For an instant, all Arwain's training seemed to leave him, but he retained sufficient wit to realize that someone might be behind him, and he turned round quickly as he retreated.
Then one of the attackers charged at him suddenly, levelling a powerful blow at his head. Arwain knew that the blow would be reduced in force if he faltered and failed to take action, but that did little to reassure the response of his body to the onslaught, and he ducked wildly, just remembering to step to one side as he did.
Then came another and another. Most he avoided successfully, though gracelessly. Others he managed to avoid and deflect, but eventually, fortuitously finding himself on balance, he stepped deeply into one, swept the striking arm downward and threw the attacker towards two of the others who were just approaching. It prompted an ironic round of applause, then, as he paused to watch his assailant roll back up on to his feet, a powerful pair of arms encircled him and two of his attackers gleefully moved forward to seize his legs.
Ryllans, practicing swordwork nearby, favoured him with a knowingly raised eyebrow as he was dumped ignominiously on the hard stone flagging. It was a customary end to such exercises. Or was it?
Arwain rolled suddenly into the nearest pair of legs, causing their owner to lose balance, then he struggled to his feet as quickly as he could, turning to face his attackers as he did so.
A white smile parted Hadryn's black beard.
Then there was some explanation, some debate, a few brief demonstrations, and the exercise was repeated-several times.
Gradually the sweating figures made a mist of their own in the sealed courtyard as Arwain struggled to be calm and yet alert amid the plethora of attackers.
He knew that he was making progress but, as he practiced, he knew too that he could never be as these men were. They absorbed his wilder punches with such ease, either by solid and painful blocks or by gentle deflections that took his balance utterly. And when thrown they simply rolled back up on to their feet as if they had been training on soft spring turf. True, he could do that himself, but two small bones at the bottom of his back told him he did not do it so well, and usually told him for several days afterwards.
Then there was an unexpected voice close behind him.
'Lord.'
He spun round, seized the speaker by the throat with one powerful hand, and thrust him against the wall, only to let him go immediately amid some laughter from his companions.
The man was one of the Duke's messengers.
'Tut tut,’ someone whispered in his ear ironically. ‘Assault on a Ducal messenger. That's a summary flogging if the Liktors get to hear of it, I fear. Shall I call one?'
Arwain dismissed his tormentor with a push.
'I'm sorry,’ he said to the messenger, helping him vainly to straighten his rumpled collar. ‘I'm afraid you picked an inopportune moment to approach me. What is it you want?'
The messenger cleared his throat in a slightly injured manner, though directing his reproach at the smirking guards rather than his Duke's son.
'Your father wishes to see you, lord, immediately,’ he said.
Arwain could not forbear a brief scowl of impatience. But his father's word was not to be disputed.
He held out his hands in a plea. ‘Immediately?’ he asked. The messenger, still struggling with his collar, looked at the sweat-stained figure in front of him, momentarily bewildered. Lords did not ask advice of messengers.
'Immediately,’ he echoed dutifully.
Chapter 8
Antyr threw his wringing cloak on to the floor, dropped into his chair and let out a pitiful groan. His back was aching, his legs were aching, his feet were burning and he was soaked to the skin and chilled to the marrow.
He sat motionless, gazing blankly up at a familiar smoke stain on the ceiling immediately above a lamp. Acute self-pity at his physical plight had long since driven all other concerns from his mind and it was some time before coherent thoughts began to seep back again. When they did, they were rudimentary and primitive and he was moved to speak them out loud.
'I'm dying,’ he said to the smoke stain. ‘If not dead. Tarrian, wherever you are, don't come back, there'll only be my exhausted corpse waiting for you. You faithless hound, leaving me to die of exposure.'
'Stop moaning, and open this door.’ The unexpected reply rang sharply in his head, making him jump.
Despite this, however, and his previous complaint, Antyr felt a sense of relief stirring somewhere underneath his fatigue. Then, closing his eyes, he pushed himself up out of his chair with a monumental effort. His sluggishness was greeted by an impatient scratching on the front door.
'Stop that,’ he shouted. ‘That door's damaged enough with your impatience.'
A short but eloquent string of abuse from Tarrian entered his mind, embellishing the information that he was not the only one who was cold and weary. From its tone Antyr deemed it wiser not to reply. Instead, he stepped well back and lifted the latch of the door. It was a routine precaution based on previous experience and its value was confirmed as Tarrian crashed the door open even more violently than usual on his way towards the kitchen.
Antyr cast a brief, irritated, glance at the well-scratched door, then, wincing at its screech, slowly closed it and walked down the passageway after the wolf. He felt much easier now that Tarrian was back; there was always the risk of his being killed by hunters or farmers outside the city.
The thought was pushed aside by a spasm of disgust from his Companion. ‘I'd rather take my chance with the farmers and hunters,’ Tarrian declaimed. ‘At least they wouldn't either try to starve or poison me.'
'What do you mean?’ Antyr said in some indignation, recognizing the complaint.
'You know perfectly well what I mean,’ Tarrian replied. ‘When was the last time you ate dried-up, two-day- old food?'
'You ate well enough last night,’ Antyr replied unsympathetically. ‘And I've no doubt you found something fresher outside.’ The image of a desperately fleeing rabbit flashed suddenly through Antyr's mind but was cut off sharply.
'Ah-hah,’ he said significantly.
'Shut up,’ came the swift reply. ‘You can get me some fresh water at least. And give me a brush, I'm a mess. And do something about the stink in here, it's appalling.'
On that point, Antyr had to agree. ‘I'm sorry,’ he said, picking up the bucket he had vomited into the previous night and carrying it to the door.
'It seems a long time ago,’ he said, wrinkling his nose as he threw the evil-smelling contents down the drain and vigorously worked the pump handle to send a cold, glittering spray of water after them.
There was a short silence, then Tarrian spoke again, ‘Come back in and brush me, Antyr.’ His voice was unexpectedly gentle. Antyr looked up in surprise. Tarrian was standing at the open door, gazing at him earnestly. Antyr stroked his damp head as he stepped inside and Tarrian leaned against him briefly.
They did not speak for some time after that. Antyr found a dry cloth and wiped Tarrian down before rekindling the fire. Then he dried and changed himself and set about brushing his Companion.
Grooming the wolf was a strange, satisfying experience. Antyr knew he was touching on some quality that came from deep within the wolf's being, somewhere far below where Tarrian could take him, or indeed where he would wish to go.
'A pack thing,’ Tarrian would say when he chose to speak of such matters at all. It was sufficient and they both understood. Tarrian knew himself for a wolf, just as Antyr knew himself for a man, and though they also knew themselves to be strange amongst their kind, they were still just that, wolf and man. Where they touched and talked to one another more or less as equals was little more than an uncertain tide-swept causeway that joined two great and alien lands.
After a while, Antyr felt Tarrian's mind rising to the surface again, relaxed and quiet.
'I told them at the Norstseren Gate that you'd be back on your own,’ Antyr said casually as the spell dispersed.
