Kellanved's Reach

Courian scratched his unkempt beard. ‘Very well. It appears we do have a use for you after all.’

‘And possibly his friend there,’ Cal-Brinn added.

Gregar stared, quite stunned. Courian now studied him, narrowing his one good eye. ‘This one? And what about you? What is it you do? Perhaps you can make flowers bloom? Or goats dance?’

Struggling to find his voice, Gregar stammered, ‘Ah, no, sir. I’m just a fighter.’

Courian made a show of glancing round the gathering. ‘Well, thank Burn for that! Now we’re getting somewhere. For a moment there I thought I was starting up a travelling carnival.’

‘And he’s a mage,’ Cal-Brinn supplied.

Gregar shook his head. ‘No. You’re mistaken. I’m no mage.’

The mercenary commander turned his good eye first to one then the other, glowering even further. ‘Well? Which is it, dammit to Togg!’

The Dal Hon mage replied calmly, ‘I was informed I would need to look hard for it, but it is clear now.’ He addressed Gregar. ‘You didn’t even know yourself, but it is true.’

Gregar simply stared, completely uncomprehending. A talent? Really? All this time? He shot a glare to a grinning and nodding Haraj.

Courian waved such concerns aside. ‘Yes, yes. But you say you can fight?’

Coming back to himself, Gregar hurriedly nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

The general cracked his knuckles, visibly relieved. ‘Good. Then—’ He stopped as a tall guardsman at one end of the main table stood, seeming to unfold so lean was he. ‘Yes, Surat?’

‘He and I will have a bout.’

Courian’s brows crowded together. ‘Really? I hardly think it worth your effort.’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘Very well.’ The commander offered Gregar a sympathetic shrug. ‘Sorry, lad.’

His spirits falling, Gregar watched the man’s easy, fluid grace as he rounded the table and thought, So this is Surat. New champion of the Guard, having beaten the last – Oberl.

It looked as though his demonstration was going to be a rather short one.

Cole extended his staff to Gregar while Lark threw Surat hers, and, belatedly, Gregar assumed a ready stance. This close, he realized he’d seen this man before – the day they’d encountered the Guard and Haraj had made a less than inspiring impression.

Reading the recognition in his eyes, Surat nodded. ‘Yes. We’ve met before. Something about joining was mentioned. I see you are determined. I have also heard of a feat of arms by a trooper of Yellows who unhorsed three knights.’

Gregar nodded. ‘Yes, that was me.’

‘And so we must meet in challenge.’

Gregar nearly gaped. ‘I’m sorry … why?’

The tall fellow smiled, almost affectionately. ‘Because one of those horsemen was a certain Lusmarr of Habal, who on more than one occasion claimed to be my equal.’

Ah. And I bested him.

Surat eased his stave up into a formal crossbody ready stance, hands high, tip low to the right. Gregar matched it. In the next instant he was blocking a nonstop flurry of blows that drove him all the way across the open centre of the tent to the entrance. In the very last few paces he managed to circle round. He continued to back, not even glancing behind – it was only as he passed them that he saw the men and women of the Guard who’d jumped up to pull chairs and benches from his path. He struck a table and edged along it, still only barely managing to deflect or block the blur of strikes, unable to muster a counter, let alone turn to the offence.

Then it ended, suddenly, and he stood panting, staff still raised, but another now pressed hard against his neck. He lowered his, sagging.

Clapping sounded then from the main table: Courian, applauding, and the rest of the Guard joining in. ‘Well done!’ the commander shouted. ‘Well done!’

‘I lost,’ Gregar exclaimed.

Surat gave him another smile, this one wry. ‘You lasted longer than any I’ve faced all season.’ He approached the main table, stave held respectfully behind his back, vertical. He inclined his head to Courian. ‘I judge this candidate skilled – perhaps even gifted.’

The commander slapped a hand to the table. ‘Excellent!’ He turned to Cal-Brinn. ‘We have quarters for them, yes?’

Cal-Brinn nodded, smiling. ‘I believe we can pull something together.’

Gregar peered about, confused. ‘Quarters? Now?’

‘Of course,’ Courian answered, returning to his meal. ‘You’ll have no need for your old gear now. The Guard will supply all.’

‘But there’s going to be a battle …’

Courian raised a huge tankard, downed nearly all. ‘Well, I should damned well hope so! If Gris comes to Jurda’s aid there should be.’

‘Then … I’m sorry … but I can’t leave my company.’

Courian had turned to speak to another of the Guard and said, distractedly, ‘Hey? What’s that?’

Gregar took a steadying breath. ‘I have to return to my company.’

The commander pushed aside the guardswoman he’d been speaking to. ‘What’s that?’

‘I’m sorry, but—’

‘You’re refusing?’

‘I can’t leave my company before a battle.’

‘And which company is that?’

‘Yellows.’