The Ursuper cokrk-3 Read online

  Florin was here now, confronting his honour guard. Banning her from these practice sessions would ease the tension, but her father was right, Florin deserved the chance to prove herself, or fail.

  He hoped she didn't fail… or did he? He didn't want her risking her life on the battlefield.

  'She's her mother all over again,' Narrows muttered. 'I considered myself lucky to win that mountain girl.'

  When Byren looked back, Florin was already moving, watching her opponent closely. Winterfall's sword was almost as tall as him. The length meant once he was committed to the attack, if he did not strike home, he had to follow through, adjust his stance and bring the sword around for another strike.

  Florin avoided the first blow and took the opportunity to step in. She brought the top of the staff over, clipping him lightly on the head. It was only a tap but the message was there. She could have knocked him out.

  Perched on a fallen tree, Leif cheered. Byren's honour guard and the other would-be-warriors were ominously silent.

  Florin's concentration didn't lapse.

  Winterfall shook his head and gripped the sword more securely, obviously adjusting his attitude as he eyed her warily. He stood half a head shorter than Florin, but with twice the breadth of shoulders, and Byren knew he would hate being bested by her.

  Florin waited for his strike, which seemed to infuriate Winterfall, for he glared and took a swing at her that would have knocked her off her feet, if it had connected.

  She darted back, brought the end of her staff up, point-on, and thrust so that it darted in, striking him in the chest. If she'd delivered it full strength it would have been enough to wind him. As it was it only angered him.

  Byren recognised the signs. Florin thought ahead, while Winterfall was reacting. This was not going to end well for him.

  'Perhaps I should call a stop,' Narrows muttered.

  Byren touched his arm, giving a slight shake of his head. 'It'll be hard for court-raised warriors to accept a female in their ranks. This isn't the uncivilised spars where women fight alongside their men — '

  'Half the time, they have no choice,' Narrows said.

  Byren conceded the point. 'But Florin chose this. If she wants their respect she has to earn it. And Winterfall's a good lad. He's big enough to take this.' Byren only hoped he was right.

  While they were speaking, Winterfall had attacked again. Florin side-stepped and, in the same fluid movement, swung the end of her staff down hard on his forearm. Byren could hear the impact as Winterfall's sword fell from his numbed hand.

  Then she used the staff to sweep his legs out from under him. Winterfall fell back onto compacted snow, the air leaving his lungs in a grunt of surprise. Florin rotated the staff in her hands, bringing the point to his throat.

  Then she lowered the point, grinned and offered Winterfall her hand.

  The watchers held their breath. Byren knew this was the real test. His honour guard respected Winterfall, so they would follow his lead.

  The youth sucked in greedy breaths, face flushed with exertion and anger. Florin's place in Byren's loyalists hung in the balance. Then Winterfall's expression lightened and he lifted his hand.

  Florin hauled him upright, clapping him on the back. But he brushed her hand aside and stalked back to his companions, leaving her alone on that side of the clearing.

  As Byren sucked in his breath, he realised Old Man Narrows was doing the same. Winterfall's bruises were not only physical.

  Byren tapped Old Man Narrows on the shoulder. 'Here, give me your staff.'

  Grabbing the staff, he trotted down the slope to enter the clearing. 'My turn. Let's see if I can get the hang of this weapon.'

  Florin turned to him, clever eyes troubled. Clearly, she realised he was trying to smooth things over. Next thing he knew, her prickly pride would make her refuse his suggestion.

  Byren weighed the staff in his hands, addressing the lads behind her. 'A man never knows when he's going to be caught without his sword. If he can pick up a lump of wood and turn it into a weapon, he's always armed.' He met Florin's eyes. 'Come on.'

  She smiled, dropping into a bent-kneed, loose-limbed stance.

  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 announced that Queen Myrella had untamed Affinity. According to Rolencian law this annuls her marriage to King Rolen, making their children illegitimate. Since Cobalt is the son of King Rolen's older illegitimate brother, this makes his claim to the throne as good as, if not better than, Byren Kingsheir's claim.'

  'A lie. A scurrilous lie,' Winterfall insisted. 'If you'd heard the things Cobalt said, the way he twisted words to serve him, you'd — '

  'Enough.' Orrade held up a hand. Byren could hear the annoyance in his voice. 'Since Queen Myrella, may Halcyon shelter her, was murdered by Cobalt at Overlord Palatyne's orders, she can't defend herself. And I don't think I'd trust anything Cobalt said. Not when it favours him. Come on, Winterfall, back to weapons practice.'

  Orrade led Byren's honour guard off, while Byren held back, cursing Cobalt under his breath. Trust his cousin to muddy the waters. Fancy accusing his mother of untamed Affinity — if ever there was a dutiful daughter and loving wife, it was Queen Myrella.

  Later that afternoon, Byren was walking the camp when he heard Old Man Narrows' bellow. As the tradepost keeper had taken the maimed aside to begin training, Byren was curious. He left the track, following the sounds to the hollow where they trained, well apart from the others.

  Careful to present no silhouette against the sky, Byren stretched out on a rock scoured clean of snow and watched the clearing below where half a dozen youths watched Old Man Narrows. He held a wooden sword and faced Florin, who was half a head taller. She met his blows with a wooden sword of her own. While she had the advantage of youth, agility and reach, he had experience and formidable strength.

  'See, a left-handed man has an advantage against a right-handed warrior, who has only ever fought with a right-handed opponent.' Narrows grunted between blows. 'He won't be expecting attack from this quarter.'

  Florin obligingly left her guard down on that side and took a blow to the ribs. Byren could hear the impact of the flat of the sword from up here.

  'Now, who wants to have a go? Don't be rough on her, she's only a girl.'

  Florin grinned.

  One or two of the youths lifted their wooden swords.

  That was another thing. Their weaponry consisted of anything they could scrounge, from weapons used in the war thirty years ago, to farmyard implements. Byren didn't have enough swords to arm the warriors Orrade was training, let alone the maimed.

  'Come on,' Old Man Narrows urged. 'I'll tell her to go easy on yer.'

  They laughed.

  'It looks like I'm first,' the player said, stepping forwards. He moved lightly on the packed snow.

  Florin nodded and waited.

  His first blow was careful, testing his strength and speed, or perhaps testing hers.

  Byren frowned as he watched the player deliver his strikes. The man was a dancer. A trickster.

  As the player improved, the other maimed warriors straightened up and began calling encouragement. With a feint, the player distracted Florin, swung a leg behind her knee and tripped her.

  The maimed cheered as she went down.

  She sprang up, ready for more, but Old Man Narrows waved her back.

  'Now see that?' His deep voice carried easily to Byren. 'This battle will be nasty. Take every opportunity your enemy gives you. Trip him and run him through, if you can. He'll be underestimating you, because you're one-handed. Use that to your advantage.'

  They nodded, looking earnest and eager.

  'Right, who's next?' Not waiting for a response he chose the butcher and the scribe, setting one against Florin and one against himself.

  Byren slid off his perch and wended his way down to the hollow, coming up beside the player, who stood on the far side of the clearing.

  For a few heartbeats, they observed Old Man Narrows and Florin deflect clumsy if enthusiastic blows.

  'When are you going to tell them you're left-handed?' Byren asked the player softly.

  He grinned and winked. 'No need. Just as there was no need to tell the Merofynians.' He shrugged and nodded to the youths. 'Besides, they need to be inspired.'

  'You're not wrong there.'

  The others parted and Byren stepped in to offer a word or two of encouragement, before Old Man Narrows called up two more, leaving Vadik for last.

  Byren joined the boy, wishing his new-found Affinity could heal wounds other than his own. And he wasn't even sure if it could do that, as it seemed to be tied in with the ulfr pack. 'Show me that stump.'

  Vadik complied without hesitation. It was
an affront to see a stump where a perfectly good hand had once been, but at least it wasn't enflamed.

  'A good clean wound,' Byren told him. 'No more slacking. Get to work.'

  Vadik grinned and Byren turned away to hide his pain.

  Chapter Six

  Piro had endured several miserable days serving Isolt Kingsdaughter as her unwanted, ignored slave. She tried to make herself useful, but the kingsdaughter had a servant for everything.

  Every day more ships arrived from Rolencia laden with treasures stolen from her people. Greed rode the city, as wealth was flaunted and gifts exchanged. The greater the gift, the greater the giver. Then, this morning, Duke Palatyne announced he had a special gift for the king.

  So the whole court gathered before the evening feast to see this new marvel. Piro looked for Dunstany, but he wasn't present. She hadn't seen him since that first night and she was surprised by the depth of her disappointment.

  Standing behind Isolt's chair, Piro watched as Palatyne's men wheeled in two objects covered by cloth. From their size and shape she knew what they were, and she ground her teeth in impotent fury.

  'My king, I bring you a most unusual gift.' Palatyne clearly enjoyed the attention. 'Creatures so cunningly preserved they look as if they could spring to life!'

  With a flourish he pulled off the cloths to reveal King Rolen's stuffed wyvern and foenix. The courtiers gasped and clapped.

  Piro schooled her face to betray nothing.

  A small cold hand closed on her wrist. 'You were not surprised by the duke's gifts, Seela. Why?'

  Piro hid her dismay. These last few days had taught her one thing. Isolt was much cleverer than anyone gave her credit for.

  'I used to dust them in King Rolen's trophy chamber,' Piro improvised.

  The answer satisfied Isolt.

  The old king clutched the arms of his chair. 'They are dead, you say?'

  'Couldn't be deader, though cleverly lifelike!' Palatyne assured him.

  The king stood and walked around the table, but he did not approach the creatures.

  'Touch the wyvern, Palatyne. Put your hand in its open mouth,' King Merofyn commanded, voice thin.