and charged straight for the remaining Meradan.
The Meradani horses that had lost their riders bolted, galloping back south down the road. The others were milling and rearing, bucking and trying to grab their bits. Their riders could barely control them, much less fight. Rhodorix saw one savage whose black hair bristled like a boar’s, tied as it was with a plethora of charms and beads. He urged Aur straight for him. Foolishly the Meradan tried to turn his horse to run. Rhodorix swung straight for his spine at the neck. His sword slashed through the man’s pitiful leather hauberk with a spurt of blood.
With a last scream the rider fell just as Aur slammed into the rear of his horse. The Meradani pair went down, and Rhodorix nearly followed. Only a lifetime spent on horseback saved his balance and his life. He managed to stay on Aur’s back and balance his weight at the same time so that the golden gelding kept his feet. Aur tossed his head, foaming in panic. Rhodorix threw his weight forward and kept him from rearing while he stroked the horse’s neck.
‘Whist, whist, lad! It’s all over.’
The swordsmen had cut to pieces the few Meradan that the archers had missed. When Rhodorix turned his horse back to the battle, he had a moment of nausea at the sight – severed limbs, hacked torsos, heads rolling under hooves, and still the swordsmen cut and slashed until every single enemy had been reduced to so much butchered meat. Battle fury he knew, but he had never seen so much hatred on the field of war.
‘The horses!’ Andariel was calling out in what amounted to bad Gaulish, words he’d learned from Rhodorix. ‘Round up the horses!’
Blood spattered and grim, the swordsmen followed orders. Andariel urged his foaming, dancing horse up to Rhodorix’s mount.
‘Well, that’s a few less Meradan in the world,’ the captain said through the crystal. ‘Once we catch these horses, let’s head back to the fortress.’
‘What about the bodies?’ Rhodorix said.
‘Leave them for the ravens and foxes. They don’t deserve anything better.’
With the captured horses came an equally valuable prize, a leather saddlebag with painted insignia upon it, the ship crest of the Prince of Rinbaladelan. One of the guardsmen handed it to the captain, who opened it and peered inside.
‘Messages,’ Andariel hissed. ‘What happened to the messengers, then?’
‘What do you think?’ Rhodorix said. ‘They must be dead.’
‘I don’t understand. Why didn’t the farseers tell us about the messengers? We might have saved their lives.’
‘Good question,’ Rhodorix said. ‘Maybe the savages can hide from magic. Maybe they have magic of their own.’
The colour drained from Andariel’s face. Rhodorix abruptly realized that the captain – and doubtless the entire fortress – had been considering magic an important weapon on their side.
‘I could be wrong,’ Rhodorix said. ‘Be that as it may, we’d better get these back to the prince.’
‘Just so. Let’s ride.’
Leading their captured horses, the guardsmen rode back to Garangbeltangim. As they entered the gates, half the servants in the fort rushed out to cheer the riders, blood-spattered and exhausted, but victors in their tiny battle. Everyone had been desperate for some kind of victory, Rhodorix realized, so desperate that the insight gave him a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Maybe they could find and kill a few bands of raiders, but what would happen if his pitiful handful of mounted guardsmen had to face an army?
Andariel insisted that Rhodorix accompany him when he took the captured messages to the prince. They found Ranadar in his great hall, sitting on the dais with his advisors, all of them lounging in chairs around a small inlaid wooden table and drinking from golden cups. Rhodorix wondered which ones were the mages. All three of the men with the prince looked too young, too smooth and handsome to be learned counsellors to a cadvridoc. He realized that he’d not seen one old person in the entire fortress, though Hwilli had certainly implied that her master in herbcraft had reached some great age.
Rhodorix and Andariel knelt before the prince, who leaned down to take the saddlebag from them. When he showed his advisors the crest, they all leaned forward, faces suddenly grim. Ranadar handed the messages to the nearest one, then spoke to Andariel. Rhodorix could pick out a few words and phrases of what the prince said, and he understood even more of the captain’s report of the skirmish, since he of course knew what had happened. The prince listened, nodding now and then. Behind him the advisor was reading through the messages; as he finished a sheet, he handed it over to the next man at the table. All of them had turned grim as death itself.
When he finished, Andariel handed Ranadar the white crystal, apparently at the prince’s request. Ranadar turned to Rhodorix.
‘I’m well pleased with how you’ve served me,’ the prince said. ‘From now on, you shall have the title of horsemaster and be an honoured man among us.’
‘My thanks, honoured rhix,’ Rhodorix said, ‘but at least half the honour goes to Andariel. He’s the one who thought of the new saddles, and without them, we couldn’t fight half as well.’
‘Indeed!’ Ranadar turned to Andariel. ‘Then you’re too modest by half, my friend.’
Andariel smiled, but his eyes looked suspiciously moist. Rhodorix could guess that the prince rarely referred to any man in the fortress as a friend.
‘Your armourer deserves honour as well, my prince,’ Andariel said.
‘He shall have it, then. You must be tired and hungry. My honour goes with you.’
It was the best dismissal he’d ever heard, Rhodorix thought with a grin. They both rose, bowed, and took themselves away. At the door Rhodorix looked back to see the advisors standing up to huddle around the prince, each of them waving one of the pieces of parchment that held the messages.
Rhodorix followed his usual routine, bath house first, then back to his chamber. As he came up to the door, he heard Gerro’s voice and a woman giggling in answer. Suspicion flared in his blood like fever. He flung open the door to find Gerro lying half-naked on the bed and Hwilli’s friend Nalla sitting beside him. She held a pot of some sort of salve in one hand, but judging from the disarray of her hair, and from the fact that her tunic was hiked up around her waist, she’d been doing more for Gerro than treating his withered leg.
‘You might have knocked,’ Nalla said. She handed the salve to Gerontos and grabbed her tunic to pull it down.
‘My apologies.’ Rhodorix knew his face must have turned scarlet. ‘I’ll uh just uh go find Hwilli.’
He turned and beat a hasty retreat, slamming the door behind him. Yet despite the blush, he felt gratified that his younger brother had found a woman of his own, partly because he liked seeing Gerontos happy. And he won’t be sniffing around mine this way, he thought.
All too soon, however, things changed.
‘Hwilli, Nalla, all of you.’ Master Jantalaber appeared in the door of the refectory. ‘I have something important to tell you.’
At their long table the apprentices, male and female both, fell silent as he walked into the room. Jantalaber looked weary,
