by Dave Duncan
4
Prime
Unaware of the dread destiny bearing down on him, Badger lay stretched out on his cot in the seniors’ dormitory, staring at the boards of the ceiling. He was flaming mad. Had he flamed any hotter, he would have set his blanket on fire. He had very nearly punched Grand Master in the nose. He was seriously wondering if he should go back down and finish the job.
No day was good for him now, and the nights were worse, but this day had been especially irksome. Until two weeks ago, he had been comfortably anonymous, sixth man in a senior class of nine. Now he was Prime, meaning he was saddled with a million ill-defined duties, of which the worst was being den mother to the whole school.
That morning, as he’d come out of a dreary-dull lecture on court protocol, he had been accosted by a deputation of sopranos, the most junior class. They had complained shrilly that Travers was still wetting the bed every night and making their dorm stink. So Badger had taken young Travers aside for yet another heart-to-heart talk. Travers was barely thirteen and ought to be home with his mother, if he had one. He wasn’t even showing much promise as a fencer. Grand Master should never have admitted him.
“Bad dreams?” Badger asked.
Travers wailed, “Monsters!” and started to weep.
Every candidate in Ironhall was having bad dreams about monsters—except, ironically, Badger himself, who had worse things to dream about.
“Are you still quite certain that you want to be a Blade?” he asked patiently. “If you made a mistake, then it’s better to admit it to yourself now than five years from now. Look at Stalwart. He ran away, but only after he’d wasted four years of his life.”
There was something very suspicious about that story, though. At times Wart had been a smart aleck, rambunctious, immature pest, but he had never impressed Badger as a quitter. Most people believed Grand Master had thrown him out in one of his petty temper tantrums.
“But what can I do?” Travers wailed, his eyes wide and red as his mouth. “If I leave, I’ll be sent out onto the moors by myself and I’ll starve to death!” Only orphans or rejects or rebels came to Ironhall. Very few had family to go back to.
“That’s hog swill. Carters bring food to Ironhall every single day, yes? If they see a boy on the road they give him a ride into Prail or Blackwater, depending which way they’re going.”
The kid gasped like a convicted felon receiving a royal pardon on the steps of the gallows. “Honest?”
“Honest. And when they get him there, they see he gets a job in the fields or the mines or on a boat. Ironhall pays them to do this, because the Blades don’t want to be accused of littering the countryside with beggars.” Or skeletons; Badger didn’t say that. “It will be lowly labor, not glamorous like strutting around beside the King, but there won’t be any monsters.”
Travers gaped at him, struck dumb by the immensity of the decision required.
Badger sighed. “Why don’t you think it over for a couple of days? If you do decide to go, I’ll see you get a packet of food to take, and perhaps we can steal a warm cloak for you. Don’t tell anyone I told you all this.”
The storm struck soon after, cascading white hail off the gloomy black walls and towers, sending peals of thunder echoing through the hills. A riding class of fuzzies and beansprouts was caught out on the moors and soaked to the skin. No one was injured, but the thunder made three horses bolt. Losing control of a horse was a serious offense. Master of Horse sentenced the riders to triple stable duties for a week, which meant that all of their free time and part of their sleeping time would be spent shoveling horse stuffing. News of this ghastly punishment was whispered around.
The main result of the bad weather was to move fencing classes indoors, and that brought problems for everyone, including Prime. The gym was crowded, noisy, and poorly lit. Men became testy. The juniors began clowning or goofing off. People could get hurt.
Swords clattered from dawn until dusk in Ironhall. The candidates were drilled with swords every day from their admission as spindly-limbed urchins until the night they strode out into the world behind their wards, deadly Blades bound to absolute loyalty. Master of Rapiers and Master of Sabers and their assistant knights taught fundamentals to the beginners, coached the seniors in the finer points, and tried to keep track of every one of the hundred candidates’ progress. They simply did not have time to conduct all the daily practice sessions, so older boys were required to drill younger. There was no escaping that chore, although every candidate in three centuries had cursed it in his time.
In this year 368 of the House of Ranulf the problem was acute. Twenty-four men of the Order had died in the Monster War so far—eight guardsmen and sixteen knights—and Commander Bandit was screaming for more Blades to defend the King and his children. Ironhall had supplied forty in less than a year, but now it had reached its limit. The normal five-year course had been cut to four. There were only six seniors, instead of about twenty, and not one of the six was completely up to standard. They knew that. Everyone knew it. Yet they also knew that their binding could not be long delayed. The Guard would soon lick their fencing into shape for them, even if they had to work at it twenty-four hours a day, but they might find themselves facing mortal peril even sooner, ready or not. The seniors were worried young men. They grudged the hours they were forced to spend coaching juniors. Tempers were growing steadily shorter.
There was no rule that said Prime was responsible for keeping order in the fencing gym, but Grand Master was nowhere to be seen, typically. The fencing masters were demonstrating basic moves to teams of juniors. Everyone else was dueling, one on one, far too many men in far too small a space, and all the coaches were yelling directions at all the students. The result was earsplitting confusion: “Violet!” “Eggbeater!” “Higher!” “No, you never use Cockroach against Willow!” “Lower!” “Watch that wrist!” “That was Steeple, I said Rainbow….” Feet stamped up choking clouds of dust. Thunder roared outside.
Chaos. Someone was sure to get hurt.
No sooner thought than done. Marlon, who was Second, appeared with a split lip and a broken tooth. He was the best fencer in the school at the moment, but even his agility had failed to parry a wild and unpredictable stroke. Of course he should have been wearing a mask, but it was easier to instruct without one. Badger sent him off to find Master of Rituals, who would have to assemble a team of eight to chant a healing conjuration over him in the Forge, where the school octogram was located. That would take most of the afternoon and tie up masters or knights who could have helped here.
To relieve the pressure on space, Badger conscripted about thirty of the middle classes—beardless and fuzzies—and started drilling them in calisthenics, which needed a lot less room than fencing. He had no authority to do so, but no master objected. The boys welcomed the change of routine when he assured them this was how to build muscles. They all seemed like children to him. None was as old as he had been when he was first admitted, brazenly lying about his age.
Having exhausted his first thirty victims, he began collecting another thirty. He was preempted by Master of Rapiers, Sir Quinn. Quinn often had strange ideas. His current notion was that Badger needed a lesson in Isilondian rapier technique. Badger despised rapiers. He was a saber man, a slasher. He wanted to smite a foe, not poke at him. Nor could he see any reason for learning all the various styles that Ironhall liked to teach when Ironhall’s own style was the best. A man who had mastered that could beat any opponent.
Furthermore, he already knew a fair bit about Isilondian-style rapier fencing. To conceal that fact from Quinn he had to play clumsy, which required superhuman reflexes when fencing at that level. By the time the fading light brought the session to an end, he had developed a throbbing headache.
“Excellent, excellent!” Quinn blathered. “We’ll make a rapier man out of you yet.”
Over Badger’s dead body.
Of course his dead body was going to be available quite soon now…
.
“Prime?” The voice at elbow came from a fuzzy named Audley. His face was wet and he looked worried. “There’s something nasty going on in the bath house.”
“What sort of nasty?”
“The Brat. It sounds like Servian.”
Badger hesitated only a moment. Discipline was Second’s responsibility, not his; but Marlon had not reported back yet, and the healing would probably leave him dazed for a while. The Brat was always the newest recruit, who had no name because he had left his old one behind when he was admitted and had not yet chosen another. Hazing the Brat was the juniors’ favorite occupation. It was supposed to weed out the weaklings, so the masters usually turned a blind eye; everyone had been the Brat once.
But Audley was a good man, almost ready to hang a sword on and be a senior. If he said “nasty” then it must be nasty. Servian had been warned before.
“Thanks.” Badger ran.
From the gym to the bath house was no distance, but he was soaked by the time he pounded up the steps. He could hear the kid’s screams from there.
It was very nasty, far beyond normal hazing. Servian’s meanness was the sort of disease that could infect others and turn them into henchmen. He had three of them with him now. They had the Brat’s clothes off; they were holding him down and “cleaning” him with wet sand.
Badger lost his temper.
He waded into all four of them, fists flying. The three disciples were only kids, who could be sent flying with a slap; but Servian himself was a burly, sulky brute, as big as Badger himself. It took a couple of real punches to lay him on the floor, where he belonged.
“Put your clothes on, lad,” he told the victim, who was starting to grin through his tears at this rough justice so unexpectedly imposed on his tormentors. Servian tried to rise; Badger pinned one of his hands to the flagstones with a boot, not gently. “You stay there for now. The rest of you, on your feet!” He made a mental note of their names. “Go to your dorms and stay there until I say otherwise. Don’t expect to eat tonight. Do expect more bad things to happen. Run!”
When the weeping accomplices had gone, it was safe to deal with the pervert himself. “Get up! What you should have realized by now, scum, is that the Brat isn’t the only one being tested.”
Servian scrambled to his feet. For a moment he seemed ready for a second round, but when he saw that his supporters had gone and Badger was willing, he lowered his fists and just scowled.
“What ’ju mean?”
“I mean you’re gone, lost, blown. The King has no use for sadists. You can’t be trusted with a Blade’s skills.” It was unfortunate, because horrible Servian had the makings of an excellent swordsman.
Having confirmed that the Brat was more frightened than hurt, Badger sent him off to the infirmary to have his scrapes bandaged, and then marched Servian out to the quad. And over to the stocks. In his four years in Ironhall, he had never seen the stocks used, except sometimes to torment the Brat. He couldn’t think of anything else bad enough for Servian at the moment. He rather hoped the thug would resist, but he submitted without a word. Badger locked him in, wrists and neck pinned between the boards, and left him there, standing in the storm. Then he went in search of Grand Master.
Grand Master, it seemed, was looking for Prime.
Badger tried First House, then West House, then back to Main House. They must have missed each other several times, because they were both well soaked when they eventually met. Their encounter took place back in the gym, before an audience of knights who had lingered to chat, plus a few juniors still tidying away equipment. Grand Master was obviously in one of his ogre moods.
Badger was alone, very much alone. Grand Master had a retinue. On one side of him stood Travers and some of his soprano friends; on the other Servian and his three stooges. Servian’s face was swelling nicely, but he smirked at Badger as if to remind him of that ancient principle: The enemy of my enemy is my friend.
“Prime! You have been using violence on other candidates!”
“I admit I lost my temper, Grand Master. I was rescuing a boy these four were torturing.”
“Even if that were true, it would be no excuse.”
“There were four of them. Should I have drawn my sword?”
“Insolence! You should have used your authority. You have betrayed the trust placed in you—attacking boys, abusing Candidate Servian by locking him in the stocks.” The old man’s manner implied that the worst was yet to come. “And you deceived Candidate Travers with some nonsensical tale that has started a flood of absurd rumors.”
Travers failed to meet Prime’s eye. He had not kept the secret.
“I told him the truth.” Badger could never understand why the Order had chosen Sir Saxon its Grand Master. He had been a compromise candidate, apparently, but even that did not excuse such a blunder. He always seemed so small, although he was quite tall for a Blade. Some days he greeted Badger by name, thumped his shoulder, made jokes, asked his advice. Other days, as now, he spluttered and squeaked like a mad tyrannical bat.
“You did not! You deceived him. You proved unworthy of the honor conferred on you.”
Badger cared nothing for the honor of being Prime. He cared nothing for the Order, nor Ironhall and its inhabitants. He never had. “I told him that candidates who elect to leave are picked up by teamsters on the road. I also told him that the Order pays for this mercy, and also finds them work in Prail or Blackwater. Do you deny this?”
The old goat gibbered for a moment. Then, “Who ever told you such nonsense?”
“I have known that for years. I made it my business to find out before I turned up on your doorstep, Grand Master. Even then I knew better than to put myself in a trap that had no way out.”
Grand Master grew redder and shriller, while the audience watched in amazement. “This is rubbish! You have betrayed the trust I placed in you when I appointed you Prime.”
“You appointed me Prime? By puking Stalwart, you mean?”
“Insolence! Go to your room and stay there until I give you leave!”
Oh, flames! “You are a bucket head,” Badger said sadly. “If you must be so petty, why do it in public?” He turned to go.
“And leave your sword!” Grand Master squealed.
Badger went, leaving his sword. He resisted the temptation to leave it in Grand Master. He even resisted the temptation to do to him what he had done to Servian.
Later, sprawled on his cot, he was seriously tempted to go back down to the hall and correct that mistake. By doing so, he would throw away four years’ grinding hard work. He would ruin all his plans. But he would not die after all.
5
Return of the Lost Lamb
“We’re almost there!” Wart said cheerfully.
Emerald thought, And about time!
Ironhall was a vague something to her left. The rain had almost stopped, but the wind still blew, and the night was far too dark for any sane person to be riding over rocky country like Starkmoor. Of course sanity was an illusive concept when applied to a not-quite-seventeen-year-old-male; and when that man had just become Sir Stalwart, member of the White Star, companion in the Loyal and Ancient Order of the King’s Blades, official hero, an expert swordsman who had recently won his first mortal duel and been sent on a vital state mission with almost unrestricted authority, sanity was about the last thing to expect. She was cold and battered and one big blister from ankles to hips. But if Master Smarty Warty had thought he could outride her, he now knew better. She had not screamed for mercy once and was not about to start now.
“I smell magic!”
“Right!” he said, sounding either surprised or admiring. “We’re passing the Forge.”
That was where the boys were bound, she knew, and it spoke to her as the Blades themselves did. No White Sister could ever describe her reaction to a specific sorcery exactly, and “hot metal” was as close as she could come to classifying this one. It was something between an odor and a f
eeling. She could not see the building itself in the darkness, but an octogram that had been in use for several centuries would have a very wide aura.
A few moments later Wart said, “See that light? Grand Master’s study. That’s where we’re going.”
Several windows were showing faint glimmers of candlelight, but if he was pointing, she could not see his hand. The packhorse whinnied wearily, smelling stables ahead.
Her life had been so peaceful until Sir Snake had interfered in it! Just two weeks ago, she had been a deaconess in the White Sisters’ tree city of Oakendown, nearing the end of her training. The nightmare had begun when she was unexpectedly summoned before Mother Superior and sworn in as a full Sister on the spot. Four years’ quiet study had been followed by days of mad confusion and mortal peril. She had been rescued in the end by Wart, this peach-faced stripling who had turned out to have so many unexpected skills. She would have been more grateful if he had not helped put her into the danger in the first place.
Yesterday had seemed like the start of a fine new life at court. She had ridden in from Valglorious with Mother Superior in that lady’s magnificent coach. Mother Superior had turned out to be a much nicer person than her reputation suggested. She had insisted on going around by Newhurst so that Emerald could visit her mother and break the marvelous news that the family home at Peachyard was to be returned to them. Poverty had turned overnight back to wealth—and that good fortune they owed in large part to Wart.
Was that why she was setting off on another mad adventure with him? She was certainly not doing so just to please the King. In the evening she had supped with the King. Wart had been there, as had Commander Bandit; Mother Superior; Lord Chancellor Roland and his delightful wife, Lady Kate; also the devious Sir Snake. Between the conversation and music, they had planned Wart’s mission to investigate the suspected sorcerers’ lair in Nythia. Emerald had agreed to accompany him, and she was not certain how that had happened.
