by Roger Taylor
Arwain followed Ryllans along the familiar corridor and through the familiar double door. ‘You’ll enjoy this today, sir,’ Ryllans said, turning and smiling at him as he stepped through the door. ‘At least it’ll get the damp out of your bones.’
Arwain looked around the enclosed courtyard and returned the smile. ‘I had a feeling that was a foolish remark when I made it,’ he said.
The palace was an ancient building and had been altered and extended many times at the whims and wishes of its successive occupants. As a result, apart from innumerable towers and spires joined by high arching bridges and walkways, there were many isolated alleyways and courtyards such as the one Arwain now stood in. This particular one, however, was unique in that all the windows and doors that opened on to it, save the one the two men had just used, had been sealed.
This courtyard was used by the Mantynnai as a training ground. It had a further uniqueness in that it was the only area used exclusively thus, it being the Mantynnai’s general practice to train anywhere that suited the needs of the moment: fields, mountains, rivers, corridors, stairways, rooftops and cellars, and, on occasions, even the rambling, cavernous sewers.
Arwain looked up at the now blind windows with their panels of wood and masonry, each carefully chosen to harmonize with the room or the corridor they had opened from.
Though the surrounding buildings were high, the courtyard was large and spacious, yet to Arwain it always felt claustrophobic. Somehow, he felt, it was the almost obsessive care that had been taken in sealing the windows that affected him. It was like a secret within a secret. And yet the courtyard and its function were not secret. Many knew of its existence, many used it, and any could walk into it should they be so inclined. But only the one way.
It was like the Mantynnai themselves, he thought suddenly. At once secretive and open, approachable and distant.
Ryllans watched Arwain’s customary inspection of the courtyard then he pushed him; not violently, but unexpectedly and enough to send him staggering backwards against the wall.
Arwain opened his mouth to protest, but Ryllans pointed an admonishing finger at him before he could speak. ‘You tell me why,’ he demanded.
Arwain knew what was expected of him; an explanation of the lesson he had just been taught. Ryllans’ lessons were always simple but their very simplicity usually obscured them.
Arwain’s mind raced for some clue but nothing was apparent. From experience he knew that he had missed the moment and that any amount of searching would not reveal it now.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said apologetically.
‘Go out and come in again,’ Ryllans said, indicating the door. Arwain frowned a little but did as he was bidden.
This time he watched Ryllans carefully as he stepped through the doorway. There was nothing unusual in his behaviour. No indication of a threat. Then his eyes flickered upwards to the sealed windows and Ryllans’ hand came out and struck him lightly on the face.
‘Every time you come in here, your actions are identical,’ Ryllans said, laying emphasis on the last word.
Arwain nodded. Sometimes Ryllans taught by talking, long and expansively. At others, as now, his actions were enigmatic and his words brief to the point of terseness.
‘And therefore predictable,’ Arwain finished the small lesson.
Ryllans acknowledged the reply with a slightly mocking smile.
‘How many times will I have to learn that lesson?’ Arwain asked self-consciously.
‘As many times as I will,’ Ryllans replied, taking him by the arm and motioning him towards a group of men at the far side of the courtyard. It was Ryllans’ willingness to admit himself as much a pupil as a master that particularly endeared him to Arwain.
Like all male Serens, Arwain had undergone the basic military training that was both necessary for the security of the city and its dominions and traditionally marked the passage of young men through into manhood. As the Duke’s son and as a future officer, his training, like Menedrion’s and Goran’s, had been more severe than average and he had encountered enough instructors who used brutality and humiliation as their stock in trade to value Ryllans at something like his true worth.
And indeed, as yet another measure of this, Arwain realized that he was alert now. Not tense or anxious, fearful of some impending but unknowable event, but . . . wide-awake, for want of any more profound phrase . . . more aware of everything that was going on around him. It was as if Ryllans’ brief lesson had released some inner resource just as a strike on a flint box would make it burst into crackling brightness with the flame that could go on to banish any darkness.
Body and mind, both to be trusted, both to be trained, both to know their strengths and weaknesses. That was the essence of all Ryllans’ teaching. And an unthinking habit was a weakness beyond doubt.
As he walked silently by his mentor, Arwain searched for the deeper lessons that must lie beneath this last one.
Why did he always look up at the walls of this man-made pit? Was he, as he would like to have imagined, quickly and shrewdly examining the terrain for any subtle signs of change that might perhaps mean danger? Ryllans certainly would have approved of that. Or was his action simply a childish retreat into the comforting familiarity of ritual in an attempt to avoid the challenge of newness that must inevitably occur in this place?
Or was there yet some deeper unease that disturbed him? ‘This place is alien,’ he said, stopping suddenly, his breath steaming in the chilly air. Ryllans stopped also and half turned his head towards him, inviting an explanation. ‘It’s a Mantynnai place, wherever you come from,’ Arwain went on.
Ryllans did not reply, but looked up at the walls as if he had not done so for a long time and gave a slight, pensive nod.
‘Or perhaps not,’ Arwain went on. ‘Perhaps it’s just a Serens place, made alien and sightless by your Mantynnai touch.’
‘Blinded, eh?’ Ryllans said.
‘Blindfolded,’ Arwain added, more compassionately.
Ryllans chuckled, intrigued. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I’ll think about that.’
‘Or perhaps it’s that lonely place that each of us carries inside, even in the middle of the crowd,’ Arwain said, warming to his thoughts, but adding, almost inadvertently, ‘especially in battle.’
‘Ah,’ Ryllans said significantly. ‘You are in good fettle today. I’ll think about that too. In the meantime, let’s continue your training.’ He nodded towards the waiting men. ‘I’ve asked Hadryn to work on your close-quarter fighting with you.’
Apart from his formal military training, Arwain had received training in the arts of war throughout his youth in the course of his normal education. He was familiar with the principles involved in the use of cavalry and infantry in many terrains, ranging from large set-piece battles across open plains, to close-quarter skirmishing in the mountains. He had been taught about the logistical problems involved in raising, maintaining and moving armies, and he had learned about siege warfare and the use of artillery and blockades and sapping.
As a classroom discipline, this had been interesting, exciting even, but subsequently he had also had much of this theory complemented by some grim practical experience as the constant political manoeuvring of the many cities and towns of the land gave rise at times to outbreaks of armed violence.
What he learned from Ryllans and the other Mantynnai in his bodyguard, however, was different.
Initially, when Ryllans had suggested that he train and practice with his bodyguard, Arwain had declined; time had lent no charm to the memories of his basic training.
Ryllans, however, knew when to charge and when to infiltrate.
‘Your father has given me charge of your protection, sir,’ he said. ‘This is a relatively simple matter on the battlefield, but here . . .’ He waved an airy hand around the busy palace grounds they were walking. ‘It’s much harder, perhaps even impossible, given the will and power of the lady Nefron even though she is c
onfined to the Erin-Mal. And there are others with little love for the house of Ibris. Only you can truly protect yourself and protection is more than skill at arms. It’s here.’ And he had patted his stomach and then tapped his temple with an extended finger. The latter in particular was to become a familiar gesture to Arwain.
At this further assault, Arwain had weakened a little, but still he held. ‘I’ve every faith in you and your men, Ryllans,’ he said, airily. ‘I’m sure that we’ll be able to work out arrangements that will satisfy your concerns.’
Ryllans had bowed and then made his frontal attack. Fixing his lord with a polite but unflinching gaze, he said, ‘All defences can be overcome, given time, knowledge and resolution, sir. This you know from your studies. And anyone seeking your life will have these resources and also the benefit of surprise. Surround you as we may, there will always be that one moment of inattention. That opening in the shield wall for a stray arrow.’ His voice had dropped. ‘And, sir, we each of us have our price. Something, somewhere. Those who stand closest to you, armed, will be your enemies’ first choice as weapons. It was ever thus. You know this too from your studies, I’m sure.’
The clarity of vision in this remark had truly shocked and frightened Arwain, such was the reputation of the Mantynnai for loyalty and such was the faith placed in them by his father. He wavered visibly and Ryllans moved in and quietly finished him off. ‘And then there is the protection of your intended, sir. The Lady Yanys . . .’
Ryllans’ instruction had, however, been as far from Arwain’s basic training as he could possibly have imagined. Indeed, it proved to be a continuing revelation and Arwain found a new quality developing within himself that seemed to affect almost his every action.
Not that many of the things he learned seemed, at first glance, to be very different from what he already knew. The slight changes that the Mantynnai showed him however, made them vastly different, at once easier to execute and more powerful in their effect.
‘Where did you learn these things from?’ he asked once in the early days. ‘From some secret warrior sect?’
Ryllans had laughed outright. ‘No, no. What we know is far too simple to be kept secret. That’s why it’s so difficult for people to see it.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Arwain had replied, oscillating between plaintiveness and irritation.
‘Just practice,’ was all that Ryllans would offer him. ‘And think. And feel.’
What won Arwain over eventually, however, was the spirit of learning and humble inquiry that permeated his new training, so utterly different was it from the brutal savagery inherent in much of his previous experience.
Now, Arwain relished his practice sessions with the Mantynnai, finding them both relaxing and stimulating if, occasionally, shattering. He sensed too that he was also being surreptitiously forged and strengthened to become part of the team that was his bodyguard.
‘Better the shell, than the shrimp within,’ Ryllans had said once, casually, but with some amusement.
Arwain was greeted by the men as he approached. They were laughing at the double entrance he had had to make. Here he was not their lord, he was one of them . . . or nearly so. For though they were seemingly no more than men, relaxed and humorous, they were also Mantynnai. A dark bonding stillness lay at their heart.
‘Having to practice door opening now?’ came one voice, with a despairing, motherly sigh.
‘Don’t worry, it’s harder than it looks, but you’ll pick it up eventually,’ came another.
Arwain turned to Ryllans in mock appeal against this welcome.
‘Just practice,’ was the dismissive reply. ‘Hadryn, as we discussed, help the lord with his close-quarter work, one against many. He’s still showing too much inclination to lose his awareness when he’s dealt with one.’ Hadryn was a tall, black-bearded man, loose-limbed and powerful. He nodded. ‘For the moment, unarmed,’ Ryllans continued.
He turned back to Arwain. ‘Work hard on this.’ He tapped his head with his finger. ‘You turn your mind away too easily and it’ll get your throat cut. You still think in terms of victory and defeat, and while you do that you will always be defeated.’
Arwain had seen this form of training and even participated in it to some extent as an attacker, but it was a form that was liable to be more frightening for the attackers than the single ‘victim’ and he had ended with an acute sense of his own inadequacy.
As Ryllans walked away towards another group of guards, he clapped his hands loudly. Arwain’s assailants moved purposefully towards him.
For an instant, all Arwain’s training seemed to leave him, but he retained sufficient wit to realize that someone might be behind him, and he turned round quickly as he retreated.
Then one of the attackers charged at him suddenly, levelling a powerful blow at his head. Arwain knew that the blow would be reduced in force if he faltered and failed to take action, but that did little to reassure the response of his body to the onslaught, and he ducked wildly, just remembering to step to one side as he did.
Then came another and another. Most he avoided successfully, though gracelessly. Others he managed to avoid and deflect, but eventually, fortuitously finding himself on balance, he stepped deeply into one, swept the striking arm downward and threw the attacker towards two of the others who were just approaching. It prompted an ironic round of applause, then, as he paused to watch his assailant roll back up on to his feet, a powerful pair of arms encircled him and two of his attackers gleefully moved forward to seize his legs.
Ryllans, practicing swordwork nearby, favoured him with a knowingly raised eyebrow as he was dumped ignominiously on the hard stone flagging. It was a customary end to such exercises. Or was it?
Arwain rolled suddenly into the nearest pair of legs, causing their owner to lose balance, then he struggled to his feet as quickly as he could, turning to face his attackers as he did so.
A white smile parted Hadryn’s black beard.
Then there was some explanation, some debate, a few brief demonstrations, and the exercise was repeated – several times.
Gradually the sweating figures made a mist of their own in the sealed courtyard as Arwain struggled to be calm and yet alert amid the plethora of attackers.
He knew that he was making progress but, as he practiced, he knew too that he could never be as these men were. They absorbed his wilder punches with such ease, either by solid and painful blocks or by gentle deflections that took his balance utterly. And when thrown they simply rolled back up on to their feet as if they had been training on soft spring turf. True, he could do that himself, but two small bones at the bottom of his back told him he did not do it so well, and usually told him for several days afterwards.
Then there was an unexpected voice close behind him.
‘Lord.’
He spun round, seized the speaker by the throat with one powerful hand, and thrust him against the wall, only to let him go immediately amid some laughter from his companions.
The man was one of the Duke’s messengers.
‘Tut tut,’ someone whispered in his ear ironically. ‘Assault on a Ducal messenger. That’s a summary flogging if the Liktors get to hear of it, I fear. Shall I call one?’
Arwain dismissed his tormentor with a push.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said to the messenger, helping him vainly to straighten his rumpled collar. ‘I’m afraid you picked an inopportune moment to approach me. What is it you want?’
The messenger cleared his throat in a slightly injured manner, though directing his reproach at the smirking guards rather than his Duke’s son.
‘Your father wishes to see you, lord, immediately,’ he said.
Arwain could not forbear a brief scowl of impatience. But his father’s word was not to be disputed.
He held out his hands in a plea. ‘Immediately?’ he asked. The messenger, still struggling with his collar, looked at the sweat-stained figure in front of him, momentarily bewildered. Lords did no
t ask advice of messengers.
‘Immediately,’ he echoed dutifully.
Chapter 8
Antyr threw his wringing cloak on to the floor, dropped into his chair and let out a pitiful groan. His back was aching, his legs were aching, his feet were burning and he was soaked to the skin and chilled to the marrow.
He sat motionless, gazing blankly up at a familiar smoke stain on the ceiling immediately above a lamp. Acute self-pity at his physical plight had long since driven all other concerns from his mind and it was some time before coherent thoughts began to seep back again. When they did, they were rudimentary and primitive and he was moved to speak them out loud.
‘I’m dying,’ he said to the smoke stain. ‘If not dead. Tarrian, wherever you are, don’t come back, there’ll only be my exhausted corpse waiting for you. You faithless hound, leaving me to die of exposure.’
‘Stop moaning, and open this door.’ The unexpected reply rang sharply in his head, making him jump.
Despite this, however, and his previous complaint, Antyr felt a sense of relief stirring somewhere underneath his fatigue. Then, closing his eyes, he pushed himself up out of his chair with a monumental effort. His sluggishness was greeted by an impatient scratching on the front door.
‘Stop that,’ he shouted. ‘That door’s damaged enough with your impatience.’
A short but eloquent string of abuse from Tarrian entered his mind, embellishing the information that he was not the only one who was cold and weary. From its tone Antyr deemed it wiser not to reply. Instead, he stepped well back and lifted the latch of the door. It was a routine precaution based on previous experience and its value was confirmed as Tarrian crashed the door open even more violently than usual on his way towards the kitchen.
