“I know,” said the lictor.
“I know, what?” repeated Roper, leaning very close now.
“I know, lord,” said the lictor sourly.
Roper straightened up. “Your men should still be training, Lictor. The Second Trumpet has yet to sound.”
The lictor blinked and stared at Roper for a moment before turning back to his soldiers. “Did I say you could rest?” At once the legionaries began sparring again. Roper regarded the lictor coldly.
“Where does the Guard train?”
“Why, lord?”
“I don’t answer to impertinent lictors. Answer me, man. Where does the Guard train?”
The lictor gestured to the centre of the hall, where Roper could now make out the banner of the Sacred Guard: a silver eye on a black, starred background, hanging from one of the pillars.
“What is your name?” Roper asked the lictor, still staring at the banner.
“Ingolfur, lord.”
“I shall remember you,” said Roper, looking the legionary up and down. “Carry on, Ingolfur.”
The lictor, still refusing to bow, turned back to his soldiers while Roper marched towards the silver eye. This he had learned already; men in a group might condemn and scorn him, but they grew much less brave if singled out.
While others stopped to stare as Roper passed, the Sacred Guard, when he finally reached them, did not even acknowledge him. They were also sparring, using the heavier, blunted steel blades that were employed during training. When in battle they used the lighter, Unthank-silver that all the best Anakim blades were made of; it was almost miraculously easy to wield. The echoing clang of the blades made the training hall sound like a foundry.
The guardsman closest to Roper was another face he had memorised: Gosta, one of Uvoren’s war council. Most of the rest of the Guard fought with tight, economical movements; disciplined and fit. Gosta was more like a rabid dog, slashing harvestman-style at his evidently intimidated opponent and spitting vile curses as he forced the man back. Suddenly, Gosta lunged and beat aside his opponent’s blade; his own sword ricocheted back towards his opponent’s head and delivered a mighty, edge-on stroke to the man’s unhelmeted head. The crack of that blow cut through the training hall, making even hardened guardsmen stop to look up. A couple of pairs even stared open-mouthed as Gosta’s opponent crashed to the ground. Gosta turned away and moved to take a sip from a water-skin behind him.
“Almighty god, what was that?” muttered Roper, watching Gosta’s victim lie unconscious on the floor, hair shining darkly with blood. Roper looked up and met another pair of eyes he recognised: lightning blue, framed by a face of surpassing handsomeness. Pryce; whom Roper remembered as the protégé of the man he sought named Gray.
“You’re on half-rations for the rest of the week, Gosta,” said Pryce, turning back to his sparring partner. “You play too rough.”
Gosta said nothing, staring expressionless at Pryce as he took another sip of water. Roper stepped forward now, over the prone guardsman, and hailed Pryce, who did not acknowledge Roper and would have begun sparring again had not his partner held up a hand and motioned in Roper’s direction. Pryce turned back to Roper.
“I need a service of you, Lictor,” said Roper. “I wish to know where the guardsman named Gray is.”
Pryce gave a snort and sheathed his sword, turning away from Roper and towards his own water-skin. Roper looked from the departing guardsman to the partner he had left behind, who also sheathed his sword and offered Roper a bow.
“You are Gray?” asked Roper, inspecting the guardsman. He wore a black tunic with the Almighty Eye over his heart. On the right side of the tunic was the crest of House Alba: a rampant unicorn.
“Yes, my lord. Gray Konrathson.” The guardsman straightened up. He was tall, this guardsman. Tall, broad and straight-backed. His face was plain but for a pair of engaging, dark-brown eyes that peered from it. And Roper realised he had met this man before. This had been the guardsman carrying the white flag when they parleyed with Earl William before battle.
“Gray,” said Roper, “we’ve met before, you and I.”
“We have, lord. On a day that I would rather forget, excepting our encounter.” Gray had an air about him; relaxed, unhurried. But his words made Roper suspicious. After weeks of enemies, kind words were hard to believe.
“Walk with me, Gray. I require your service.”
“Of course, lord.” They skirted around the training guardsmen and headed for the outer circuit, Gray casting an eye over Roper’s sword. “Cold-Edge,” he said, with a nod. “One of the great blades of the land. I always preferred it to your father’s weapon, lord.” He meant the lost sword Bright-Shock.
“Why so?” asked Roper. He wanted to know what sort of man Gray was.
“The balance,” said Gray. “A devastating cutting weapon but equally good as a thruster. And for the serious fights, you need to use the point.” Gray looked as though he had seen his fair share of serious fights. He would have been one of the older members of the Sacred Guard, with perhaps a hundred seasons behind him and many scars to show for it. The high ponytail he wore revealed he was missing an ear and Roper also noted a little finger gone from Gray’s right hand. “You know what the handle is, my lord?” asked Gray.
“Tell me.”
“Mammoth ivory. The tusks of a great beast, long since gone from this world. But they roamed this land in their thousands when our ancestors first arrived.” Roper looked down at the cream and black marbled handle of Cold-Edge, wondering if that could be true. “They arrived to find a frozen land. The landscape sliced apart by rivers of ice and earth so cold that trees could not grow, if the Academy is to be believed. Our ancestors, the first Anakim, carved out a home in the ice. They made fire from animal bones and shale and turf dug from the ground when they had no wood. They built their houses from ice or bone and shared this
