He advanced again and the men fell back, confused. ‘What is the problem, children? Can’t make up your minds about who will be the first? What about you?’ he asked, stepping in close to a lean, bearded man. The knife-man jumped back so suddenly he fell over a chair. The other two sheathed their knives and backed away. Dace laughed at them. ‘What a trio of buttercups,’ he said. ‘Pick up your friend and get him to a surgeon.’ Swinging towards the bar, he called out, ‘Two more jugs of ale, if you please.’
The men carried the unconscious attacker from the tavern and Dace helped Brune to his feet. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asked.
‘My head hurts,’ said Brune.
‘Ah well, you’re used to that,’ said Dace happily. Ceofrin brought the jugs, and leaned in to Dace.
‘I think you had better move on, my friend. The man you . . . injured … is highly connected.’
‘His arm isn’t,’ said Dace, with a wide smile.
‘I mean it, Tarantio. He is a cousin of the Duke and a close friend of Vint, the Duke’s Champion.’
‘Champion, you say? Is he any good?’
‘It is said he has killed thirty men. That makes him good – to my reckoning, anyway.’
Dace lifted his jug and half drained it. ‘It makes him interesting,’ he agreed. Ceofrin shook his head and moved away.
‘You promised,’ said Tarantio.
‘I kept my promise. I didn’t know someone was going to punch the idiot. And I didn’t kill him, brother.’
‘You crippled him!’
‘You said nothing about crippling people. Did you hear what he said about Vint?’
‘Yes. And we are going to avoid him.’
‘There is no sense of adventure in you.’ The door opened and Duvodas stepped in. The crowd saw him, and began to cheer. ‘Damn!’ said Dace. ‘Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself. I think I’ll sleep now.’
Tarantio took a deep breath. ‘Where is the man who hit me?’ asked Brune.
‘He’s gone,’ replied Tarantio.
‘Did you hurt him?’ asked Brune.
‘I think I did,’ said Tarantio.
Goran, the shepherd boy, was forced to wait at the garrison for a full day as he tried to make his report. As night fell he sat shivering beneath an archway at the
main gate. A kindly sentry shared his supper ration with the boy, and found him an old blanket to wrap around his slender frame. Even so the cold autumn winds chilled him. Finally another soldier came to fetch him, and he was taken to a small office inside the garrison where the soldier ordered him to sit down and wait. Moments later a slender, middle-aged officer entered and sat down at a narrow desk. He looked tired, thought Goran, and bored. The officer looked at him long and hard. ‘I am Capel,’ he said. ‘For my sins I am the second in command of this … outpost. So tell me, child, your important news.’ Goran did so, and Capel listened without expression until the boy concluded his tale of black moons and monster warriors on monster horses.
‘You understand, child,’ he said, ‘that such a fanciful tale is likely to see you strapped to the post for twenty lashes?’
‘It’s true, sir. I swear it on my mother’s grave.’
The officer rose wearily to his feet. ‘I’ll take you to the captain. But this is your last chance, boy. He is not a forgiving man, and certainly not noted for having a sense of humour.’
‘I must see him,’ said Goran.
Together they walked through the corridors of the garrison keep, and up a flight of winding stairs. Capel tapped on a door and entered, bidding the boy to wait. After several minutes, the door opened and Goran was called inside. There he told his story again to a young, fat man with dyed blond hair and soft eyes.
The fat man questioned him at even greater length than the older officer. Goran answered every question to the best of his ability. Finally the captain rose and poured himself a goblet of wine. ‘I would like to see this miracle,’ he said. ‘You will ride with me, boy. And if it proves – as