The Ruins of Gorlan

Chapter 13

"So, you saw it. What did you think?" Sir Rodney asked.

Karel reached across and poured himself another tankard from the jug of beer that was on the table between them. Rodney's quarters were simple enough – even Spartan when it was remembered that he was head of the Battleschool. Battlemasters in other fiefs took advantage of the position to surround themselves with the trappings of luxury, but that wasn't Rodney's style. His room was simply furnished, with a pinewood table for a desk and six straight-backed pine chairs around it.

There was a fireplace in the corner, of course. Rodney might have preferred to live in a simple style, but that didn't mean he enjoyed discomfort, and winters in Castle Redmont were cold. Right now it was late summer and the thick stone walls of the castle buildings served to keep the interiors cool. When the cold weather came, those same thick walls would retain the heat of the fire. On one wall, a large bay window looked out over the Battleschool's drill field. Facing the window, on the opposite wall, was a doorway, screened by a thick curtain, leading to Rodney's sleeping quarters-a simple soldier's bed and more wooden furniture. It had been a little more ornate when his wife Antoinette was still alive, but she had died some years previously and the rooms were now unmistakably masculine in character, without any item in them that wasn't functional and with an absolute minimum of decoration.

"I saw it," Karel agreed. "Not sure that I believed it, but I saw it."

"You saw it only once," said Rodney. "He was doing it constantly throughout the session – and I'm convinced that he was doing it unconsciously."

"As fast as the one I saw?" Karel asked. Rodney nodded emphatically.

"If anything, faster. He was adding an extra stroke to the routines but staying in time with the call." He hesitated, then finally said what they were both thinking. "The boy is a natural." Karel inclined his head thoughtfully. Based on what he'd seen, he wasn't prepared to dispute the fact. And the Battlemaster had been watching the boy for some time during the session, he knew. But naturals were few and far between. They were those unique people for whom the skill of swordplay moved into an entirely different dimension. It became not so much a skill as an instinct to them,

They were the ones who became the champions. The sword masters. Experienced warriors like Sir Rodney and Sir Karel were expert swordsmen, but naturals took the skill to a higher plane. It was as if for them, the sword in their hand became a true extension not just of their bodies, but of their personalities as well. The sword seemed to act in instant communion and harmony with the natural's mind, acting even faster than conscious thought. Naturals were possessed of unique skills in timing and balance and rhythm.

As such, they presented a heavy responsibility to those who were entrusted with their training. For those natural skills and abilities had to be carefully nurtured and developed in a long-term training program to allow the warrior, already highly proficient as a matter of course, to develop his true potential for genius.

"You're sure?" Karel said eventually and Rodney nodded again, his gaze out the window. In his mind he was seeing the boy training, seeing those extra flickers of lightning-fast movement.

"I'm sure," he said simply. "We'll have to let Wallace know that he'll have another pupil next semester."

Wallace was the sword master at the Redmont Battleschool. He was the one who had the responsibility for adding the final polish to the basic skills that Karel and the others taught. In the event of an outstanding trainee-as Horace obviously was-he would give them private instruction in advanced techniques. Karel curled his bottom lip thoughtfully as he thought about the time frame Rodney had suggested.

"Not until then?" he said. The next semester was almost three months away. "Why not get him started straightaway? From what I saw, he's already mastered the basic stuff." But Rodney shook his head.

"We haven't really assessed his personality yet," he said. "He seems a nice enough lad, but you never know. If he turns out to be a misfit of some kind, I don't want to give him the sort of advanced instruction that Wallace can provide."

Once he thought of it, Karel agreed with the Battlemaster. After all, if it should turn out that Horace had to be disqualified from Battleschool because of some other failing, it might be embarrassing, not to mention dangerous, if he were already on the road to being a highly trained swordsman. Disqualified trainees often reacted with resentment.

"And another thing," Rodney added. "Let's keep this to ourselves – and tell Morton the same. I don't want the boy hearing any word of this yet. It might make him cocky and that could be dangerous for him."

"That's true enough," Karel agreed. He finished the last of his beer in two quick drafts, set his tankard down on the table and stood. "Well, I'd better be getting along. I've got reports to finish."

"Who hasn't?" the Battlemaster said with some feeling, and the two old friends exchanged rueful grins. "I never knew there was so much paper involved in running a Battleschool." Karel snorted in derision.

"Sometimes I think we should forget the weapons training and just throw all the paper at the enemy – bury them in it." He gave an informal salute just touching one finger to his forehead-that was in keeping with his seniority. Then he turned and headed for the door. He paused as Rodney added one last point to their discussion.

"Keep an eye on the boy, of course," he said. "But don't let him become aware of it."

"Of course," Karel replied. "We don't want him to start thinking there's something special about him."

At that moment, there was no chance that Horace would think there was anything special about him – at least, not in any positive sense. What he did feel was that there was something about him that attracted trouble.

Word had gone around about the strange scene at the training ground. His classmates, not understanding what had happened, all assumed that Horace had somehow annoyed the Battlemaster and now waited for the inevitable retribution. They knew that the rule during the first semester was that, when one member of a class made a mistake, the entire class paid for it. As a result, the atmosphere in their dormitory had been strained, to say the least. Horace had finally made his way out of the room, intending to head for the river to escape the condemnation and blame he could feel from the others. Unfortunately, when he did so, he walked straight into the waiting arms of Alda, Bryn and Jerome.

The three older boys had heard a garbled version of the scene at the practice yard. They assumed that Horace had been criticized for his sword work and decided to make him suffer for it.

However, they knew that their attentions would not necessarily meet with the approval of the Battleschool staff. Horace, as a newcomer, had no way of knowing that this sort of systematic bullying was totally disapproved of by Sir Rodney and the other instructors. Horace simply assumed that was the way things were supposed to be and, not knowing any better, went along with it, allowing himself to be bullied and insulted.

It was for this reason that the three second-year cadets marched Horace to the riverside, where he had been heading anyway, and away from the sight of instructors. Here, they made him wade thigh-deep into the river, then stand to attention.

"Baby can't use his sword properly," said Alda.

Bryn took up the refrain. "Baby made the Battlemaster angry. Baby doesn't belong in Battleschool. Babies shouldn't be given swords to play with."

"Baby should throw stones instead," Jerome concluded the sarcastic litany. "Pick up a stone, Baby." Horace hesitated, then glanced around, The riverbed was full of stones and he bent to get one. As he did so, his sleeve and the upper part of his jacket became soaked.

"Not a small stone, Baby," Alda said, smiling evilly at him. "You're a big baby, so you need a big stone."

"A great big stone," Bryn added, indicating with his hands that he wanted Horace to pick up a large rock. Horace looked around him and saw several larger pieces in the crystal-clear water. He bent and retrieved one of them. In doing so, he made a mistake. The rock he chose was easy to lift under the water, but as he brought it above the surface, he grunted with the weight of it.

"Let's see it, Baby," Jerome said. "Hold it up." Horace braced himself-the swiftly running current of the river made it difficult to keep his balance and hold the heavy rock at the same time-then he lifted it to chest height so his tormentors could see it.

"Right up, Baby," Alda commanded. "Right over your head." Painfully, Horace obeyed. The rock was feeling heavier by the second, but he held it high above his head and the three boys were satisfied.

"That's good, Baby," Jerome said, and Horace, with a relieved sigh, began to let the rock down again.

"What are you doing?" demanded Jerome angrily. "I said that's good. So that's where I want the rock to stay."

Horace struggled and lifted the rock above his head once more, holding it at arm's length. Alda, Bryn and Jerome nodded their approval.

"Now you can stay there," Alda told him, "while you count to five hundred. Then you can go back to the dormitory."

"Start counting," Bryn ordered him, grinning at the idea.

"One, two, three…" began Horace, but they all shouted at him almost immediately.

"Not so fast, Baby! Nice and slowly. Start again."

"One… two… three…" Horace counted, and they nodded their approval.

"That's better. Now a nice slow count to five hundred and you can go." Alda told him.

"Don't try to fudge it, because we'll know," threatened Jerome. "And you'll be back here counting to one thousand."

Laughing among themselves, the three students headed back to their quarters. Horace remained in midstream, arms trembling with the weight of the rock, tears of frustration and humiliation filling his eyes. Once, he lost his balance and fell full length in the water. After that, his heavy, sodden clothing made it all the harder to hold the rock above his head, but he kept at it.

He couldn't be sure that they weren't concealed somewhere, watching him, and if they were, they'd make him pay for disobeying their instructions.

If this was the way of things, then so be it, he thought. But he promised himself that, first chance he got, he was going to make somebody pay for the humiliation he was undergoing.

Much later, clothes soaked, arms aching and a deep feeling of resentment burning in his heart, he crept back to his quarters.

He was too late for the evening meal, but he didn't care. He was too miserable to eat.