Nearly two weeks went by spent in painful combat training. None of Joachim’s officers or guardsmen seemed to care that Niam and his two friends had almost singlehandedly brought Eason’s illegal invasion of the Lake Valleys to an end. Niam was so sick of swords and staffs that he was about ready to foreswear weapons entirely and disappear into the mountains as a shepherd until he realized that with his luck he would probably have to use his shepherd’s crook to fend off a herd of rabid cave bears or something like that.
While he wasn’t the kind of person who sat well with a lot of thanks, a few days off wouldn’t have killed anyone, would it? Yet for all of his efforts, the only thing he had gotten over the past eleven days had been mashed fingers from fending off wooden practice blades.
“Staffs don’t come with cross guards to protect fingers!” Jolan Kine taunted him as he knelt on the practice mat to make sure all of his digits were accounted for.
At the present moment, Niam winced as a cold wind blew, making his swollen fingers smart fiercely. He was glad, however, for the horse he rode—but he prayed nobody else missed it. Because the trall had ruined his coat, Niam had been forced to borrow from other people, and he had suffered enough. Davin’s things fit Niam like Niam’s clothes fit Bug, and everything Maerillus wore was just big enough to not fit right in all the important places—elbows and shoulders were too big and the sleeves way too long. Once Maerillus found out that Niam had absentmindedly allowed the coat’s cuffs to become soaked in gravy, he was going to be extremely displeased.
Niam couldn’t help it, though.
Maerillus should have had the good sense to stop growing about a year ago. And really, if anyone should be blamed, Niam knew that it should be the Sartors. After all, they were the ones who passed their traits down to their son. So really, it wasn’t Niam’s fault. The moment Maerillus began complaining, Niam was going to tell him to take it up with his mother. After all, if Andromeda had chosen to marry someone a bit shorter than Gaius, then maybe Maerillus’s coat would have fit better, wouldn’t it?
Of course, Niam reflected that maybe the horse he had stolen—borrowed temporarily—had probably belonged to the Sartors, in which case Maerillus would never shut up. Earlier, Niam crept into the barn where all the good horses were kept because the only other one nearby was an uncomfortably large draft horse with withers that would have turned any man into a eunuch. Joachim told all of them repeatedly that none of them could go walking wherever they pleased while Kreeth’s minions still remained on the loose. So Niam made sure that he didn’t walk anywhere.
He rode.
Besides, he most definitely was not going where he pleased. His leg ached mightily and the saddle stirrups didn’t help. Where he wanted to be was in bed. Going there would have pleased him mightily.
The road was busy today now that word had spread about the trall’s death. Niam found that he had become quite a celebrity, which made him uncomfortable. Nothing good came of it. Like a day off. Maerillus might mope about how aggravating it was to have to concentrate to be seen, but Niam reasoned that a year shaved off of his life would be a fair trade for such an ability. Most of the beatings Niam had taken in his life would have been avoided.
Anonymity was what Niam wanted most these days, and now more than ever all of them found themselves noticed by . . . well . . . by everyone. Rumors started to spring up about three local boys constantly seen in the company of a Wizard’s Hammer.
In the event that this issue arose, Kine concocted a convincing story to explain Niam’s constant presence with the Hammer: On his most recent visit to the Valleys, Kine discovered that Niam had the talent to be trained as a Hammer. And since he and his friends had inadvertently roused the sorcerer’s ire, Kine now kept a watchful eye on all three boys.
Niam turned toward his home—his real home—and reflected on how strange it felt to be there. For the past several months, Niam had called the Sartor manner and the Joachim estate his home. As his mount ambled through the deep snow, he looked at the modest dwelling he had grown up in and was overcome by the aching sense of loneliness and loss that he had known since Sarah’s and Seth’s murders.
Maybe he should have kept his butt at Joachim’s estate.
He dismounted, careful to keep from applying too much weight to his injured leg. The trall’s attack left the thing inflamed where three angry cuts ran down his calf. Kirse was nowhere to be found, so Bug’s father recommended honey—honey!—of all things to keep infection from spreading. To Niam’s surprise it worked.
The important thing was that he had developed no infections that could have cost him his leg. There had been a fever, but that passed. Now, Niam just felt sore and tired as he went into his room and pulled several coats out the cabinets over his bed. His mother had made his bed, and placed a new pillow and blanket on it before leaving with his Dad on their trip for Joachim. Though the rooms were cold, the blankets were thick and warm, and his eyelids were growing heavier by the moment. Niam thought how nice it would be to curl up beneath them for a while. Just a short nap. He could make it back to deposit the horse in its stall without making too much ado after waking up. So Niam slipped between he sheets and sighed. There was nothing in this world like the feel of a comfortable bed. As he drifted away, his thoughts became vague and gently distant things, and Niam was soon heavily asleep.