The fist comes down.
Into the third iteration, the Maiden’s Pass. She laughs as he gets it wrong again and walks right into her. One foot around the other so he sways to the side and the fist swishes past his ear. Into the fifth iteration, the Boatgirl’s Dip. She holds his hand and twirls him under her arm. He grabs Ryneal’s forearm with his defence arm and twists it until he hears the crunch of the elbow joint dislocating. Then he’s behind Ryneal, stabsword out. He ends with the eighth iteration, the Placing of the Rose. She bows and takes the pretty flower with a laugh. His hand is against his partner’s neck. Except this time his partner is not his master and his hand holds a blade which is buried in Ryneal’s flesh.
No one is laughing.
Blessed Ryneal coughs, then sinks to his knees and falls face first onto the floor. He pushes himself onto his back while one hand grasps weakly at the blade in his neck. Ryneal looks puzzled, stares at him and says, “I didn’t ask for a boy.” Blood is everywhere. It fills the air with its metallic tang.
A face appears from under the covers of the bed. She looks up. Looks at the body. Looks at him.
Wake me.
“Blue-Eyes,” he says. “It’s me. It’s Club-Foot. I’ve come to save you.”
She shakes her head.
“Who will look after my baby now?” she says. Then she sees the blood and the knife and the screaming starts.
His master is at his elbow telling him they have to leave, and all he can hear is Blue-Eyes screaming, but this time he is the one being dragged away and he is the one calling her name.
And the clouds are like knives in the sky.
This is a dream of what was.
Chapter 19
In the Tired Lands the line between villager and bandit is often drawn by the hunger of children. Conversely, the Tired Lands are a land where the small pleasures of the living—hot food on a cold day, a shared joke, the heft of a well made tool—take on a weight far beyond the understanding of the blessed in their castles and halls.
There is little I like better than the rolling gait of a mount beneath me. Nywulf led us, a yellow and purple Mennix flag flying from a stick bound to his saddle. Behind him came Aydor ap Mennix, holding his father’s bonemount, his symbol of war, the skull of a mount festooned with yellow and purple streamers which straggled in the wind as he led his group. Behind them rode Rufra and I. Tomas and his little group were riding as scouts, looking for bandits after the incoming livestock. No doubt they were giving their mounts a real workout rather than trotting along in the dust watching a thousand cows stream into Maniyadoc’s gate. The air was full of plaintive lowing and the smell was unbelievable, but it did not upset me. Neither did it matter that I had been given the worst of the bows or that Aydor’s cronies took every opportunity they got to snipe and spit at me. None of it mattered because I was riding Xus and so I was happy.
“… so,” said Rufra, “after you told me about the paddles I checked Balance over and, sure enough, bruising on his haunches. I would have missed it had your girlfriend not warned you. You must thank Drusl—” he left a gap in his sentence before leaning in nearer and leering “—whichever way you think best.” I attempted to swat him with my whip but he swayed out of reach and, with a laugh, spurred his mount in a circle. “Too slow,” he said. “He won’t be doing it again now, though I do wish I’d not punched Leiss so hard. I’ve hurt my knuckles.” He flexed his gloved hands and then immediately brightened up. “Do you think Nywulf would let us run? I will take the first chance I get to chase something down. Imby needs a run.” He patted his mount on the neck.
He rode Imbalance, a huge black warmount. His other, Balance, was white. Imbalance had got its name as its left antler had only five points where the right had seven. Usually such a thing was a sign of poor quality in a bloodline, but Imbalance was a fine beast, night-black, strongly muscled and with a calm temperament. That and Rufra’s obvious love for the beast made me wonder if it was the animal he’d learned to ride on.
“He’s a beautiful beast,” I said, spitting dust.
“Aye, Bal is a better warmount though—fiercer, more like your Xus.”
Xus tossed his head, as if he enjoyed being thought of as fierce, and bared his tusks at a passing rider flying a message flag. A moment later Nywulf brought us to a stop. Rufra manoeuvred his animal around Aydor’s group of friends and I followed. As we approached, Nywulf raised his voice.
“… and I cannot leave them,” he shouted.
“Squiremaster,” the messenger replied, “I can only give you my message. You are requested to report back to Maniyadoc by Neander, and we have received reports of raiders heading for the village of Calfey.”
“And I say I cannot leave the squires alone.”
“I am sorry, Squiremaster, but Neander was insistent.”
Nywulf pulled on the reins of his mount to face us. “Aydor, this means I must leave you in charge. I will be as quick as I can, and it is likely that showing your faces at Calfey will be enough to scare off the raiders. If not, then mock charges and bows should do it.” He brought his mount up close to Aydor. “You are not to engage with blades and no one is to ride alone, do you understand?” They stared at each other until Aydor chose to squint up into the sky. Nywulf nodded to the rider closest to Aydor. “Celot, stay close to the heir. Do your job.” If Celot was excited by the idea of action I could not tell; his face wore the same half-smile that it always wore. Nywulf could have been asking him to pick apples for all the emotion he showed. “Girton, talk with me a moment,” said Nywulf, and where Celot’s face had barely changed mine must have fallen as Aydor gave me a superior smirk, as if to say, “Stay back, mage-bent, while real warriors do the work.”