Gail spun in close to the squire, ducking his swing, letting her momentum carry her legs into his. She fell. To some it must have looked like she had lost her footing, but it was by design: her legs, tangled with Kevin the squire’s, threw him off balance and caused him to tumble over. His overextended swing worked against him. Gail landed painfully on her hip but it was worth the pain to bring Kevin down. She pivoted, scissoring her legs as if running, came to a half-kneeling-half-standing position, the point of her sword pointed downward at Kevin’s neck.
“I yield,” he said, shamefaced. There was a scattering of applause from the edges of the ring, the most fervent of which came from Patrick, the other squire she had just bested, who now had company in defeat. She considered the two squires. In every way, Patrick was Kevin’s opposite: tall and fair where Kevin was dark and stocky. Patrick was careful, meticulous, and measured in his methods of attack. Kevin charged like an angry bull. But she had had the best of both of them.
And perhaps their grudging respect too.
Darid had kept her secret in the weeks that had passed, but her size had not won her many believers. It was only when she had the opportunity to fight in the practice ring that the soldiers and squires began to learn her name—Alex—and stop calling her Horse-boy as Sergeant Callum had named her.
Not that he had made any effort to change himself. “Nice work, Horse-boy,” he said from the edge of the fighting square. “Call us when you are full-sized and we’ll have a rematch.”
There was laughter, Gail wondering if it was directed at her or Callum himself, who would wear the scar she gave him for the rest of his days. He had surely concocted some story of heroic, high adventure to explain it, but she suspected most of the regiment knew the true story. Gail reached out a hand to help Kevin up. He took it. It was late, the sun setting and lighting the sandstone buttes and arid steppes to the east blood red. They had marched just shy of two weeks and here in the borderlands between Karrith and Antas was the first time they had stopped for more than three nights while scouts sought out the lay of the land and the position of the enemy forces.
The men were bored, restless, and likely scared, although they covered it with bluster and an outward eagerness for battle. Too eager, Gail thought. Fights had broken out among men of rival houses and nobles were squabbling with knights over who got to sit closer to the king at mealtimes. Kevin and Patrick told her all about it. Setting up fighting rings for the men to expend their extra energy had been Darid’s idea, and a good one.
“That is the first match I have lost in a long time,” Kevin said, dusting off his britches.
“Who had the best of you last time?” Patrick asked, handing his friend a waterskin.
“The king’s son himself,” Kevin said between gulps. “He’s undersized like you Alex, but quick as a bat.”
“I thought he was an imbecile,” she said, handing her practice sword to the next squire to take the ring.
“He suffers from the shaking sickness,” Kevin said, giving away his own sword and clearing the ring for the next pair. “But he can fight.”
“The shaking sickness . . . ,” she said, her voice trailing off. Seemed it was a more common malady than she had imagined, having just run across Derrick and his condition. Not a bad swordsman himself, come to think of it . . . .
They made their way along the main avenue of the tent city that was the camp, the air redolent with the smell of roasting meat, horse manure, and the smoke of a thousand campfires. The clack of practice swords and even real ones accompanied by the eruption of cheers or jeers followed them all the way back to the noble’s compound, that circle of tents in the heart of the camp where the king’s court was held and their master’s tents were pitched. She said farewell to her friends and parted ways, knowing that both young men would be required to wait on their lords for the dinner hour. It was a secret Gail kept closely guarded that Darid did not expect much from her. He preferred comradery to servitude and they often ate at the camp table as equals. From the way he driveled on about an ebony-skinned woman with wavy hair waiting for him in Karrith, she never suspected Darid of wanting anything more from herself than friendship.
She stepped around the fire pit. Soot cawed at her from the peak of the tent. It was no surprise to her that Darid himself had already set a cauldron of boiling vegetables and beans as well as a chicken carcass over the fire. She reached in, pulled out a stewed carrot, and threw it to Soot. Her stomach grumbled as she caught a whiff of the stew before she put the top back on, then snapped back the flap and stepped into the dim light of the tent interior. What she saw caused her to stop short and bite her tongue, silencing the casual greeting she had been about to blurt out to her master.
Darid was seated with his back to her, in the very seat she was accustomed to using. Across the camp table from him sat a man who even in his chair gave the impression of being tall. His hands rested on either arm of the chair and his purple cloak with blue border was tossed over the back. The seal on his surcoat was a hammer crossed over a sword. His hair was black but for gray at the temples that shone in the light drifting in from above. His face was freshly shorn but was still full of furrows and shadows as if he were a man of deep worries and old sorrows. He was still but for his eyes which darted to Gail as she entered unannounced. Darid’s chair groaned as he turned.
“Alex, take a knee for the King.”
Her throat caught and her knee smarted as she crashed down to genuflect, her chin on her chest, her eyes to the floor.
“My liege,” she said, her hands trembling, outlaw that she was, in the presence of the living law himself. “I will take my leave.”
“No,” Darid said. “Fetch us some goblets and wine, Alex.”
Gail obeyed. She obeyed as she had never obeyed her own father, pulling the goblets from their traveling trunk, uncorking the wine, and pouring the cups half full and filling the rest with drinking water. Her hands shook. She was untrained to serve royalty. Darid did not even require her to serve him. As if he sensed her uncertainty, Darid motioned for her to simply set the cups on the table. Then she stood back into the shadows as she had seen other servants do at her own father’s manor, wishing herself invisible. The two men continued their discussion as if she were not there.
“The scouts report to me that the countryside has been raided and ransacked. The tribe of barbarians, the Maurvant they call themselves, have murdered woman, children, and warriors. Until now they kept peacefully to the steppes, why they attack now is still a mystery. They have taken no holdfasts nor do they set up lines to demark their territory. Instead they strike at random. The people are frightened and have fled to the refuge of the city walls. Now breadlines are long, streets are choked with people, and gutters are overflowing. The city bursts at the seams. King Oean must keep his forces around the city to protect all of the refugees that have flocked there.”
“Things have grown worse since I left,” Darid said.
“Which is why I know my own mind and wished to share it with you before the court. I will make a show of deliberating, but we must push forward before the sun sets again.”
“Understood, but sire, why not give the order now?”
“I am giving it. You will discreetly share it with the other captains of the regular troops. I will let the nobles debate it. It is what they are best at. A necessary step. They will choose to move forward, once every man has spoken his piece and each man’s pride is satisfied. It is the illusion of compromise and contribution while not losing time on our part.”
“Well played.”
“It’s not that I do not have reservations. We do not know the Maurvant’s numbers, their locations, or why they have turned on us now after so many long years of proximity and coexistence. But I fear the people of Karrith have waited too long and our own men are restless.”
Both sentiments rang true to Gail, however, something did not sit right with her. Something so straightforward she was vexed that neither Darid nor the king mentioned it. She curled her toes and pressed her lips together. Sweat pooled in her armpits and she felt a bead escape and run down her side. The tactics of the Maurvant were familiar to her. They were her own, from her previous incarnation as Avenger Red. But who was she to speak out of place among a captain and a king?
They would know better than she. They had to.
She remained silent as the men continued. When discussions concerning the enemy were concluded, Darid asked news of the king’s son.
“Still no word. Missing now since before we left. But I trust Yana to find him.”
“Ill times for a prince to go missing.”
“No doubt, but do not mention it, lest nobles start to talk of conspiracies, that goes for your squire too,” the king said, nodding at Gail.
“Don’t worry,” Darid said. “Alex is good at keeping secrets.”