The Plains of Kallanash (33 page)

Bulraney spent about two hours on the training grounds each day. He would choose one or another of the more skilled swordsmen to practise with, although it was more a demonstration of his ferocious aggression and strength, against which even Skirmisher-trained men like Ainsley soon crumbled. Or perhaps they felt it expedient to lose to their Commander.

Most of the time, Bulraney stood laughing and joking with a group of cronies, or else strode about, fully mailed and helmed, with Hurst’s sword on his hip and several daggers at his waist, carrying a short wooden stick with a strip of leather at one end. From time to time he would select a hapless junior, watch his nervous efforts with sword or bow or spear for a few minutes, and then with a sigh and a flick to the cheek or wrist, he would shout his displeasure, correct the position of a shoulder or foot or finger apparently at random, then stride off elsewhere. Hurst avoided him as much as possible, and fortunately Bulraney seemed to have an equal aversion to him. It was just as well, for any attempt to correct Hurst’s swordwork would have ended badly.

“It would be quite impressive, all that shouting and hitting and adjusting,” Gantor murmured to Hurst one day, “if the man had even the slightest idea what he was doing. As often as not, he makes them worse.”

“He certainly makes them confused,” Hurst agreed, as they watched Bulraney accosting one of Ainsley’s pupils and undoing in an instant an hour’s patient work.

The Commander was just as erratic over discipline. A young man who accidentally spilled horse feed when startled was dragged off to be flogged without a word of defence. Two men fighting over their ale one evening were pulled apart and one of them arbitrarily sent away to Supplies for a month, even though Hurst would have said the fault lay more with the other. But then two of Bulraney’s friends who beat up a junior for some misdemeanour were merely cuffed on the arm and admonished in amused tones. It was disquieting, and if he planned to stay there Hurst would have felt obliged to do something about it, but he rather hoped that he would soon be leaving.

~~~

One morning as they were having their porridge, Trimon came rushing over, his face filled with suppressed excitement. As soon as they’d all eaten, he took them off to a quiet corner of the training grounds.

“You’ll never guess who I’ve seen!” he said, beaming from ear to ear. “Mista! Or rather, Deena, that’s what she’s called now. She’s here, in the Commander’s House.”

“What’s she doing there?” Walst said, and then smiled wryly. “Oh – the obvious, I suppose.”

“Bulraney?” Hurst asked.

“No, she just sees to the Captains, her and another woman. Bulraney has his own woman. Well, it was my turn last night to have one of them in my bed, and it turned out to be Mista. Just like home, really.”

“Did she tell you what happened to Mia and the others?”

“Marna and Morsha she knew nothing about, except that they’re not here. They like to split them up, apparently. Mia’s gone too. The Warlord was here that day, so she thinks maybe he took Mia.” He looked warily at Hurst.

“Hmm. Is that good news or bad?”

“Everyone’s terrified of him,” said Walst. “He’s a real scary bugger, so I’ve heard.”

“He seemed all right in the battle,” Gantor said.

“He’s very strict, it seems,” Trimon said, “but he won’t let anyone hurt the women, so Mia’s safe enough with him, Mista says. If she
is
with him. Even if he took her, he could have passed her on to one of the other Sections, or even further afield. He fell out with his last woman and traded her to another Warlord for some horses.”

“Does she know anything about Tella or Jonnor?” Walst asked.

“No. She was surprised when I asked. It hadn’t occurred to her that they might still be alive too. She’s going to ask around, quietly.”

“Is she all right?” Hurst said.

“Yes, seems to be. She was pleased to know we’re here. But she said to watch out for Bulraney. He’s a bit unpredictable, she says.”

“Yes, we’ve noticed,” Hurst said. “I plan to keep well out of his way.”

~~~

It took Walst two weeks to bring his challenge against Delnor, and even then he was pushed into it by some of the friends he’d made in the group. Once he had roundly beaten all the best swordsmen amongst them, they began to pester him to take on Delnor, so one morning over the porridge he made his challenge formally. Delnor nodded curtly, for it was not unexpected. They went straight out to the training grounds, everyone else streaming out behind them to form an excited audience. A challenge was always fun for the spectators, and numerous bets were made on the outcome.

Once the combatants had got all their gear on, Walst saluted his opponent in the Skirmisher way, sword point raised, and the fight began. Hurst could see at once that Delnor was no match for his challenger. He had a little more height than Walst, and a certain natural ability, and he was fit enough, since he practised obsessively every day, but his swordplay was simplistic, repeating the same few moves over and over. Walst, on the other hand, was a fully trained Skirmisher and a successful tournament competitor. It was really no contest at all, but Walst cleverly made it look closer than it was. When had he grown so circumspect? Perhaps his new friends had advised him, or was he just naturally cautious in this place he knew so little about? Gradually he moved in on Delnor and with a quick motion of the wrist disarmed him, to a great cheer from the crowd.

Delnor threw his hands in the air in surrender, tore off his helmet and mailed gloves and stalked away. He stopped by Bulraney, who had watched everything in glowering silence, and the two whispered together for a minute, then they turned and walked away from the noisy group congratulating Walst, and passed close by Hurst, Gantor and Trimon, standing quietly together.

“They think they’re so clever, these
Skirmishers
,” Bulraney said loudly enough to be heard. His eyes sought Hurst’s and held them for a long moment. Then he strode off.

“What did
we
do to upset him?” Gantor murmured.

Later that morning, Hurst was working with one of the newly promoted untrained warriors, a young man of about seventeen, practising some of the basic low sword strokes, when Bulraney appeared. For a while he simply stood watching as they worked
– thrust, parry, thrust, parry, over and over, teaching a degree of automation to the muscles and confidence to the mind. Hurst was so engrossed, he had almost forgotten the Commander was there, until Bulraney suddenly said, “Higher, boy! Keep your sword up!”

Nervously, with a glance at Hurst, he raised his sword a little.

“No, no! Up here, you fucking idiot!” And Bulraney clouted his elbow with his stick until the sword was at what he considered the proper height. “Better. Now keep it there.” And he glared at Hurst, as if defying him to contradict him.

“All right, Ranniff,” Hurst said calmly, “let’s try that. Come at me.”

Gamely, Ranniff did, sword swinging around his head. Hurst neatly parried, rolled to one side and poked his own sword into Ranniff’s exposed side.

“So now you’re dead,” Hurst said, rolling up onto his feet in one fluid motion. “Low is better, until you know what you’re doing. Shall we go back to what we were practising?”

Ranniff looked uncertainly from Hurst to Bulraney and back again. Bulraney had gone purple.

“Are you questioning my authority here?” he bellowed. Ranniff instinctively jumped back two paces, even though it wasn’t aimed at him.

“Not at all,” Hurst said. “Only your knowledge of swordwork.” And then, belatedly, added, “Sir.”

Bulraney strode forward until he was practically touching Hurst. He was a head taller and twice the width, and Hurst was uneasily aware that it was all muscle.

“You fucking Skirmishers!” he hissed. “You think you’re so much better than everyone else, don’t you? You turn up out of fucking nowhere, and we’re supposed to just bend over for you, I suppose.”

Hurst stepped back, one hand raised placatingly, but Bulraney was as unstoppable as a stampeding kishorn.

“You think you know everything! Low is better, says you. Ha! I’ve been in more battles than you’ve had pimples, I daresay, and I could put you in the dirt with one hand tied behind my back,
Skirmisher
!”

Hurst laughed. He knew it was a mistake, but Bulraney looked so ridiculous with his bulging eyes and the muscles in his neck standing out and his spitting anger, he just couldn’t help it.

“I’d like to see you try,” he said.

For just an instant, Bulraney’s face registered surprise. Then he hurled his stick at Hurst and drew his sword.

Within seconds, Hurst found that he and Bulraney were the centre of a huge empty space, ringed by white-faced warriors scrambling clear. Hurst leapt backwards to put himself out of range.

“
’Ware battle sword!” someone shouted.

“Noted!” Hurst called back, but he didn’t need to be told. It was his own sword wielded against him, and although it looked much like any other Skirmisher sword, apart from the Karningholder jewels on the hilt, he knew it was fashioned from the finest metals, and perfectly balanced. And razor sharp. But it was designed for him and his preference for carrying his sword on his back in its special scabbard, ready to draw, so it was shorter than average, too short, probably, for a man of Bulraney’s size.

Bulraney moved slowly forward, and Hurst backed away, matching him step for step. He tried to remember what was behind him. There were barrels not too far away marking the edge of the training grounds, and he hoped someone would warn him before he reversed into them. He began to circle around, so that he was backing in a different direction, never taking his eyes from Bulraney.

“Shield!” a voice called. He could see from the corner of his eye someone holding it out, ready for him to slip onto his arm. He risked a quick dash across, but barely got hold of it before Bulraney was on him. It was enough, and after a brief clash of swords, he was able to jump out of reach again and get the shield properly in place. Someone gave Bulraney a shield too, but he barely needed it. He was clad from head to toe in full battle gear, with only the gorget missing. Presumably he hadn’t found one big enough to fit his ox-like neck. Hurst was bare-headed, with nothing but reinforced leather for protection elsewhere. On his hands were his thin fingerless leather gloves.

It was outrageous, of course, to draw a battle sword on a man without mail or helmet and armed only with a practice sword. For a Skirmisher, it was one of the few offences punishable by execution, but then Karning Law hardly applied here. There were rules, and the Warlord was the final arbiter, but here and now, Bulraney was the law. Hurst suspected that Bulraney would pay no penalty, even if he were to kill a man. And how was he to avoid that outcome? On level terms, he knew he could beat Bulraney easily, but with only a practice sword… He had his knives at his belt, of course, but his axes were sitting under his bed, and Bulraney had even more weaponry on him. It was not promising.

Hurst had spent several weeks taking one reckless decision after another, thoughtless of his own safety, not even caring if he died, but now that the reality was upon him, he found that he cared more than he’d realised. Or perhaps it was simply a wish not to die arbitrarily at the whim of a callous man like Bulraney. If I go, he thought savagely, then I’m taking you with me. You’re going to have to work for this. And, as always, whether in battle or in a skirmish or in the tournament, his mind cleared and his focus intensified and his world narrowed to these few square yards of dirt and the man arrogantly proposing to kill him with his own sword.

Calmly, as he made a few easy thrusts to test Bulraney’s reach, he ran through possibilities in his mind. He regretted now that he hadn’t paid more attention when the man was training. But still, he knew enough to be sure that he was not Skirmisher trained. Probably he depended more on his size and strength than on skill, but experience had taught him that big men could be surprisingly fast and light on their feet. Nor could he depend on endurance, for Bulraney was at least as fit as he was. But as they exchanged exploratory parries, he could see that Bulraney favoured his right side, attacking Hurst’s left almost exclusively. His weight and the heavy gear would be an advantage, too, if he could ever get him on the ground, for he would surely be slow to rise. But the sword was a problem. A single mistake would cost him his life.

He knew the instant Bulraney switched to a more serious attack, no longer testing him but intent on real injury. He could see it in his eyes. But Bulraney misjudged it, probably because he was used to a longer sword, and Hurst was able to turn the sword aside, step nimbly out of the way of Bulraney’s bulk and allow his momentum to carry him past. Had he also had a battle sword, his opponent would have been dead, but as it was all he could do was clout the back of his knees hard enough to bring him down. It was not enough, for although Bulraney dropped to his knees, he kept hold of his sword and even from the ground had the strength to bring it round quickly enough to nick Hurst on the arm before he could scramble aside. He heard the gasp from the watching crowd, and felt warm blood trickle down his arm. It was his shield arm, fortunately, and he barely noticed.

Bulraney, however, was now enraged beyond caution. With a roar of anger, he boiled back to his feet and rushed full tilt at Hurst, hurling his shield away to bring both hands to bear on the sword, raised above his head. Hurst waited until he was almost on him, then rolled to the ground and took out Bulraney’s feet. Another roll brought him round to the side. Bulraney had gone sprawling but he was already half up. Hurst clouted him on the side of the head with his shield and then, when he was unbalanced, hit his wrist hard enough to dislodge the sword. Jumping to his feet, a kick in the face had Bulraney flat on his back, a boot on his chest, Hurst’s sword at his throat.