the Vorian king, Gareth.

Leaving behind the last of the outlying pickets of the Vor camp, they passed beyond the curve of a Jurdan cantonment that commanded a rise to the north of the keep that contained the main entrance. In the fields and small copses beyond rose the carmine tents of the Crimson Guard bivouac.

Other off-duty soldiers were also passing, curious like them to take in the sight of the legendary company. Haraj, however, did not keep to a respectful distance and instead walked right up to two of the Guard who watched this side of the camp. Gregar followed, reluctant, but still curious.

The pickets on the path, a man and a woman, were accoutred similarly, in mail hauberks, with belted leather trousers and tall crimson-dyed boots. Both were helmetless, for the moment. The woman, very heavy-set, cocked an eye their way in greeting. Gregar, however, wasn’t set at ease – he knew that it was common practice among the company for all to pull regular duties no matter their experience or rank, and so he knew that he could be facing a legendary champion, even Petra.

‘I want to join!’ Haraj announced, and Gregar groaned inwardly, resisting the urge to press a hand to his brow.

The two pickets shared a glance that could only be described as jaded. ‘Is that so?’ the woman drawled. She looked the skinny, spotty, gangly lad up and down. ‘You a fearsome champion of some sort?’

Haraj blushed, hunching self-consciously. ‘No … I’m a talent. A mage.’

The two shared another glance, this time a doubtful one. ‘That so?’ the man said. ‘Why don’t you show me something. Prove it.’

‘All right,’ Haraj answered, and he extended a hand to the woman, who promptly smacked it aside, scowling. Haraj threw both hands up. ‘Just a demonstration.’

The woman eased her stance, though remained wary. ‘A demonstration,’ she repeated, a hard edge to her voice. ‘Fine.’

The lad slowly reached out and somehow the woman’s weapon-belt promptly fell to her feet. The two guards, as well as Haraj and Gregar, remained in shocked silence until the male mercenary sent up a loud laugh. ‘That lad’s gotten into your pants faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, Petra.’

Fener’s tusks! This was Petra, one of the most fearsome of the Guard!

The woman’s lips compressed into a tight white line and she reached out to grasp Haraj. ‘C’m’ere, you little shit. I’ll show you a trick …’ But somehow he evaded her hand, twisting side to side. Snarling, she sent a backhanded cuff his way, and missed. Finally, her face reddening, she reached down for one of the maces at her feet.

The guardsman stepped out in front of her. ‘Whoa there, lass. Who’s on duty now for this?’

‘Red,’ Petra growled, adjusting her belt.

‘Then why don’t you get him so we can sort this out?’

The woman sent Haraj a dark look, but nodded. ‘Fine. We’ll sort this out all right.’ She stomped off.

The fellow turned to them, shaking his head. ‘Lookin’ to have your face caved in there, lad?’

‘But you asked for a demonstration …’

The guard raised a hand for silence. ‘Just show some judgement, will you?’ He looked at Gregar. ‘And what about you?’

Gregar motioned to Haraj. ‘Tryin’ to keep him alive.’

The guard grunted his understanding. ‘Looks like you’ve had your work cut out for you.’

After a short time Petra returned with a slim, unimpressive-looking fellow in loose, faded red trousers and shirtings, who despite his name did not have red hair, but instead a scruffy dark beard and equally scruffy dark curly hair. ‘This the one?’ he asked Petra.

‘That’s the one.’

Red looked Haraj up and down. ‘Yeah. He’s a talent all right.’

‘Dammit,’ Petra grunted beneath her breath.

Haraj raised a hand to the newcomer. ‘A word, if I may?’

‘Watch your trousers, Red,’ Petra warned. Haraj and the Guard mage spoke briefly, Red eyeing Gregar a few times before he nodded and waved Gregar over. ‘Let’s go talk to the boss.’

Gregar pointed to himself. ‘Me?’

‘Yeah – you can come along.’

Hunh. Well, what d’ya know? I’m gonna get a first-hand look at the Guard. He followed, very curious now – if not a touch envious of his friend.

Red led them into the sprawling encampment, past tents and horses being fed and brushed. The men and women of the Guard lounged about, most in the quilted and padded long shirts worn beneath armour that some named aketons, or haubergeons. Gregar struggled to put names to faces; two fellows sitting together looked quite similar and so he imagined they might be the famed Brothers Black, the Lesser and the Greater. A broad-shouldered woman sitting and having her hair curry-combed for lice might be Urdael of the two swords.

They headed for the largest of the tents, Courian’s command quarters, Gregar assumed, and passed its pickets. Within, a large central bonfire blazed while tables all around held more of the Guard. Everyone’s attention, however, was upon two figures close to the bonfire, a man and a woman, who appeared to be engaged in some sort of slow, ritualized duel. Each held a stave, and they circled one another in an awkward-looking upright and painfully slow gait. The reason for this soon became apparent as Gregar made out that each held an apple balanced atop their head, and each was attempting to knock the other’s off.

Bets flew thick and fast across the tent, together with crusts of bread tossed at the duellists, all amid a huge uproar of laughter and cat-calls. Red stopped here and crossed his arms to watch.

The woman sent a great sweep at the head of her opponent which fell just short, perhaps even brushing his nose. A great cheer went up at that. Both apples wobbled, but did not fall. The fellow eased one step to his left and sent an answering sweep, but was well adrift. Experienced stick fighter that he was, Gregar instantly saw that the man was deliberately holding his grip short, and had a good hand’s breadth of reach yet.

The woman shifted forward, her boots dragging over the dry bare earth; the man appeared to yield more ground, but it was a feint, and the woman came on.

Even as Gregar saw her mistake, the man swung, knocking her apple flying in a spray of pulp. An enormous roar went up, half of triumph, half of displeasure. A great giant of a man was banging a tankard to his table and yelling, ‘Too eager, Lark! Too eager by far!’

By his great shaggy greying mane and beard and his one good eye, the other a blind white orb, Gregar knew this was Courian D’Avore, commander of the Crimson Guard. On his left sat a dark Dal Hon native, in oiled leathers, who Gregar imagined might be one of their most famous fighting mages, Cal-Brinn; while on the commander’s right sat a lean youth with a very sharp hawk-like gaze that he took to be Courian’s son K’azz, whom some named the Red Prince.

Red took the opportunity between amusements to lean towards Courian and speak to him. The Guard general cocked his head, listening, then nodded and gruffly waved Haraj forward. ‘So, you wish to join, do you?’

‘Ah, yes sir. If you please.’

Courian snorted. ‘Please me or don’t! I’m no damned spoiled noble to care either way!’ He tore at a haunch of meat and chewed, glowering. ‘You’re a mage, I understand?’

‘Yes.’

The great shaggy giant of a man looked the pale and pole-thin Haraj up and down and obviously didn’t think much of what he saw. ‘You’d better be, son. What can you do?’

‘No one can hit me,’ Haraj answered, and Gregar looked to the tent ceiling, suppressing a wince.

The mercenary general’s thick bushy brows rose and he peered about, greatly amused. ‘Now that’s quite the boast – given present company. But, ah,’ and he picked up another piece of rare meat, studied it, and popped it into his mouth, ‘we’ll be happy to give it a go.’

Now Gregar did wince.

Courian raised a paw to the fellow who’d just finished the staff fight. ‘You first, Cole.’ And he leaned back, his grin widening, to announce, ‘Fifty gold Untan crowns to land a hit on our boastful friend here!’

The wagering erupted in a roar. Cole immediately swung at Haraj only to stagger forward as the staff passed through nothing but empty air.

The tent fairly exploded with renewed betting. Half the Guard cheered Haraj on while the other half baited Cole mercilessly.

‘Have you forgotten how to fight, man!’ Courian yelled.

Lark offered, ‘Sure you’re holding the right end of that stick?’

Cole smiled tolerantly and waved to the crowd; he made a pantomime show of taking careful aim at Haraj, who wisely now retreated behind a main support pole.

This time Cole thrust straight out, and though Gregar would’ve sworn he should have hit Haraj a solid blow to the stomach, once more he stumbled forward, impacting nothing, and the skinny youth slid aside.

Most of the assembled Guard cheered Haraj now. Thrown bits of bread and gnawed bones came pelting at Cole, who lost his smile and focused on stalking Haraj round the central hearth. After three more determined swings, each striking nothing, Gregar saw the lad, K’azz, lean over to murmur to his father, and the commander, until then laughing at the guardsman’s troubles, frowned, leaned back and waved an end.

‘Good enough!’ he ordered, and Cole stood down. ‘So you’re hard to hit – that will come in handy when you’re married, lad, but you do understand that we’re a fighting company.’

Haraj nodded. ‘Oh, yes, sir. I’m also rather good at getting in and out of places … if you know what I mean.’

Courian frowned, not particularly impressed, but he did glance over to the Dal Hon at his side. ‘What say you, Cal-Brinn? Do we have a use for such things, you think?’

‘I believe that we do, sir.’

Courian scratched his unkempt beard. ‘Very well. It appears we do have a use for you after all.’

‘And possibly his friend there,’ Cal-Brinn added.

Gregar stared, quite stunned. Courian now studied him, narrowing his one good eye. ‘This one? And what about you? What is it you do? Perhaps you can make flowers bloom? Or goats dance?’

Struggling to find his voice, Gregar stammered, ‘Ah, no, sir. I’m just a fighter.’

Courian made a show of glancing round the gathering. ‘Well, thank Burn for that! Now we’re getting somewhere. For a moment there I thought I was starting up a travelling carnival.’

‘And he’s a mage,’ Cal-Brinn supplied.

Gregar shook his head. ‘No. You’re mistaken. I’m no mage.’

The mercenary commander turned his good eye first to one then the other, glowering even further. ‘Well? Which is it, dammit to Togg!’

The Dal Hon mage replied calmly, ‘I was informed I would need to look hard for it, but it is clear now.’ He addressed Gregar. ‘You didn’t even know yourself, but it is true.’

Gregar simply stared, completely uncomprehending. A talent? Really? All this time? He shot a glare to a grinning and nodding Haraj.

Courian waved such concerns aside. ‘Yes, yes. But you say you can fight?’

Coming back to himself, Gregar hurriedly nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

The general cracked his knuckles, visibly relieved. ‘Good. Then—’ He stopped as a tall guardsman at one end of the main table stood, seeming to unfold so lean was he. ‘Yes, Surat?’

‘He and I will have a bout.’

Courian’s brows crowded together. ‘Really? I hardly think it worth your effort.’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘Very well.’ The commander offered Gregar a sympathetic shrug. ‘Sorry, lad.’

His spirits falling, Gregar watched the man’s easy, fluid grace as he rounded the table and thought, So this is Surat. New champion of the Guard, having beaten the last – Oberl.

It looked as though his demonstration was going to be a rather short one.

Cole extended his staff to Gregar while Lark threw Surat hers, and, belatedly, Gregar assumed a ready stance. This close, he realized he’d seen this man before – the day they’d encountered the Guard and Haraj had made a less than inspiring impression.

Reading the recognition in his eyes, Surat nodded. ‘Yes. We’ve met before. Something about joining was mentioned. I see you are determined. I have also heard of a feat of arms by a trooper of Yellows who unhorsed three knights.’

Gregar nodded. ‘Yes, that was me.’

‘And so we must meet in challenge.’

Gregar nearly gaped. ‘I’m sorry … why?’

The tall fellow smiled, almost affectionately. ‘Because one of those horsemen was a certain Lusmarr of Habal, who on more than one occasion claimed to be my equal.’

Ah. And I bested him.

Surat eased his stave up into a formal crossbody ready stance, hands high, tip low to the right. Gregar matched it. In the next instant he was blocking a nonstop flurry of blows that drove him all the way across the open centre of the tent to the entrance. In the very last few paces he managed to circle round. He continued to back, not even glancing behind – it was only as he passed them that he saw the men and women of the Guard who’d jumped up to pull chairs and benches from his path. He struck a table and edged along it, still only barely managing to deflect or block the blur of strikes, unable to muster a counter, let alone turn to the offence.

Then it ended, suddenly, and he stood panting, staff still raised, but another now pressed hard against his neck. He lowered his, sagging.

Clapping sounded then from the main table: Courian, applauding, and the rest of the Guard joining in. ‘Well done!’ the commander shouted. ‘Well done!’

‘I lost,’ Gregar exclaimed.

Surat gave him another smile, this one wry. ‘You lasted longer than any I’ve faced all season.’ He approached the main table, stave held respectfully behind his back, vertical. He inclined his head to Courian. ‘I judge this candidate skilled – perhaps even gifted.’

The commander slapped a hand to the table. ‘Excellent!’ He turned to Cal-Brinn. ‘We have quarters for them, yes?’

Cal-Brinn nodded, smiling. ‘I believe we can pull something together.’

Gregar peered about, confused. ‘Quarters? Now?’

‘Of course,’ Courian answered, returning to his meal. ‘You’ll have no need for your old gear now. The Guard will supply all.’

‘But there’s going to be a battle …’

Courian raised a huge tankard, downed nearly all. ‘Well, I should damned well hope so! If Gris comes to Jurda’s aid there should be.’

‘Then … I’m sorry … but I can’t leave my company.’

Courian had turned to speak to another of the Guard and said, distractedly, ‘Hey? What’s that?’

Gregar took a steadying breath. ‘I have to return to my company.’

The commander pushed aside the guardswoman he’d been speaking to. ‘What’s that?’

‘I’m sorry, but—’

‘You’re refusing?’

‘I can’t leave my company before a battle.’

‘And which company is that?’

‘Yellows.’

Courian snorted and waved his dismissal. ‘Don’t worry, son. There’s no glory to be had with that sad lot.’

‘They’ve never disgraced the field,’ his son K’azz observed.

‘But what honours have they won?’ Courian demanded. ‘None!’

Surprised by how much Courian’s scorn stung, Gregar straightened, saying, ‘Nevertheless. Yes.’

Courian’s flushed face darkened even more. ‘Do you have any idea of the honour that has just been granted you?’ He waved to the entrance. ‘Every day knights and fighting men and women come petitioning, waving damned testimonials, citing stupidly tenuous family connections, you name it!’ He shook a blunt finger at Gregar. ‘And now you have the gall to say no thank you?’

K’azz raised a hand to Courian’s arm, but was angrily shaken off. ‘Who in Hood’s bony arse do you think you are?’ He turned his furious glare on Haraj now. ‘And what about you? Too good for us as well, I suppose?’

Haraj practically withered under the man’s thunderous glower. He wrung his hands together, glanced between Gregar and the mercenary commander. ‘Well,’ he managed, barely audible, ‘I think maybe I should stay with my friend – if you know what I mean …’

Courian surged to his feet, sending his chair crashing. K’azz rose as well, a hand on his father’s shoulder that he pushed away, roaring, ‘Give me that stave, Cole!’ He fought to edge past his son. ‘I’ll show these two how we treat impudent dogs in the Guard!’

‘Please, Father,’ K’azz murmured, his voice low, ‘don’t …’

‘I’ll …’ the man roared, ‘I’ll …’ Then he clenched his left arm, grimacing, and it appeared to Gregar as if K’azz was now supporting the man rather than trying to restrain him.

Surat moved to stand before Gregar, and, glancing back, shot a significant look to the entrance. Gregar reached out, grasped Haraj’s shirt by the neck, and began backing away.

‘Out of my way, damn you dogs!’ was the last bellow he heard from Courian as the heavy canvas flap closed behind them. He dragged Haraj onward by his shirt and didn’t stop until they were well clear of the encampment.

When they neared the Fourth’s bivouac Gregar cleared his throat and glanced at Fingers. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, gesturing back to the Guard camp.

‘Sorry?’

‘I mean, so much for joining. I know how much it meant to you, an’ I went and messed it up.’

Haraj waved it aside. ‘It’s all right. I have a place.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s all I wanted, really. A place – like a home.’

Gregar kicked at the ground. ‘Well, sorry just the same.’ He eyed the boy sidelong. ‘So, a mage? Really?’

‘Oh yes. For certain.’

‘Really.’ He shook his head, still disbelieving. ‘But how could that be? I mean, I’ve never … you know …’

Haraj shrugged as they walked along. ‘Just the same. It’s there. You just have to have the training to know how to bring it out.’

‘You?’

‘Sorry. I don’t know much about training. Maybe I can try, though.’

They were nearing their camp and Gregar glanced about, sighing. ‘Yeah. Well, as if we have time for that anyway.’

When they entered the barn Leah jumped to her feet, looking very surprised. ‘You’re back!’

Gregar offered a resigned shrug, ‘Yeah. It – ah, it didn’t work out.’

‘Good.’ She tossed him a spear. ‘Because I’d have lost a lot of faith in the Guard if they’d taken either of you.’