‘Thirty pushups!’ he snapped. ‘Do it now!’
His muscles protesting, Horace dropped full length to the floor and began the pushups. Immediately, he felt a foot in the small of his back, bearing down on him as he tried to raise himself from the floor.
‘Come on, Baby!’ It was Jerome now. ‘Put a bit of effort into it!’
Horace struggled through a pushup. Jerome had developed the skill of maintaining just the right amount of pressure. Any more and Horace would never have been able to complete the pushup. But the second year cadet also kept pressing down as Horace started back down again. That made the exercise all the harder. He had to maintain the same amount of upward pressure as he lowered himself, otherwise he would be driven hard against the floor. Groaning, he completed the first, then started another.
‘Stop crying, Baby!’ Alda yelled at him. Then he moved to Horace’s bed.
‘Didn’t you make this bed this morning?’ he yelled. Horace, struggling up again against the pressure of Jerome’s foot, could only grunt in reply.
‘What? What?’ Alda bent so that his face was only centimetres away. ‘What’s that, Baby? Speak up!’
‘Yes … sir,’ Horace managed to whisper. Alda shook his head in an exaggerated movement.
‘No sir, I think!’ he said, standing upright again. ‘Look at this bed. It’s a pigsty!’
Naturally, the covers were a little rumpled where Horace had dropped across the bed. But it would have taken only a second or two to straighten them. Grinning, Bryn cottoned on to Alda’s plan. He stepped forward and kicked the bed over on its side, spilling mattress, blankets and pillows onto the floor. Alda joined in, kicking the blankets across the room.
‘Make the bed again!’ he yelled. Then a light gleamed in his eye and he turned to the next bed in line, kicking it over as well, scattering the bedclothes and mattresses as he’d done to Horace’s.
‘Make them all again!’ he yelled, delighted with his idea. Bryn joined him, grinning widely, as they tumbled the twenty beds, scattering blankets, pillows and mattresses around the room. Horace, struggling still through the thirty pushups, gritted his teeth. Perspiration ran into his eyes, stinging them and blurring his vision.
‘Crying, are you, Baby?’ he heard Jerome yell. ‘Go home and cry to mummy then!’
His foot shoved viciously into Horace’s back, sending him sprawling on the floor.
‘Baby doesn’t have a mummy,’ Alda said. ‘Baby’s a Ward brat. Mummy ran off with a riverboat sailor.’
Jerome bent down to him again. ‘Is that right, Baby?’ he hissed. ‘Did Mummy run away and leave you?’
‘My mother is dead,’ Horace grated at them. Angrily, he began to rise, but Jerome’s foot was on the back of his neck, thrusting his face against the hard boards. Horace gave up the attempt.
‘Very sad,’ Alda said, and the other two laughed. ‘Now clean this mess up, Baby, or we’ll have you run the course again.’
Horace lay, exhausted, as the three older boys swaggered out of the room, tipping footlockers over as they went, spilling his roommates’ belongings onto the floor. He closed his eyes as salt perspiration stung its way into them again.
‘I hate this place,’ he said, his voice muffled by the rough planks of the floor.
‘Time you learned about the weapons you’ll be using,’ said Halt.
They had eaten breakfast well before sun-up and Will had followed Halt into the forest. They’d walked for about half an hour, with the Ranger showing Will how to glide from one patch of shade to the next, as silently as possible. Will was a good student in the art of unseen movement, as Halt had already remarked, but he had a lot to learn before he reached Ranger standard. Still, Halt was pleased with his progress. The boy was keen to learn – particularly when it was a matter of field craft like this.
It was a slightly different matter when it came to the less exciting tasks like map reading and chart drawing. Will tended to skip over details that he saw as unimportant until Halt pointed out to him, with some acerbity, ‘You’d find these skills would become a little more important if you were planning a route for a company of heavy cavalry and forgot to mention that there’s a stream in the way.’
Now, they stopped in a clearing and Halt dropped a small bundle to the ground that had been concealed beneath his cloak.
Will regarded the bundle doubtfully. When he thought of weapons, he thought of swords and battleaxes and war maces – the weapons carried by knights. It was obvious that this small bundle contained none of those.
‘What sort of weapons? Do we have swords?’ Will asked, his eyes glued to the bundle.
‘A Ranger’s principal weapons are stealth and silence and his ability to avoid being seen,’ said Halt. ‘But if they fail, then you may have to fight.’
‘So then we have a sword?’ Will said hopefully.
Halt knelt and unwrapped the bundle.
‘No. Then we have a bow,’ he said and placed it at Will’s feet.
Will’s first reaction was one of disappointment. A bow was something people used for hunting, he thought. Everyone had bows. A bow was more a tool than a weapon. As a child, he had made his fair share of them himself, bending a springy tree branch into shape. Then, as Halt said nothing, he looked more closely at the bow. This, he realised, was no bent branch.
It was unlike any bow that Will had seen before. Most of the bow followed one long curve like a normal longbow, but then each tip curved back in the opposite direction. Will, like most of the people of the Kingdom, was used to the standard longbow – which was one long piece of wood bent into a continuous curve. This one was a good deal shorter.
‘It’s called a recurve bow,’ said Halt, sensing his puzzlement. ‘You’re not strong enough to handle a full longbow yet, so the double curve will give you extra arrow speed and power, with a lower draw weight. I learned how to make one from the Temujai.’
‘Who are the Temujai?’ asked Will, looking up from the strange bow.
‘Fierce fighting men from the east,’ said Halt. ‘And probably the world’s finest archers.’
‘You fought against them?’
‘Against them … and with them for a time,’ said Halt. ‘Stop asking so many questions.’
Will glanced down at the bow in his hand again. Now that he was becoming used to its unusual shape, he could see that it was a beautifully made weapon. Several shaped strips of wood had been glued together, with their grains running in different directions. They were of differing thicknesses and it was this that achieved the double curve of the bow, as the different forces strained against each other, bending the limbs of the bow into a carefully planned pattern. Maybe, he thought, this really was a weapon, after all.
‘Can I shoot it?’ he asked.
Halt nodded.
‘If you feel that’s a good idea, go ahead,’ he said.
Quickly, Will chose an arrow from the quiver that had been in the bundle alongside the bow and fitted it to the string. He pulled the arrow back with his thumb and forefinger, aimed at a tree trunk some twenty metres away and fired.
Whack!
The heavy bowstring slapped into the soft flesh on the inside of his arm, stinging like a whip. Will yelled with pain and dropped the bow as if it were red hot.
Already, a thick red welt was forming on his arm. It throbbed painfully. Will had no idea where the arrow had gone. Nor did he care.
‘That hurt!’ he said, looking accusingly at the Ranger.
Halt shrugged.
‘You’re always in a hurry, youngster,’ he said. ‘That may teach you to wait a little next time.’
He bent to the bundle and pulled out a long cuff made of stiff leather. He slid it onto Will’s left arm so that it would protect him from the bowstring. Ruefully, Will noticed that Halt was wearing a similar cuff. Even more ruefully, he realised that he’d noticed this before, but never wondered about the reason for it.
‘Now try it again,’ said Halt.
Will c
hose another arrow and placed it on the string. As he went to draw it back again, Halt stopped him.
‘Not with the thumb and finger,’ he said. ‘Let the arrow rest between the first and second fingers on the string … like this.’
He showed Will how the nock – the notch at the butt end of the arrow – actually clipped to the string and held the arrow in place. Then he demonstrated how to let the string rest on the first joint of the first, second and third fingers, with the first finger above the nock point and the others below it. Finally, he showed him how to allow the string to slip loose so that the arrow was released.
‘That’s better,’ he said and, as Will brought the arrow back, continued, ‘Try to use your back muscles, not just your arms. Feel as if you’re pushing your shoulderblades together …’
Will tried it and the bow seemed to draw a little easier. He found he could hold it steadier than before.
He fired again. This time, he just missed the tree trunk he’d been aiming for.
‘You need to practise,’ said Halt. ‘Put it down for now.’
Carefully, Will laid the bow down on the ground. He was eager now to see what Halt would produce next from the bundle.
‘These are a Ranger’s knives,’ said Halt. He handed Will a double scabbard, like the one he wore on the left-hand side of his own belt.
Will took the double scabbard and examined it. The knives were set one above the other. The top knife was the shorter of the two. It had a thick, heavy grip made of a series of leather discs set one above the other. There was a brass crosspiece between the hilt and the blade and it had a matching brass pommel.
‘Take it out,’ said Halt. ‘Do it carefully.’
Will slid the short knife from the scabbard. It was an unusual shape. Narrow at the hilt, it tapered out sharply, becoming thicker and wider for three quarters of its length to form a broad blade with the weight concentrated towards the tip, then a steep reverse taper created a razor-sharp point. He looked curiously at Halt.
‘It’s for throwing,’ said the Ranger. ‘The extra width at the tip balances the weight of the hilt. And the combined weight of the two helps drive the knife home when you throw it. Watch.’
His hand moved smoothly and swiftly to the broad-bladed knife at his own waist. He flicked it free from the scabbard and, in one smooth action, sent it spinning towards a nearby tree.
The knife thudded home into the wood with a satisfying thock! Will looked at Halt, impressed with the Ranger’s skill and speed.
‘How do you learn to do that?’ he asked.
Halt looked at him. ‘Practice.’
He gestured for Will to inspect the second knife.
This one was longer. The handle was the same leather disc construction, and there was a short, sturdy crosspiece. The blade was heavy and straight, razor-sharp on one side, thick and heavy on the other.
‘This is in case your enemy gets to close quarters,’ said Halt. ‘Although if you’re any sort of an archer, he never will. It’s balanced for throwing, but you can also block a sword stroke with that blade. It’s made by the finest steelsmiths in the Kingdom. Look after it and keep it sharp.’
‘I will,’ the apprentice said softly, admiring the knife in his hands.
‘It’s similar to what the Skandians call a saxe knife,’ Halt told him. Will frowned at the unfamiliar name and Halt went on to explain further.
‘It’s both weapon and tool – a sea axe, originally. But over the years the words sort of slid together to become saxe. Mind you,’ he added, ‘the quality of the steel in ours is a long way superior to the Skandian ones.’
Will studied the knife more closely, seeing the faint blue tint in the blade, feeling the perfect balance. With its leather and brass hilt, the knife might be plain and functional in appearance. But it was a fine weapon and, Will realised, far superior to the comparatively clumsy swords worn by Castle Redmont’s warriors.
Halt showed him how to strap the double scabbard to his belt so that his hand fell naturally to the knife hilts. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘all you have to do is learn to use them. And you know what that means, don’t you?’
Will nodded his head, grinning.
‘A lot of practice,’ he said.
Sir Rodney leaned on the timber fence surrounding the practice area as he watched the new Battleschool cadets going through their weapons drill. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his eyes scanning the twenty new recruits, but always returning to one in particular – the broad-shouldered, tall boy from the Ward, whom Rodney had selected at the Choosing. He thought for a moment, searching for the boy’s name.
Horace. That was it.
The drill was a standard format. Each boy, wearing a mail shirt and helmet, and carrying a shield, stood before a padded hardwood post the height of a man. There was no point practising sword work unless you were burdened with shield, helmet and armour, as would be the case in a battle, Rodney believed. He thought it was best that the boys became used to the restrictions of the armour and weight of the equipment right from the start.
In addition to shield, helmet and mail, each boy also held a drill sword issued by the armourer. The drill swords were made of wood and bore little resemblance to a real sword, aside from the leather-bound hilt and crosspiece on each. In fact, they were long batons, made of seasoned, hardened hickory. But they weighed much the same as a slender steel blade, and the hilts were weighted to approximate the heft and balance of a real sword.
Eventually, the recruits would progress to drilling with actual swords – albeit with blunted edges and points. But that was still some months away, by which time the less suitable recruits would have been weeded out. It was quite normal for at least a third of the Battleschool applicants to drop out of the harsh training in the first three months. Sometimes it was the boy’s choice. For others, it was at the discretion of his instructors or, in extreme cases, Sir Rodney himself. Battleschool was harsh and standards were strict.
The practice yard rang with the thudding of wood against the thick, sun-hardened leather padding on the practice posts. At the head of the yard, drill master Sir Karel called the standard strokes that were being practised.
Five third year cadets, under the direction of Sir Morton, an assistant drill instructor, moved among the boys, attending to the detail of the basic sword strokes: correcting a wrong movement here, changing the angle of a stroke there, making sure another boy’s shield wasn’t dropping too far as he struck.
It was boring, repetitive work under the hot afternoon sun. But it was necessary. These were the basic moves by which these boys might well live or die at some later date and it was vital that they should be so totally ingrained as to be instinctive.
It was that thought that had Rodney watching Horace now. As Karel called the basic cadence, Rodney had noticed that Horace was adding an occasional stroke to the sequence, and yet managing to do so without falling behind in his timing.
Karel had just begun another sequence and Sir Rodney leaned forward attentively, his eyes fixed on Horace.
‘Thrust! Side cut! Backhand side! Overhand!’ called the drill master. ‘Overhead backhand!’
And there it was again! As Karel called for the overhead backhand cut, Horace delivered it, but then almost instantly switched to a backhanded side cut as well, allowing the first cut to bounce off the post to prepare him instantly for the second. The stroke was delivered with such stunning speed and force that, in real combat, the result would have been devastating. His opponent’s shield, raised to block the overhead cut, could never have responded quickly enough to protect uncovered ribs from the rapid side cut that followed. Rodney had become aware over the past few minutes that the trainee was adding these extra strokes to the routine. He had seen it first from the corner of his eye, noticing a slight variation in the strict pattern of the drill, a quick flicker of extra movement that was there and gone almost too quickly to be noticed.
‘Rest!’ called Karel now and Rodney noted that, while most o
f the others let their weapons drop and stood flat-footed, Horace maintained his ready position, the sword tip slightly above waist height, moving on his toes in the break so as not to lose his own natural rhythm.
Apparently, someone else had noticed Horace’s extra stroke as well. Sir Morton beckoned over one of the senior cadets and spoke to him, gesturing quickly towards Horace. The first year trainee, his attention still focused on the training post that was his enemy, didn’t see the exchange. He looked up, startled, as the senior cadet approached and called to him.
‘You there! At post fourteen. What d’you think you’re doing?’
The look on Horace’s face was one of bewilderment – and worry. No first year recruit enjoyed gaining the attention of any of the drill masters or their assistants. They were all too conscious of that thirty per cent attrition rate.
‘Sir?’ he said anxiously, not understanding the question. The senior cadet continued.
‘You’re not following the pattern. Follow Sir Karel’s call, understand?’
Rodney, watching carefully, was convinced that Horace’s bewilderment was genuine. The tall boy made a small movement of the shoulders, almost a shrug but not quite. He was at attention now, the sword resting over his right shoulder and the shield up in the parade position.
‘Sir?’ he said again, uncertainly. The senior cadet was getting angry now. He hadn’t noticed Horace’s extra moves himself and obviously assumed the younger boy was simply following a random sequence of his own devising. He leaned forward, his face only a few centimetres away from Horace’s, and said, in a voice far too loud for that small amount of separation:
‘Sir Karel calls the sequence he wants performed! You perform it! Understand?’
‘Sir, I … did,’ Horace replied, very red in the face now. He knew it was a mistake to argue with an instructor, but he also knew that he had performed every one of the strokes Karel had called.