“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!”
TWO
It 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 sens
e. 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?
THREE
Three days later Alder was trudging up the High Street toward the academy when he noticed a small sign hanging over the window of a building that had been empty for quite a few years. It read:
WENCIL OF PELDAR
MASTER OF ARMS
INSTRUCTION OFFERED TO YOUNG
BEDOOWAN GENTLEMEN
INQUIRE WITHIN
Alder stood rooted to the ground, looking at the sign. The building was much like Wencil himself—shabby. One of the windows was broken out. The walls needed painting. The roof looked like it needed to be rethatched. Alder held his sword and the various wooden practice weapons in his hand. It seemed ridiculous, carrying the weapons around with him all the time. Every day he carried them from his little room in the castle to the academy—as though he were actually going to use them. And every day he did nothing but sweep the academy and cut wood and carry things around for Master Horto’s obnoxious wife.
He studied the sign some more. Master of arms. That meant that the old man taught the knightly arts—swordsmanship and so on. For years Master Horto had been the only certified master of arms in the castle.
Wencil of Peldar was a nobody, of course. He was no Master Horto. If you wanted to be a knight, you obviously had to train with Horto, a man with a reputation at court. Still, Alder was intrigued by the sign. He wondered idly if there were some way he could at least pick up a few tips from the old man.
Out of curiosity as much as anything, Alder tentatively pushed open the front door of the building. It groaned on rusty hinges. He found himself in a very small, cold, empty room.
“Hello?” he said.
There was no answer.
“Hello?”
He walked tentatively into the next room. It too was empty. And yet…He felt the hairs come up on the back of his neck. Someone is here! He was sure of it.
He quietly leaned his practice weapons against the wall—all of them except his wooden sword. He gripped the sword tightly and crossed the room as silently as he could. “Hello?” he whispered. “Sir? Master Wencil?”
He thought he heard something in the next room. A squeak? A slight exhalation of breath? He wasn’t sure.
He moved as silently as he could into the next room.
Whack!
For a moment Alder didn’t know what had happened. He whirled around as pain shot through his shoulders. Standing behind him was Wencil. How in the world had he gotten there? In Wencil’s hand was a stick, much like the one he’d carried the first time Alder met him.
“Sneak into my home, would you?” the old man shouted.
“But I—the sign said—I was just—”
“Defend yourself or die!” the old man shouted. Then he began attacking Alder with the stick. Alder desperately tried to defend himself. But it was pointless. The old man, grinning broadly, drove him backward.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
The stick caught him on his shin, his elbow, his arm—flicking out like the tongue of a snake. By the time Alder got his sword anywhere near the stick, it was already hitting him someplace else.
“Please! I was just trying to—”
Alder could see he was wasting his effort trying to talk to this man. He decided his best hope was to make for the door.
Whack! Whack! Whack!
Apparently the old man saw what he was trying to do: He bounded in front of Alder, cutting off his escape. Alder tried to make for the back of the building. Surely there would be a door there!
Whack, whack, whack! The stick hit him again and again. And yet, the old man never quite finished him off. After a while Alder started to get the feeling that Wencil was just toying with him. But try as he might, Alder couldn’t escape.
Soon Alder was feeling breathless and winded. His legs were like rubber, and his arms could barely hold the sword.
“Keep your guard up!” the old man shouted. “Or I might—” Whack! “Be forced—” Whack! “To pummel you in the head!” Whack whack whack!
Alder felt a sense of gloom and desperation fill him. There was nothing he could do to stop the old man. And he had no strength left.
Then he saw it. His last chance. The old man had driven him into the corner of the room farthest back in the house. It had a broken window through which blew a cold wind.
The window! If he could just get to—
With his last shred of energy, Alder parried the old man’s cane, and dove through the window. There was a rush of air and a brief feeling of freedom before…
Splat!
Alder sat up. Yuck! He had landed in a large, smelly pile of something.
A bunch of muddy pigs stared at him with angry pink eyes.
Oh, god! He knew what he’d fallen into now. He tried to stand up, slipped, fell again. The smell was awful. And the sticky feeling against his skin. Horrible!
For a moment he just lay there, eyes closed, imagining all the jokes and laughter and jeering that would
follow if he showed up at the academy covered in pig poop. There would be ten times as much ridicule as usual. But if he went home to clean up, Master Horto would punish him for being late.
Finally he opened his eyes.
Only to find a man staring down at him. Wencil.
The old man had his hand out, palm up. “Five pieces of silver, please,” Wencil said.
Alder sat up. “Huh?”
“Are you deaf, boy? Give me five pieces of silver!” The old man still had his hand out.
“For what?” Five pieces of silver was a lot of money. Alder had no idea what the old man was getting at. He was obviously completely insane.
“For your first lesson.”
“My what?”
“Your first lesson.”
Alder stared at him. Finally he pointed at the building. “In there? That was…a lesson?”
“Young man, I am an instructor in the arts of fencing, pikesmanship, spear throwing, strategy, tactics, the equestrian arts, archery, grappling, rope climbing, etc. etc. etc. Didn’t you read the sign on the door?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then what in the name of creation do you think I was doing in there? Playing patty-cake? Five pieces of silver, please.”
“But…I’m sorry, sir, I don’t have any money.”
“Then go to your parents and get some!”
“I’m afraid I don’t have any parents. I’m an orphan.”
“An orphan?” the old man said sharply. Alder noticed that his eyes were an intense green. “No money at all?”
“None, sir.”
“Oh,” Wencil said. “In that case your instruction will be complimentary. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine sharp. Don’t be late.”
“But…sir, I’m a student at the Academy.”
“Not anymore, boy. That charlatan Horto has obviously taught you nothing. You fight like a three-year-old girl. Nine o’clock sharp.”
Alder blinked. He had never heard anyone speak that way about Master Horto before. “But—”
The old man wrinkled his nose. “And for goodness sake, clean your clothes. I can’t have my students wandering around the castle smelling like pig dung!”
Book Two of the Travelers Page 12
