Sir Rigil, who looked to be in his early thirties, had a wild air about him. A thin, reddish beard shaded his jaw, but his hair was short and blond. He wore midnight blue trimmed in black. Golden lightning bolts studded his black leather belt.
The black-armored knight turned from watching the scuffle and locked eyes with Achan. He drew a black sword.
Limbs shaking, Achan tugged Eagan’s Elk from his sheath and scrambled back. “Have we met?” Achan asked.
“No.” The knight grunted the word.
“Then why—”
The knight lashed out, his sleek blade whipping through the air, the tip slicing into the green tent. Achan parried and ducked. The swords clanged, and Eagan’s Elk vibrated in Achan’s sore hands. He gripped it tighter and blocked another series of strikes. He had no desire to attack, only to evade and deflect. His opponent’s blade clipped his chin.
Achan growled. He was still misjudging his parries. The closeness of the tents offered little room for anything but a massacre. Achan needed to get away, but the black-armored knight had blocked him in. Why were these men trying to kill him?
Clashing swords rang out all around, but Achan couldn’t be bothered by any battle but his own. Sweat or blood, or a combination, dripped off his chin. The knight attacked fiercely. The blades blurred in between them, and Achan’s burning arms could barely hold off the knight’s relentless rhythm.
Again and again his parry fell back under the force of his opponent’s strikes, and the black blade nicked him in small, teasing cuts. His forehead, his knee, his shin, his forearm. Achan ground his teeth. Why couldn’t he get it right? After a rapid combination of attacks and parries, Achan’s grip slipped. The knight lunged past Achan’s guard and sliced his bicep.
Achan yelped, more in shock than pain, and reeled back. He tripped over a tent peg and crashed to the ground. The knight leaped forward. He pressed his blade against Achan’s throat and stepped on his wounded arm.
Achan choked back a scream. Swords clashed behind the black-armored knight, but Achan couldn’t see their wielders. He stretched for Eagan’s Elk, but his blade was out of reach.
He looked into the knight’s grey eyes. He saw no hatred. Only an expression of superiority. Maybe he wouldn’t kill him. Maybe he was only toying with him.
Achan panted out, “Looks like you win this time.”
The knight only stared. Apparently, conversation was not on his list of skills.
“What’s this?” Prince Gidon’s regal voice pierced the mêlée, and the swordfight ceased. The prince stepped around the black-armored knight and peered down at Achan, his crown and jeweled belt glittering in the torchlight. He raised one dark eyebrow. “Well, Sir Nongo, I see you’ve bested my squire. What has he done now? Made fun of your hair?”
Sir Nongo, the black-armored knight, turned to the prince. “My hair, Your Highness?”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty.” Silvo stepped forward and bowed. “Your squire insulted me and my sister, Jaira.”
The prince’s brows shot up to his greasy hairline. “Lady Jaira is here?”
“No, Your Highness. This was days ago.”
“Yet you waited for Sir Nongo to do your dirty work?” The prince gave Silvo a bored stare. “I’m sure your claim is valid, Silvo. My squire does have a hinged tongue and a tendency for insubordination. Regardless, he’s all I have. Lord Nathak sent no one but Chora and this stray to serve me. So unless any of you wish to take my squire’s place, I suggest you let him live. I could care less who serves me. Any of you will do, and this stray does vex me greatly.” The prince looked from face to face. “No volunteers?” He sighed. “I suspected as much. Let him up, then.”
Sir Nongo stepped back, and Achan staggered to his feet. He retrieved Eagan’s Elk and sheathed it with shaky arms. The cut on his arm stung terribly. Blood soaked his sleeve to the elbow. The knights and squires dispersed, leaving Achan alone with Prince Gidon. Achan was glad to see that none of those who had come to his aid appeared to be wounded.
The prince sighed and strode off in the direction of his tent. “Don’t forget my water, stray.”
Achan found the water jug, still full, and lugged it after the prince using his good arm. His torso ached with every step. He spat blood out on the ground.
Those who crossed their path fell to their knees before the prince.
He turned to Achan and pointed. “See how my people revere me, stray?” He cocked his head to the side. “Why is it that you do not do the same?”
Achan shrugged, though the gesture stung his arm. He did his best to be obedient. If the prince wasn’t such a beast, he might try harder.
Prince Gidon persisted. “You have never once kneeled in my presence. Why?”
Achan didn’t answer as they approached the litter. It was true. He’d never kneeled before Prince Gidon, yet when Sir Gavin had introduced Prince Oren, Achan had fallen straight to his knees. Strange. “I dunno, Yer Highest.” He spat out another mouthful of blood. It hurt to talk.
The prince threw up his hands. “You don’t know. Well, I demand you start!”
Achan set the jug on the ground and lowered his bruised body to his knees, one at a time.
The prince looked down his pointed nose at Achan and sighed. “Oh, get up!”
“As yoo yish, Yer Highest.”
“And shut up!”
Achan was more than happy to, but raised one eyebrow just for fun.
That night the voices came in his mind, louder and more persistent than ever before. Achan remained open and silent, trying to listen for Sir Gavin, but the knight didn’t speak.
The person with the scratchy voice did. You have learned to close your mind, have you? Scratch said.
Aye. Achan was finding it easier to send thoughts back. I was just listening for someone.
Who?
I’d rather not say.
A woman’s voice spoke, Who are you?
What’s your name? a man asked.
You’re very talented. I should like to know you.
Can you all just be quiet? Achan said. I’d like to talk to Scratch.
Who is Scratch?
Block us out then. Have you no one to teach you?
Oh, never mind. Achan reached out for the allown tree.
The next morning, Chora and the Shield found Achan as the caravan readied to leave.
Chora held up a flask. “You are to drink this.” Chora twisted off the cap and offered it.
The Shield stepped toward Achan. “Now.”
Achan snatched the vial and smelled it. The tonic. If he took it, he wouldn’t be able to hear if Sir Gavin called to him. But his body had already been pounded like clay. He didn’t need to give Sir Kenton another reason to strike. He swallowed the bitter goop and handed the vial back. Chora nodded to Sir Kenton and they both walked away. No mentha. Clearly these fellows didn’t have all the facts.
He considered digging out a bread roll, but without any mentha leaves, the tonic would likely come up soon. Why waste breakfast?
Sure enough, a few minutes later, Achan retched into the bushes.
The morning was cool and cloudy. The procession was all lined up and ready to go. Achan hoped he could manage to keep up. His body ached terribly.
Bran approached. “Are you all right? Did they hit your head last night?”
Achan spat the nastiness from his mouth. “No. Ate something sour. Thanks for last night, by the way. I’d likely be dead if you and Sir Rigil hadn’t stepped in.”