The Seer And The Sword (4 page)

‘Leave at once.’ His tone left no room to argue.

She took Ancilla’s hand. They followed a track to the meadow, where wild flowers grew. There the girl threw herself on the ground among fragrant blossoms.

‘I want to learn to shoot!’ she burst out.

Ancilla carefully lowered herself to the grass.

‘My little Torina. There will always be warriors. Be glad you don’t have to be one of them.’

Torina sniffed. ‘How will I keep my kingdom if I don’t know how to fight?’

Ancilla sighed. ‘You know, my dear, that I’m very old?’

‘I know.’

‘For all my years, what have I learned? That there will always be enough killers. Leave the killing to them. Wherever you find something good, help it grow.’

Torina caressed a flower with her finger. She brought her face near the beautiful, fragile thing.

‘I wish I could take these flowers home and help them grow. But they don’t need me.’

Her grandmother smiled. ‘When the seeds fall in a few weeks, we’ll gather some. You can have a flower garden.’

‘Gramere, if I were a boy, they would train me to keep my kingdom. They must believe someone else will rule.’

‘Yes. The man you marry.’

Torina bent her eyes on the flowers, thinking of her mother. Dreea was always quietly occupied and seldom tried to influence what happened. In her mind, Torina tried on such a life. She saw herself in her mother’s place, weaving patiently, watching and waiting for a king.

She knew she could never live that way.

The grand seltec competition was scheduled. Several days of archery, knife-throwing and matched combat, attended by crowds of Archeldans who would feast, relax, and cheer their favourites.

Landen wrestled with the knowledge that his public humiliation would be great. He could hardly beat even the youngest boys in combat. All his early training went against it: he’d been taught to be compassionate and thoughtful, to give everyone a chance. And though he was determined to break his old habits, the maxim of his childhood,
Do no one harm
, echoed in his mind when he stood opposite an opponent.

He was utterly ignorant of how to use a staff. Fencing was something he’d learned as an art, using
delicate foils. In Archeld, the boys fought all-out battles with heavy wooden swords. Landen had never been taught how to throw a dagger. Though naturally fleet of foot, the toll of his captivity had slowed him. He could handle a horse as well as anyone, yet Archeldan customs in horsemanship confused him.

One late afternoon during the time the boys were excused for rest or chores, Landen sought out Emid. He walked the now familiar paths from barracks to practice field, taking pleasure in the cool shade of dancing greenery.

As he moved into the glare of the practice field, he saw Emid sitting alone, feathering arrows. The trainer’s deep frown made him appear forbidding. Emid was gruff at the best of times. His shouts could pierce some hollow core in every boy. But Emid was fair. There were even moments when Landen believed this fierce man, who focused on training the fearsome fighting force of Archeld, actually liked him.

Landen consciously slowed his breathing as he approached Emid, reminding himself what his father had taught him:
The moment is vast
.

‘What is it?’ Emid asked, expertly testing a feather.

‘I’ve come to ask if I can be excused from the seltec.’

Emid’s frown intensified. ‘Why?’

‘I never learned to fight.’

Emid glared. ‘Every man should learn to fight.’

‘True,’ Landen agreed. ‘I want to learn, and I will. But, as you see, I wasn’t taught before: nothing but archery and fencing and how to ride. It was
never serious, never in order to overcome someone.’

The trainer sighed, his face softening. ‘Young man, many boys have come to me over the years to ask exclusion. I’ve never granted it.’ He paused, waiting for a reply. Landen only looked at him. ‘I suggest you find someone willing to help teach you. You can have use of practice items at any time. But you
must
attend the seltec.’

Landen’s father and tutors had agreed that the boy was fortunate because his measures of men were so accurate. He knew people, without studying them. One glance at the trainer’s face told him it was useless to argue. This quality of knowing saved him time, and he always listened to it.

Someone willing
. Landen thought of the other boys. All were too young, too hostile, or too indifferent.

‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

As he neared the bunkhouse, Landen saw a familiar knot of boys. His stomach clenched. Beron and his young followers; about five who tagged along. Landen could have turned then, skirted the woods and gone in by the front way, but they had seen him. He did his best to keep his pace even, face expressionless.

They moved in.

‘So, the Belly Lander.’ It was Beron’s name for him, deriving from the Archeldan word for weakling, and a sarcastic play on his homeland. Landen kept walking.

They stepped in front of and beside him.

‘What were you talking to Emid about, Belly?’ Beron’s face thrust close. The older boy’s eyebrows were
his trademark, heavy and thick, from temple to temple.

Beron’s fist jabbed Landen in the chest. ‘Feel that, Belly?’

Landen knew if he hit back, Beron would maul him again. If he did nothing, he’d be punched and humiliated and allowed to go.

‘Go on, Belly, tell me what you were saying. Did you want to get out of the seltec?’ Beron jabbed again. ‘Eh?’

Landen looked around. There was a good tree with a wide trunk where he might put his back . . .

‘I told him the rules don’t do justice to your fighting style.’

Beron’s eyes narrowed. ‘What?’

‘If Emid wanted to know what a warrior you are, he should hold a seltec where you could be matched with boys younger and weaker than you.’

Landen wondered why he was talking at all. With Beron, it was best to say nothing. He was so tired of being bullied, but Beron could do real damage with his fists.

Out of the corner of his eye, Landen caught the change on some of the younger boys’ faces. Maybe now they’d stop pretending Beron was mighty and brave.

Beron’s heavy fist sent Landen to his knees. No time to get to the tree. Blows dropped on his head like rocks. Landen curled over, arms protecting his head.

Eric Aldon sauntered through the trees towards the barracks, idly chopping branches with his fist as he went. He didn’t feel easy in his mind. Up until a few weeks ago, he’d known exactly what life was. It was always the
same: getting up early, scrambling into his clothes, eating breakfast with the other boys in the noisy hall lined with benches – spending the day practising arts of war, coaching youngsters, playing games; preparing for the day when he took his place in the fighting force of Archeld. That day was less than a year away for him. He was seventeen: tall and strong and a credit to his trainers.

During his years in the barracks, there had been rivalries: mini-wars between ever-changing factions of boys. Alliances formed, were broken, formed again. Friends became friendly enemies; enemies turned into wary friends. Some boys he genuinely liked; he and Phillt were almost always on the same side when they could be; and young Zeon tagged them whenever they let him. There were those he disliked – Beron chief among them. But Emid had drummed into all the boys that they were linked indivisibly by the most important of bonds: they served Archeld; King Kareed, Queen Dreea and Princess Torina. On the battlefield, they would be brother soldiers, loyal to each other, with animosities forgotten.

Emid was renowned throughout the kingdoms for the fighters he and his trainers produced. It was an honour to gain a place under his guidance. New boys were always being added to the mix: Archeldan boys whose families had petitioned or finagled or otherwise earned their place in the barracks near Archeld’s castle, where the best warriors were drilled.

Now, a different sort of newcomer had been thrown into their midst: a stranger, the son of a conquered pacifist. And Eric was uneasy.

He didn’t know what to think as he watched Landen subjected to shameless bullying by Beron and his followers. Landen was tormented every day, from the time he woke, till the time he slept. His food was stolen, pieces of his clothing filched and his searches for missing shoes or shirts followed by derisive laughter. His name and homeland were held up to constant abuse; his lack of fighting skills endlessly mocked.

At first it had been a matter of indifference to Eric. Bellandra had been stupid: Landen was lucky to be alive, and abominably lucky to be under Kareed’s protection, getting training many eager applicants were denied. None of the boys understood what such a weakling was doing among them, and no one much cared. The rumours about Bellandra, that it was a whole country of milksops, must have been true. Otherwise, why wouldn’t the boy – who was supposed to become its future king – know how to fight better?

So Eric thought for a while, and his friends shared his outlook. They dismissed the exile as a foolish coward, son of a dead foolish coward. His problems were no one’s business but his own.

But lately, Eric was troubled. He’d seen instances of bullying that sank beneath the common norm. Beron, in particular, seemed to outright enjoy giving Landen bad bruises, then ridiculing him for them. In Eric’s mind, there were too many younger boys influenced by Beron. He began to watch Landen, and reluctantly discovered that this stranger was neither weak nor foolish. In fact, Landen seemed to be learning very quickly; Eric had seen him successfully use a move on a
larger boy that usually took a long time to master. During Emid’s demonstrations, Landen watched avidly, even when others seemed bored or tired. And he wasn’t clumsy: his archery, the one martial art he’d learned in Bellandra, far surpassed other boys of his age. He could handle a horse, Eric admitted, better than Eric could himself. Though still young, and therefore not big, especially compared to Beron’s bulk, Landen was strong and would be tall when he was full-grown.

Eric was sure Landen could have put an end to some of the annoyances done to him by smaller boys. All it would take were a few moves, moves that Landen knew. The more Eric watched, the more the forbearance Landen showed his young tormentors began to seem noble instead of cowardly.

Once he saw Landen in a different light, Eric couldn’t go back to dismissing the former prince as a nobody. He began to consider what fortitude Landen showed, staying among them and enduring without complaint the taunts and beatings that had become his lot.

For he could have escaped. The boys weren’t guarded. It was understood that to be a member of this barracks was a privilege. Anyone half-witted enough to leave simply lost his place. So yes, Landen could run away. But he didn’t.

Eric had broached the subject with Phillt – maybe Landen wasn’t so bad; someone should teach Beron a lesson.

Phillt had shrugged, grinning. ‘You’re the only one who can beat Beron, Eric. It ain’t worth the bruises to me.’

Now Eric thumped the trunk of a tree, imagining he had Beron’s broad nose under his fist. Yes, Beron had gone too far. He was turning the barracks into a place Eric was ashamed of. It was time someone stood up to him.

Scornful voices were raised, not far off. Eric quickened his pace.

As he tried to make himself smaller, huddling in a ball, Landen was afraid. He’d provoked Beron; what would the larger boy do now? Not only was Beron strong, he was well trained and intent on inflicting damage. Who would really care if Landen were maimed or killed? He had no friends here. No one thought well of him, except possibly Princess Torina, and he never saw her.

There was a shout, and running footsteps. The boys were scattering.

Gasping with the effort not to sob, Landen tried to get up. Eric squatted beside him.

‘Stop trying to get up. It will pass more quickly,’ Eric said.

Landen wondered how Eric would know that. Did all Archeldan boys go through beatings? He obeyed his rescuer, and sat, reminding himself that the moment was vast.

Eric’s chiselled, even features were set in angry lines. He was panting. ‘Sorry I did nothing sooner,’ he said. Quiet, dark eyes looked at Landen with cautious friendship.

Landen didn’t know anything to say, so he concentrated on breathing.

‘So,’ Eric said. ‘You want to learn to fight?’

Wearily, Landen nodded.

‘Good. I’ll teach you. You can help me improve in archery.’

For the first time since Bellandra fell, Landen smiled.

The next morning when Landen woke to the gong and reached for his clothes, nothing was missing from his sparse wardrobe. He didn’t have to waste time looking for a ‘lost’ shirt or shoe. He walked to the eating hall in peace.

Beron strutted up and made a show of sitting next to Landen.

‘Not hungry, are you, Belly?’ Beron slid Landen’s bowl in front of himself.

Landen shrugged, prepared to forgo the meal. Then Eric took the seat across from him. Eric’s arm flashed out from the opposite bench. The bowl reappeared in its original place.

‘Keep out of this,’ Beron growled.

‘No. You keep out. And stay out.’ Eric’s contemptuous words rang through the room.

Beron pushed his own food at Eric. Eric’s quick hand blocked the bowl. ‘Thank you,’ he said calmly. ‘As you haven’t taken a bite, this food is fit to eat.’ He put his spoon in Beron’s portion.

Beron’s big hands lifted the edge of the long table as he sprang to his feet. The table tipped and all the bowls slid towards the floor: Eric’s strong forearms crashed down, righting the bowls before they fell. Beron
flung himself across the table. Yells erupted all round, as Eric grabbed Beron’s hair, jerking his head back, aiming a blow at his stomach. Baron reflexively curled his torso. Eric slammed a fist down on his head.

Boys gathered into an immediate circle, egging on the contenders with cheers and jibes. Landen got out of the way, surprised at how many voiced support for Eric.

The two fighters went at each other, breaking all the rules of hand combat: going for the eyes, using teeth, kicking below the belt. Afraid they’d kill one another, Landen tried to elbow his way closer, ready to defend his friend.