Dead, of course—or the property of some lord. Like as not, he owned no mount of his own, but rode whatever nag was given him by the nobleman who employed him. He might leave, but the horse would stay.
“Look carefully before you drink,” he said to Ian, “and listen more closely. If you had, you would have heard me step up to the stream and sit down.” Then he frowned, and Ian shrank back from the sudden grimness of his face. “What are you doing, out here in the middle of the forest, alone at night? Your parents will be worried.”
Ian heaved a sigh of relief. This soldier did not even know that his parents were dead, so he could not have been sent here to search for a runaway serf boy.
The soldier was looking impatient. “Come, boy—how is it you are out here late, and alone?”
“I…” Ian bit his lip. “I came out to … to gather nuts.” He didn’t even sound convincing to himself.
Nor to the freelance. “So late at night?”
“It was this morning, sir,” Ian improvised. “But I lost my way, and try as I would to find my home, I think I’m even further lost. So I have no idea where I am, or where my home is.”
The freelance scowled, like a thundercloud. “You are a very poor liar,” he said severely. Suddenly, he smiled again. “Well, I am properly served. It is no business of mine, why you are out here—and if you lie about it, you seem to feel no need of my help to get home again.” He looked Ian over, puzzled. “Too young to have a brand on you. Still, there is no doubt you are a serf’s son. If the soldiers catch you here, late and alone at night, it will go hard with you.” He seemed to come to a decision, and stood. Ian stared up at him, awed, for the process of standing seemed to go on and on as the man unfolded and expanded. He was a giant, or at least, much taller than any man Ian had ever seen!
He held out a hand. “Walk with me, then, boy, and I’ll be your protection from them. You are my apprentice, accompanying me to polish my armor and mend my clothes.”
Ian seized the hand with relief and gladness—here was a friend where he had least expected to find one, his passport out of the forest and to safety.
But…
“Sir,” he said, “will the foresters believe it?”
The freelance smiled. “It is rare, true. Few blankshield soldiers would wish to burden themselves with a child. Still, it is not unknown, and when we’ve come out of the forest, I will buy you some clothes that befit your new station. We will say that you are my nephew.”
But Ian remembered that the soldiers who were looking for him would scarcely believe such a tale—and that they were still looking for a young serf boy who had run away.
It was almost as though the soldier heard his thoughts. “There were foresters and soldiers thick about here just now. Like as not, they were hunting for you. They would scarcely believe such a tale.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “Yes. We had better go quickly, then, boy, and very quietly, by back trails. What have you done, that they should search for you by night in this wilderness?”
Ian’s heart leaped into his throat—but he swallowed, and forced himself to speak. What could he say, except the truth? Anything else would be to abuse this new-found friend. If he chose to have nothing to do with a runaway, well, then Ian was no worse off than before—but if he found it out later, then he might betray Ian to the foresters in anger. “I have escaped, sir.” Not all the truth, perhaps, but enough.
And the soldier seemed satisfied. He nodded and said, “Come, then. I know what it is, to escape—and be found.”
Ian looked up, startled at his tone—but the freelance was no longer smiling, nor looking at him. He was gazing straight ahead, frowning—and remembering.
Basic training was a crashing bore. Magnus couldn’t understand why the other recruits complained so much—ten-mile hikes in the middle of the night were an inconvenience, of course, but nothing he hadn’t had to do at home, now and then. Learning to ride was no problem for a young man who had virtually grown up on horseback, though his city-bred companions had quite a few choice words to say about the hardness of their saddles as they were learning to post. He became used to hearing them grumble, “Where are the brakes on this thing?” and, “Show him who’s boss, she says! Confounded beast knows who’s boss, no matter who’s in the saddle!”
Magnus had the good sense to keep his mouth shut when the instructor was teaching them how to pitch camp, and did pick up a few useful tricks without giving in to the impulse to mention a few of his own. He went on keeping his mouth shut while Svenson, the grizzled old field agent who was in charge of martial arts, gave them a ritual dressing-down and challenge before he began teaching them.
“Ed Gar!” he snorted as he passed Magnus, checking his name from the list. He looked him up and down, mostly up, and said, “Gar Pike, more likely, as long as you are, and with that length of jaw!”
Magnus didn’t respond, recognizing the gambit of insult, to make him know his place. Svenson eyed him hungrily, hoping for indignation, for a challenge to put down, but didn’t get it, and only sighed as he turned away to the next recruit, shaking his head. Then he gave them a brief lecture about martial arts, telling them why they wore such outlandish uniforms for practice, and how the color of the belt denoted the level of their skill, which was why theirs were white. To his credit, he told them a little of the philosophy underlying it, too, though it was mostly as a guide to how to defeat an attacker.
Then he put them through their paces in unarmed combat. Magnus dutifully mimicked every move the man made, duplicated every sequence of blows, but forgot to do it clumsily at first, and the veteran pulled him aside at the end of the second session. “Done this before, haven’t you?”
“I didn’t think it showed,” Magnus answered. “When you do every move exactly right the first time? You bet it shows! What belt do you hold?” Magnus could have claimed to be a belted knight, which was true, but he knew it wasn’t quite what the man had in mind. “None.”
“No belt?” Svenson frowned-up, of course. He was a foot shorter than Magnus, though just as heavily built, and almost as fast. “Your instructor’s guilty of gross negligence! What school did you go to?”
“None, for martial arts,” Magnus said.
Svenson’s frown deepened. “Where’d you learn it, then?”
“From my father, as I grew up.”
Svenson turned away, looking exasperated, and nodded. “Yep, that explains it, all right. Here I am, trying to teach these lunkheads something that you took for granted. I don’t suppose he ever took you to competition?”
Magnus knew he was speaking of formal tournaments, not actual combat. “No. We lived very far out in the … boondocks.” The word was unfamiliar, but he managed to remember it.
“Too far to go to the nearest tournament, eh? What did he teach you? Kung fu? Karate? Jujitsu?” Magnus stared, then spread his hands, at a loss. “He taught me to fight.”