pushed his way to the edge of the meadow, parted the bushes, and peered out.
Faran, his roan coat glistening in the morning sun, cantered easily in a wide circular course around the meadow. He wore no saddle nor bridle, and there was something almost joyful about his stride. Flute lay face up on his back with her pipes at her lips. Her head was nestled comfortably on his surging front shoulders, her knees were crossed, and she was beating time on Faran’s rump with one little foot.
Sparhawk gaped at them, then stepped out into the meadow to stand directly in the big roan’s path. He spread his arms wide, and Faran slowed to a walk and then stopped in front of his master.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Sparhawk barked at him.
Faran’s expression grew lofty and he looked away.
‘Have you completely taken leave of your senses?’
Faran snorted and flicked his tail even as Flute continued to play her song. Then the little girl slapped her grass-stained foot imperiously on his rump several times, and he neatly sidestepped the fuming Sparhawk and cantered on with Flute’s song soaring above him.
Sparhawk swore and ran after them. After a few yards, he knew it was hopeless and he stopped, breathing hard.
‘Interesting, wouldn’t you say?’ Sephrenia said. She had come out from among the trees and stood at the edge of the meadow with her white robe gleaming in the morning sun.
‘Can you make them stop?’ Sparhawk asked her. ‘She’s going to fall off and get hurt.’
‘No, Sparhawk,’ Sephrenia disagreed, ‘she will not fall.’ She said it in that strange manner into which she sometimes lapsed. Despite the decades she had spent in Elene society, Sephrenia remained a Styric to her fingertips, and Styrics had always been an enigma to Elenes. The centuries of close association between the militant orders of the Elene Church and their Styric tutors, however, had taught the Church Knights to accept the words of their instructors without question.
‘If you’re sure,’ Sparhawk said a bit dubiously as he looked across the turf at Faran, who seemed somehow to have lost his normally vicious temperament.
‘Yes, dear one,’ she said, laying an affectionate hand on his arm in reassurance. ‘I’m absolutely sure.’ She looked out at the great horse and his tiny passenger joyously circling the dew-drenched meadow in the golden morning sunlight. ‘Let them play a while longer,’ she advised.
About midmorning Kalten returned from the vantage point to the south of the castle where he and Kurik had been keeping watch over the road coming up from Sarrinium. ‘Nothing yet,’ he reported as he dismounted, his armour clinking. ‘Do you think Martel might just try to come across country and avoid the roads?’
‘It’s not very likely,’ Sparhawk replied. ‘He wants to be seen, remember? He needs lots of witnesses.’
‘I suppose I hadn’t thought of that,’ Kalten admitted. ‘Have you got the road coming down from Darra covered?’
Sparhawk nodded. ‘Lakus and Berit are watching it.’
‘Berit?’ Kalten sounded surprised. ‘The apprentice? Isn’t he a little young?’
‘He’ll get over it. He’s steady, and he’s got good sense. Besides, Lakus can keep him out of trouble.’
‘You’re probably right. Is there any of that roast ox the count sent us left?’
‘Help yourself. It isn’t hot, though.’
Kalten shrugged. ‘Better cold meat than no meat.’
The day dragged on, as days spent only in waiting will do; by evening, Sparhawk was pacing the camp with his impatience gnawing at him. Finally Sephrenia emerged from the rough little tent she shared with Flute. She placed herself directly in front of the big knight in black armour with her hands on her hips. ‘Will you stop that?’ she demanded crossly.
‘Stop what?’
‘Pacing. You jingle at every step, and the noise is very distracting.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll go jingle on the other side of camp.’
‘Why not just go and sit down?’
‘Nerves, I guess.’
‘Nerves? You?’
‘I get twinges now and then.’
‘Well, go twinge someplace else.’
‘Yes, little mother,’ he replied obediently.
It was cold again the following morning. Kurik rode quietly into camp just before sunrise. He carefully picked his way past the sleeping knights wrapped in their black cloaks to the place where Sparhawk had spread his blankets. ‘You’d better get up,’ he said, lightly touching Sparhawk’s shoulder. ‘They’re coming.’
Sparhawk sat up quickly. ‘How many?’ he asked, throwing off his blankets.
‘I make it about two hundred and fifty.’
Sparhawk stood up. ‘Where’s Kalten?’ he asked as Kurik began to buckle the black armour over his lord’s padded tunic.
‘He wanted to make sure that there wouldn’t be any surprises, so he joined the end of their column.’
‘He did what?’
‘Don’t worry, Sparhawk. They’re all wearing black armour, so he blends right in.’
‘Do you want to tie this on?’ Sparhawk handed his squire the length of bright ribbon that each knight was to wear as a means of identification during a battle in which both sides would be dressed in black.
Kurik took the red ribbon. ‘Kalten’s wearing a blue one,’ he noted. ‘It matches his eyes.’ He tied the ribbon around Sparhawk’s upper arm, then stepped back and looked at his lord appraisingly. ‘Adorable,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
Sparhawk laughed and clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go wake the children,’ he said, looking across the encampment of generally youthful knights.
‘I’ve got some bad news for you, Sparhawk,’ Kurik said as the two of them moved out through the camp, shaking the sleeping Pandions awake.
‘What’s that?’
‘The man leading the column isn’t Martel.’
Sparhawk felt a hot surge of disappointment. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.
‘Adus. He had blood all over his chin. I think he’s been eating raw meat again.’
Sparhawk swore.
‘Look at it this way. At least the world’s going to be a cleaner place without Adus, and I’d imagine that God would like to have a long talk with him anyway.’
‘We’ll have to see what we can
