Gar took mercy on him and slowed his horse to a walk. “Pull back on the reins, and he’ll slow—but remember the tenderness of his mouth, and be gentle!”
Ian did as Gar bade him, and the pony slowed to a walk. Gar nodded in approval. “You catch it quickly, lad.”
Quickly! Ian’s bottom was already so sore that he wondered if he’d be able to walk when he dismounted—and he wasn’t at all sure he’d ever want to ride again. But, “You’ll be a decent horseman, by the time we reach Lord Aran’s castle,” Gar assured him. “It will take a year or more for you to learn it fully, though, even if you are a quick study.”
“So long, sir?” Ian bleated in dismay.
“Oh, you’ll be able to ride by the time we reach the castle,” Gar said, lounging in his saddle. “That’s two nights’ ride. You take to the saddle so well, lad, that it will be like walking for you—or running. But to begin to think like a part of the horse? No, that takes time.” He grinned down at Ian. “Don’t let it bother you, lad. You’ve much else to learn, betimes. There’re the dagger and the sword, for instance, and you must learn three different styles: saber, rapier, and straight sword. Then there’s archery, as soon as we get you a bow. Never touched one, I gather?”
“Never.” Ian shook his head. “Such things are only for serfs who are appointed soldiers by their lords—and for gentlemen like yourself.”
“Of course.” Gar nodded. “Serfs are allowed no weapons at all. I have seen it.”
Ian wondered at the last phrase. Had the freelance not grown up knowing that serfs were forbidden weapons? Again, he wondered: what manner of man was Gar?
“Then, too, you must learn to play the harp,” Gar said, turning back to look at the road ahead. “A song may take you places where swordplay cannot. War does not always stride through this land; a mercenary should be able to turn his hand to a peaceful occupation, as well as a warlike one.”
“ ‘Mercenary’?” Ian looked up. “What is that, sir?”
“Why, bless you, boy, that is you!” Gar grinned. “You and myself! A mercenary is a freelance—a soldier who fights for money, rather than for friendship, or loyalty, or land. A mercenary is a soldier like me, Ian.”
“Then that is what I wish to be.” Ian nodded, sure that this much, at least, he would remember forever. “I shall learn quickly and well, sir!”
“I am certain of it.” Gar leaned down to clap him on the shoulder. “But you must become a gentleman, Ian, and it will help if you know something of it, and therefore must I question you. To begin with, know you nothing of fighting?”
“With my fists, a little,” Ian answered. “We boys were always fighting amongst ourselves in the village, though the men were not allowed to—and wrestling, of course.”
Gar nodded. “Better than nothing, certainly. And, of course, the quarterstaff?”
“Oh, yes,” Ian said. “The bailiff and soldiers encouraged us to learn that. Lord Murthren said that it was so that he could call us to fight for him as soldiers, if he needed us.”
Gar frowned. “Strange.” Ian looked up. “Why, sir?”
Gar was slow in answering. “I should think your lord would not let you learn any skills that would allow you to fight against his soldiers, if it came into your head to do so.”
“But it would not,” Ian said, surprised. “What quarterstaff could hold against a sword, or even a halberd, my lord?”
“Any,” Gar said flatly, and the answer jolted Ian. “If they never tell you that, though, you would never think of it. But there is a way a quarterstaff can best a sword—and be sure I’ll teach you that. And, if you know a quarterstaff, you can learn a blade easily—well, not easily,” he amended, “but you’ll catch the knack of it more quickly.”
“But Master Gar, it is against the law for a serf to touch weapons! If I am caught, they will hang me!” Gar smiled, amused. “You are already a fugitive, lad. If they catch you, they’ll flog you within an inch of your life, then make you walk home, and you’ll probably die on the way. Which way would you rather pass?”
Ian swallowed, and was silent.
The freelance was as good as his word; by the time they reached the castle of Lord Aran two days later, Ian had already learned how to care for the horses, saddle and bridle his own mount, pluck a few chords on the harp, and thrust and parry with his sword. Of course, Gar would not let him use the real blade, when the two of them dueled in practice, nor would he himself—he insisted they use willow wands. Then, after the practice, he demanded that Ian stand still, holding his sword across his palms at arm’s length for a minute, then two, then three, then four, then five … Ian was amazed at how quickly his arms began to ache, but found he could bear it.
They chatted as they rode, Gar telling Ian amusing stories of his travels, and exciting tales of battle. Between them, he asked Ian about himself, even though the boy protested he had never done anything interesting, only lived in a little village and done his chores. But Gar pressed him for details anyway, and seemed fascinated by the homely accounts of Ian’s boyhood friendships and conflicts, of his games and fights, of the holy day celebrations and the winters’ tales against the darkness and the blizzards. Ian was reticent at first, but talked more and more easily as the sincerity of Gar’s interest became apparent, until he was chattering away, warming to Gar’s attention as a flower opens to the sun, until he found himself telling of his father’s flogging and his own escape. Here Gar reined in the horses and dismounted to walk a while with his arm around the boy, saying little, but comforting him by his mere presence. When the tears had dried, Gar said gently, “What I can’t understand is how you lasted through the first night, until I found you. Did you spend it all in the Stone Egg?”
“No, sir. I hid with the Little People.”
“The Little People?” Gar looked up, startled. “Are they real, then?”
“Oh yes, sir!” Ian looked up at him, wondering again how Gar could have lived all his life in this land and not known so simple a thing. “They hid me in their hall, but only for the one night—they feared Lord Murthren’s searchers would lead him to me, and they would be discovered.”
“So they fear the soldiers, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How is it I haven’t seen them?”
Ian shrugged. “Because of that fear, sir. They hide in their halls, and none see them unless the dwarves themselves wish it.”
“Well.” Gar paced a moment in silence, then said, “if you should chance to see them again, tell them I said they have succeeded far better than they know.”
Ian wondered at that, but knew better than to ask. They mounted again, and rode on their way through the night.
They came to Lord Aran’s castle shortly after dawn. The country was flat here, farmlands and woodlots spreading out as far as the eye could see, with no hill on which to build a castle—so Lord Aran’s stronghold sat in the middle of a cleared plain, on an island in a small lake. The villages of his serfs were scattered all about the shore, three or four of them, and a score more out in the fields.
The castle itself was of granite, with four tall, battlemented towers around the squat central cylinder of the keep, which rose high above the sixty-foot curtain wall. A long wooden causeway, built of timbers a foot thick, stretched out to the castle, but stopped twelve feet short of its gate, and the drawbridge that made up the rest of its length was drawn up now.
There was another drawbridge at the shoreward end of the causeway; it too was drawn up.
Gar and Ian rode up to the shore opposite the drawbridge. Gar dismounted and said, “Out of the saddle, lad, and let your pony graze. We’ve a wait before us, till they open up for the day.”