His honour guard edged back to give them room, shouting advice. Some of it ribald, as one staff reminded them of another. Old Man Narrows came down from the tree line, stepping into view. The bawdy comments ceased.
Byren circled Florin, feeling the length and weight of the staff. As the king's second son, he'd trained with noble weapons such as the sword and shield. A staff was a farmer's weapon, but he was familiar with it, which was just as well because he intended to make a good fight of it… before letting Florin win. His father had always said a good leader leads by example. If Byren Kingsheir could lose to a girl without being belittled, then so could his men.
Florin grinned, her white teeth flashing, long plait swaying as she moved lightly from foot to foot. He knew she would not hold back, would disarm him if she could.
He laughed.
Florin's staff flashed in, testing him.
He met it. The wooden staves clacked, and then slid past each other. She was fast.
They circled each other.
He made a swipe at her legs. She blocked, lifting her staff's end and forcing his up and around so that he was open. He only just managed to duck the head strike that had tricked Winterfall earlier. She was good.
Old Man Narrows chuckled.
Before he could avoid it, she tapped Byren's knuckles. If she'd struck any harder he would have lost the staff. Byren realised he was not going to have to work hard to make his loss look convincing. He glanced up, noting the slope of the gully was crowded with onlookers. Everyone had come to watch their match. Great.
Byren eased his shoulders. It was no good tensing up during a fight. You needed to relax and let your body respond intuitively.
His boot slipped on an exposed rock, his balance wavered and, in that instant, Florin struck. She darted inside his guard, using the force of her rush to disarm him and shoulder him to the ground.
He went down on his back, rolled up onto his shoulders, arched his back and flipped to his feet like an acrobat. It was a trick he had learnt in his early teens. His men cheered.
Florin was surprised to find him facing her and inside her guard. Before she could spring back, he caught her in a bear hug, lifting her off the ground. Since he was half a head taller than her and heavily muscled, it was easy. With her arms and the staff pinned to her side there wasn't much she could do.
But she could kick his shins. He grunted in pain.
She glared at him, eyes laughing. 'You're lucky I don't head-butt your pretty face!'
Byren laughed. Fyn was the pretty one, Lence the handsome one. His mother used to say he had a winning smile. He had no illusions. He tightened his hold. 'You're lucky I don't crush your ribs.'
His men cheered. Byren let her drop to the ground and she sprang away, light as a cat, staff at the ready.
He laughed. 'No, the match is yours. I pity the Merofynian who comes up against you!'
His men cheered again.
Florin's eyes widened in surprise. Then she sent him a quick, wry smile of acknowledgement. No doubt about it, she was sharp. Maybe as clever as Orrade.
Byren laughed and tugged on her plait, just as the cook rattled the lunch ladle. Everyone headed back up to the camp.
But Old Man Narrows caught his arm. 'Eh, Byren? A word.'
'Sure.'
'You've five, no, six maimed men,' Narrows said. 'More will follow.'
'I know. And there's not a thing I can do about it.'
'Don't blame yourself, lad. You didn't give the Merofynians their orders.'
'No, but it's me they're after.'
'So, hand yourself in.'
Byren glared, then snorted. 'You've made your point.'
Old Man Narrows grinned, a flash of white teeth in a dark beard. 'Give the maimed ones to me. I'll train them. I'll give them back their self-respect.'
'How?'
'By not treating them like cripples.'
Byren let out his breath. 'Now I know why Florin is the way she is.'
'And how is she?'
Byren lifted a hand to deflect the father's belligerence. 'Don't get me wrong. She thinks she's the equal of any man. And she may just be right.'
Narrows hesitated. 'She's a good girl, lad. Hurt her and I'll come after you, king or no king.'
Byren shook his head. 'It's not like that. I don't use women like…' he broke off. He'd nearly said 'like Lence.' He started again. 'I gave my heart to Orrade's sister. And she died in my arms. I have no heart. When I marry, it will be to cement Rolencia's alliances.'
'Good, because it's hard for a woman to tell her king no.'
Byren flushed. He was not like Lence.
Fyn's head thumped in time to the beat of his heart, his mouth felt like the inside of the captain's bird cage and the midday sun made his eyes hurt. He uttered a silent vow never to drink again.
But Fyn was not alone. The only person on board the Wyvern's Whelp who wasn't hungover was little Runt. He went about whistling.
Jakulos winced. 'Eh, lad. Keep it down.'
The cabin boy laughed and came to a stop in front of Fyn. 'Captain wants to see you.'
With a groan, Fyn pulled himself to his feet. He paused halfway across the mid-deck, to swallow a beaker of water.
In the cabin, he blinked and tried to concentrate as he recognised the map spread across Nefysto's desk. The captain was plotting a course for Ostron Isle.
'That was too close a call,' Nefysto muttered, head bent over the map. 'I'm taking her into port to have her hull scraped.'
Fyn said nothing, not sure what was required of him.
Nefysto lifted his head. 'We owe our lives to you. You saw the opportunity to make the Affinity beasts' natural instincts serve us.' He rolled up the map and sat back in his chair, long legs stretched out. 'I know you want to return to Rolencia and I'd like to oblige you, but I have my orders. When we get to port, unless you give me your word of honour to remain with the Wyvern's Whelp, I'll have you placed under arrest.'
Fyn wished his head didn't hurt so badly. 'Why? Why do you care what I do?'
Nefysto lifted his elegant fingers in an oblique gesture that told him nothing. 'Orders, little monk. What will it be?'
Anger flushed the stupor from his body. 'I won't give my word.'
'That's what I thought.'
As Fyn turned to walk out, he wondered why he hadn't lied. It would have been so simple to agree, then slip away. It was not as if he owed the Wyvern's Whelp's captain a debt of honour. After all, the man had forced him to serve against his will.
'That's a lie. Take it back!'
Byren tensed, his lunch sitting heavy in his belly. Not Winterfall again. He peered around the bend to find his honour guard had met up with the maimed on the crossing of two narrow paths.
The player lifted his hands in a no-threat gesture. 'I'm only repeating Cobalt's decree.'
Byren caught Orrade's eye, with a slight nod.
No words needed, Orrade went forwards, while Byren hung back to listen in.
'What decree is this?' Orrade asked.
'Lord Dovecote.' The player acknowledged his rank with a nod. 'It was all over Rolenton. I'm surprised you haven't heard.'
Orrade made no answer.
The player's tone, when he continued, said that he was only repeating what he had heard. 'Regent Cobalt
