“Eat your fill,” he said.
Although his head was swimming with hunger, Tol hesitated. The table’s twenty-pace length was crowded with the Riders of the Great Horde, all talking, eating, and drinking. The serving lads ringed the room, staying back out of the way until called. None of them was eating.
“Go on. Eat.” Egrin took the heavy gilded sword from Tol’s hands, and leaned it against the table.
When his fingers touched the hot capon, Tol’s reservations vanished. He tore into the bird greedily. Egrin couldn’t know how rare a treat this was for the farmer’s son. Perhaps four times a year he would taste red meat-and chicken or game birds only a little more often. Meat was for men, Tol’s father always said. Women and children had to make do with broth and vegetables.
The capon was sweet and smoky, much finer than the stringy partridges or tough chicken he was used to. Tol put the stripped bones down and reached for the beaker.
He’d drunk watered cider once. Old Kinzen, herbmaster and healer to the hill farmers, had treated him for a cough with a decoction of sumac and willow in mulled cider, diluted by half with water. That drink had been bitter, but the warriors’ beer was not. The first sip made Tol’s tongue tingle, and the first swallow spread the sensation all the way down his gullet.
Tol’s surprise showed plainly on his face. Egrin grinned at him.
“The second thing a Rider of the Horde learns,” the warden said, loud enough for his comrades nearby to hear, “is to drink beer.”
Red-faced from the liquid’s spreading warmth, Tol asked, “What’s the first?”
“How to fight.” The men cheered.
Tol finished the capon and venison, then washed it all down with the last golden drops of beer. The world seemed to waver a bit, and he found himself sitting down without meaning to. Warriors looked at him and laughed.
“Our fare’s too much for him,” said Manzo, sitting across the table from Tol. Helmetless, Manzo’s long brown hair was revealed to be as prematurely silvered as his beard.
“Is this the lad who saved Lord Odovar?” asked another man.
“The same. He saved me as well,” Egrin said. They demanded to hear the tale. Pushing himself back from the table, Egrin related his fight with Vakka Zan, and how Tol interfered with the noble’s fatal thrust. The raucous noise died as the Riders all listened, enthralled.
When Egrin finished, a blond-haired man farther down the table shouted, “A peasant boy did all that? Unbelievable!”
“By Draco Paladin, it’s true,” said the warden.
“Ah, he’s got a rider’s blood in his veins!” said Manzo.
“I’ll wager his mother’s mate doesn’t know that!” the blond man quipped. That set the assembly to roaring.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of loud voices and raucous laughter. Tol curled up on the oaken floor by Egrin’s chair and slept deeply, weighed down by the toil of his journey, his rich meal, and the potent brew.
When he woke some time later, a tempest of snores filled the hall. Egrin and the other riders had fallen asleep in their chairs, slumped over the table or with heads hanging back, mouths agape. The shuttered windows admitted a dim gray light. Tol crept to the nearest one, carefully stepping over sleeping warriors. It was early morning, and the sky was thick with low clouds. He could smell rain coming.
Vakka Zan’s golden saber lay across the sleeping Egrin’s knees. Tol tried to take it without rousing the warden, but Egrin’s senses were too keen. As soon as the heavy blade began to slide across his lap, he jerked awake and grabbed for the hilt.
Egrin scrubbed his face with one hand. “It’s early. Why are you stirring?”
“Dawn is breaking. Isn’t it time to wake?”
“For farmers maybe. Warriors sleep longer.”
Egrin shifted the hilt to his shoulder and folded his arms over the blade. “G’night,” he murmured, resting his head on his crossed arms.
Defeated, Tol tip-toed away. He decided to have a look around. Perhaps he could find some water-he was terribly thirsty and his injured cheek was stiff and aching.
He went down the wide steps, picking his way around guardsmen sleeping in awkward positions on the stairs. The stable below was quietly astir as boys went to and fro, filling mangers with hay and troughs with water. They ignored Tol, concentrating on their chores.
In back of the guardsmen’s hall was a well. Two boys about Tol’s age were hoisting a chain of buckets out, each brimming with fresh water. As soon as they set a pail down, another boy whisked it away.
“Spare some water?” Tol asked. “I’m dry as dirt!”
The tow-headed boy at the bucket chain shrugged. “Help self.”
Tol raised the brimming bucket to his lips and drank deeply. The water was cold and tasted of minerals, much better than the creek water they drank back home, which too often tasted of mud or dead leaves. Twice every summer the creek dried up when the family needed it most.
After rinsing his injured cheek, Tol put the bucket down and thanked his benefactor. The second boy hooked the pail on the chain again and hauled away on the metal links, dragging the empty buckets over the flagstones and back down the well. Tol asked their names.
“I’m Narren,” said the tow-headed boy. “He’s Crake.” Narren indicated his companion, who was dark-skinned, like the northern seafarers Tol had heard tales of. Crake absently waved a hand.
“Horses not fed, watered, and combed by the time the masters wake up, we all get beaten,” he explained.
Narren nodded, confirming this.
“You joining us?” Crake asked, pushing the empty buckets over the lip of the well wall with his bare foot.
Tol had no idea what Lord Odovar or Egrin had in store for him. But before he could ponder it long, a clatter of horses’ hooves out front was punctuated by the blare of brass trumpets.
Narren and Crake immediately abandoned the bucket chain and rushed into the stable. The other boys likewise ran about, clearing away stray buckets and brooms.
The front doors of the stable flew open, revealing eight riders led by Morthur Dermount. He wasn’t smiling today. Black brows collided over his thin nose, and a purple vein throbbed visibly in his neck.
“Where is the warden? Roust him out, before I put a torch to this place and wake him myself!” he roared.
An older boy ran upstairs to fetch Egrin. On the steps, guardsmen steeped in beer stirred sluggishly, peering at the new day with bloodshot eyes.
“Why am I standing here in horse dung, waiting?” Morthur bellowed after several minutes. “Bring me the warden of the Household Guard!”
Egrin came down looking rumpled and cross. He drew himself up in front of Morthur and unsheathed his dagger blade in salute.
“My lord,” he said hoarsely. “My apologies for the delay.”
Morthur looked down scornfully from the height of his horse’s back. “You sleep off yet another drunken carouse while I, a cousin of the emperor, am left waiting in the stables! It’s intolerable, warden!”
“Yes, my lord. What is it you require?”
“The Lord Marshal tells me you captured a Pakin noble yesterday, one Vakka Zan to be exact.” Egrin confirmed it, and Morthur added, “He is to be judged this morning. Lord Odovar would see him shortened by a head.”
Egrin started visibly. “I thought the Lord Marshal intended to hold the Pakin as a hostage, or for ransom?”
Morthur sneered. “So thought I, warden. Vakka Zan is more nobly born than anyone hereabouts, save myself. Such blood should not be shed lightly, but the Lord Marshal has made his will plain.” He moved to go, then turned back to add, “Oh, and Lord Vakka’s sword. Fetch it to Lord Odovar at once.”
Egrin glanced at Tol as he said, “Sword, my lord? It’s mine as a trophy of single combat.”