Book Two of the Travelers (12 page)

T
here was nothing in the world that Alder had wanted more than to become a full-fledged Bedoowan knight. A Bedoowan knight was strong. A Bedoowan knight was just. A Bedoowan knight was brave. A Bedoowan knight was a hero to all people, respected by all.

And now Alder was a knight. In fact, he was generally known as the finest of all knights. When Alder's name was spoken, it summoned up everything that was virtuous in a Bedoowan knight.

On this particular day he was riding through the dark, forbidding forest of Arlberg on his powerful black warhorse. As he rode, he heard a sudden scream of anguish pierce the gloom. He wheeled the horse around and spurred it toward the cry.

In seconds he had reached the source of the sound. A beautiful young villager, obviously caught in the middle of doing her washing, was surrounded by highwaymen—the unscrupulous robbers who lived deep in the forest, preying on travelers.

“Please!” she cried. “Someone help me!”

“Unhand her, you cowards!” Alder shouted. The highwaymen whirled fearfully.

Alder drew his sword, brandishing it high, as his horse reared up in the middle of the stream. Then he charged. Seeing him, the highwaymen scattered like leaves in the wind.

All of them, that is, except for their leader—a tall, muscular man with a scar running down his face. He grabbed the beautiful young villager, putting a thin, rusted blade to her neck. “Come and get me, knight,” the man shouted.

Alder swung his sword and—

“Alder!”

Alder swung his sword and galloped toward—

“Alder!”

Alder swung his sword and galloped toward the—toward—galloped toward the—

“Hey, Alder! Snap out of the daydream, you nitwit!” Master Horto, the head of the Imperial Training Academy, was yelling at Alder. As usual. “I'm not telling you again! Get me some water. And while you're at it, a couple of those pastries. The ones with the jelly inside.”

It took a moment for Alder's mind to adjust. He was standing in the rear of the academy's training hall, while Master Horto led the sword class. The students—knights in training—were all lined up and repeating their sword drills. All except Alder.

Alder wasn't permitted to train with the others. He had other duties.

Alder ran into the other room, came back with some
water and the tray of pastries. Master Horto was a huge man—even taller than Alder, and weighing about as much as two ordinary men.

“Here you are, Master.” Alder bowed and held out the water and the tray of pastries.

Horto grabbed one of the pastries, stuffed the entire thing in his mouth. As he chewed, a disgusted expression ran across his face. He spit the entire pastry on the training floor. “That one's old! Did you just give me
yesterday's
pastries?”

“Well, I just—”

Master Horto cuffed him across the head so hard his ears rang. “Clean that up.” He pointed at the floor.

The other trainees tittered and pointed as Alder knelt and began cleaning the floor with a rag. Alder sighed and smiled, trying to pretend it didn't bother him to be laughed at. But it did bother him. It always did. He had been the butt of jokes every single day since he joined the academy three years ago.

Joined? Well, officially he was a trainee. But he never trained with the other students. Master Horto had him so busy cleaning and fetching and doing other menial jobs around the school that he never had time to train.

“As soon as you get your chores done, you can train,” Master Horto would always say.

Only…the chores never got done. No matter how hard Alder worked. Now he was sixteen years old, and he still knew next to nothing about fighting.

Alder's problem was that he was an orphan. He had no parents, no friends, no supporters, no patrons, no money. And since he couldn't pay fees to the academy, Master
Horto required him to work. And work. And work.

Most of the boys at the academy would have their knighthoods within a year. But Alder? Knighthood seemed very far away. In fact, if he didn't get on with his training soon, he was going to be in serious trouble.

There were actually a few Bedoowans who never became knights. Usually they were people who had physical or mental problems that kept them from completing their training. Poor, pathetic wretches who shambled around the castle with long faces, avoiding people's eyes, constantly abused by everyone. They were called every horrible name in the book—“cripples,” “weaklings,” “half-wits.” They were laughed at and despised even by the Novans, the people who worked as servants to the Bedoowans, and by the Milago, the people who worked the glaze mines in the village below the castle.

The thought that Alder might end up wandering around the castle without any respect, without any status at all—the very thought of it made him sick to his stomach. But what could he do? If Master Horto wouldn't let him train…

The thing was, if you didn't make your knighthood by age eighteen, you were out of the running. Alder only had two years. And two years was a very short time to learn all the skills a knight was supposed to know.

You had to be a decent horseman, a passable archer, proficient with pike and glaive and short spear. And of course, most of all, you had to be an excellent swordsman. If you couldn't show real skill with a sword, you were sunk.

Alder practiced secretly in his tiny room, memorizing
moves from the academy curriculum and then practicing them until late into the night. But that wasn't the same as practicing at school.

“Class dismissed,” Horto shouted.

The trainee knights, laughing and joking, began packing up their equipment.

Alder started packing up his equipment too. He was never allowed to use it, but he brought it anyway. One of these days he was going to be allowed to train. And when that day came, he'd be ready.

“Alder!” Master Horto stood over Alder, his fists on his hips. “Where do you think
you're
going?”

“Sir, uh, Master, I have guard duty tonight at the north gate of the castle, so, uh, I was thinking—” Alder ducked his head respectfully.

Master Horto glared at him through narrowed eyes. “You were
thinking
were you? Thinking?”

“Well, Master, I—”

“Don't
think
. Do what you're told. Get that floor cleaned up. Then get to your post!”

I
t was well past supper by the time Alder arrived at his post. He was late because Horto had kept him busy with chores. He'd had no time to eat. Eman and Neman, two boys Alder knew from the academy, were standing at the gate in their armor.

“You're late, you big flabby goof!” Eman said. Eman and Neman took every chance they got to torture Alder. They were actually younger than he was. But they had been knighted just months ago, and so they outranked him.

“We're gonna take a break,” Neman said. “Don't move a muscle!”

“But…” Alder cleared his throat. “We're supposed to have no fewer than three guards at the gate at any time. Our orders are—”

“Who's the senior guard here, huh?” Eman said.

“Uh…”

“Yeah. Thought so,” Neman said. “I don't know if you noticed, Alder, but nobody comes to this gate at night. So
shut your piehole and do what you're told.” He and Eman turned and wandered into the guardhouse, snickering.

“Okay, okay.”

“
Excuse
me, trainee?” Neman said, eyes wide.

“I mean, uh—yes, sir.”

“That's better.” Neman whirled and walked away.

It galled Alder to call the two younger boys “sir.” But what could he do about it? Rules were rules. So Alder stood there like a lump, getting colder and colder and colder. And hungrier and hungrier and hungrier.

After a while the tantalizing smell of roast mutton and fresh bread began wafting out of the guardhouse. His stomach rumbled. Finally he couldn't stand it anymore. He looked around to make sure nobody was approaching the gate, then ran quickly to the guardhouse.

He found Eman and Neman eating. There was a big fire in the fireplace.

“What are you doing?” Eman said, smacking his lips. “Go back to your post!”

“Don't I get to eat sometime?” Alder said.

Neman snorted.

“Anyway…I thought you guys were coming right back. What if somebody comes?”

Eman looked up, a piece of meat sticking out of his mouth, gravy on his chin. “Show 'em who's boss,” he said. Then he winked slyly at Neman.

Eman turned his back and grabbed a pigeon wing from the pile of hot food. Alder's stomach rumbled. “Could I just—”

“Are you still here?” Neman said. “Get back to your post. And don't bother us again!”

Alder went back out and stood there with his pike, shifting from foot to foot. The moon went behind a cloud. It was starting to get kind of spooky.

Hours passed. Eman and Neman were nowhere to be seen. He knew the captain of the guards would make a tour around midnight. Eman and Neman would kill him if they got caught away from their post. They'd be sure to make it out to be his fault somehow.

Finally he decided he'd better check on them. He ran back to the guardhouse. Eman and Neman were snoozing away on the floor by the fire. Every scrap of food was gone. Alder was in a bind. They'd get mad if he woke them. The captain of the guard probably wouldn't be there for another half hour. Better to let them sleep. They might wake up on their own.

Alder walked quickly back to the gate. He was surprised to see a small man approaching the castle from out of the darkness.

The man was quite old and shabbily dressed, and he leaned on a gnarled cane. His body was concealed by a threadbare cloak. His face was very thin, as though every bit of fat had been chiseled from his skull. A poor farmer, Alder guessed. Though it was certainly unusual for farmers to approach the castle at this time of night. And market day wasn't until Friday.

“Why weren't you at your post?” the old man snapped, pointing his gnarled cane at Alder's chest.

“Excuse me?” Alder said.

The old man looked around irritably. In the light of the flickering torch, the old man's eyes glittered strangely. “There should be at least four of you guarding the gate.”

Alder decided he'd better take control of the situation. This old farmer didn't seem to understand the correct tone for speaking to a Bedoowan knight. Even if Alder wasn't a full-fledged knight, he was a guard at King Karel's castle. Respect was due. “Um…state your business, old man.”

“My business is
my
business,” the old man said. There was something in his eyes, an intensity, that seemed unlike a farmer. Alder wondered if maybe the old man were crazy.

“Right…well…I need you to state your business. Otherwise I can't admit you.”

“Oh, really?” the old man said.

“Eman!” Alder called. He had a feeling this old man was going to cause trouble. Alder didn't know quite what he should do. “Neman!”

“That's it,” the old man said. “Call for reinforcements.”

“I'm just a trainee,” Alder said apologetically. Then he felt foolish. He was letting this old farmer get under his skin.

“A
trainee?
At
your
age?” The old man sounded appalled. “I'd be ashamed to be a trainee at your age.”

Alder blushed. He
was
ashamed to be a trainee. He felt like saying he was a victim of circumstance, giving him the I'm-just-a-poor-orphan speech that he used to justify all his shortcomings. But he figured the old farmer would just make fun of him even more.

Eman and Neman showed up out of breath, buckling on their armor. “What!” Eman demanded. “What's going on?”

“Sorry to bother you. But this old man wants admittance,” Alder said.

Eman looked the ragged old man up and down. “You woke us up for
this
, Alder?” he said.

Neman poked at the old man with his pike. “What do you mean by disturbing Bedoowan knights at this time of night?”

The old man placed one finger on the pike, redirecting it just enough to avoid getting poked in the ribs with its sharp point. “You're a very rude young man,” the old man said. “Has anybody ever told you that?”

Eman and Neman looked at each other. “Did he just say what I think he did?” Neman said.

“I believe he did, Neman,” Eman said.

Eman's eyes narrowed as he turned back to the old man. “Who do you think you are?”

“Deserting your post?” the old man said. “Leaving the safety and security of the castle in the hands of a chubby, over-aged trainee? I'm not at all impressed with you two.”

Eman and Neman had had enough. Neman lifted his pike and brought it down hard, obviously intending to whack the old man in the head with its wooden shaft.

But the old man deftly parried the blow with his goofy-looking cane, and then whacked Neman in the shin with it.

“Ow!” Neman said, dropping his pike and clutching at his leg. “Owwwwww! I think you broke my leg.”

“All right, that's
it
!” Eman said. He jabbed his pike at the old man.

But by the time the pike reached the old man, he was
somewhere else. The sharp spear point passed by him. Eman grunted angrily. Three times he jabbed at the old man, each time, missing by a hair.

“Come on, Alder!” Eman shouted finally. “Help me out!”

Alder leaned his pike against the wall and drew his sword. “Ah!” the old man said. “Now someone's showing some common sense. Pikes are worthless for individual combat. They're intended for engaging mounted cavalry. Didn't anyone ever teach you that? If you want to fight a man on foot, use a sword!”

“What do you know about fighting, you stupid old farmer?” Eman said. But as he spoke, he hurled his pike down and drew his sword.

Alder held back and let Eman press the attack. He had no confidence that he'd be of much use in a sword fight anyway. After all, he hadn't had even a shred of training, had he?

The old man parried nimbly as the younger, larger man attacked him. Chunks of wood flew out of his stick as Eman whaled away at him. But the old man didn't look the slightest bit afraid. In fact, his face was as impassive as a mask. Finally Eman chopped his stick in half. The old man stood with the stump in his hand.

“Seems I have you at a disadvantage, old man,” Eman said, pointing his blade toward the old man's throat.

“In what sense?” the old man said. Then he threw back his cloak. Visible for the first time, were the old man's clothes. He was dressed like a Bedoowan, not a farmer. And hanging from his wide leather belt was a sword. The handle was not ornate, but it had the look of
a well-used tool—polished to a soft gleam, as though by regular practice.

“Who are you?” Eman said nervously.

“You know, you might have been wise to ask that earlier,” the old man said. Then he began to attack Eman. Not with the sword, though—to Alder's amazement—but with the hacked off piece of wood in his hand. And though Eman defended himself, he seemed powerless to keep the old man from driving him backward.

“Help me!” Eman shouted. “Neman, do something! Sound the alarm!”

But Neman was still rolling on the ground, moaning and holding his leg.

With that the old man tripped Eman, stripping his sword with one hand and pressing the sharp point of the wooden stick to Eman's throat with the other. Eman froze. The old man turned to Alder. “So, young trainee, are you going to admit me to the castle? Or are you going to fight me?”

“Uh…”

“Wrong answer, dear boy!” The old man hurled Eman's sword at Alder. It passed between his legs, piercing his cloak and sinking its point deep into the door behind him, pinning him to the wall.

The old man sighed and shook his head disgustedly. “Pathetic,” he said. “Pathetic, miserable, appalling, nauseating performance.”

Then he walked past them.

“If you wish to arrest me,” he called over his shoulder, “you may find me at the Seven Arms Inn. Tell them to ask the innkeeper for Wencil of Peldar.”

“I guess I better go get the captain of the guards, huh?” Alder said weakly after the old man had disappeared.

Eman leaped to his feet, ran over to Alder, and whacked him in the head. “If you even
think
of telling anybody about what just happened here, I'll skin you alive.”

“All right, yes.”

“Yes,
what
?”

“Yes,
sir
.”

Eman looked at Neman and shook his head sadly, as if to say,
Will he never learn?