'Don't tell me, show me,' said Dace contemptuously. The man lunged. Dace side-stepped, grabbing the knife wrist with his left hand, his right arm moving under the man's elbow. Dace slammed down with his left and up with his right. A sickening crack echoed around the room as the tall man's arm snapped at the elbow; the victim's scream was awful. The tall man fell back as Dace released him, the knife falling from his fingers.
White bone was jutting through the sleeve of his black shirt, which was now stained with blood. He screamed again. 'Oh, shut up!' snapped Dace, ramming the heel of his palm into the man's nose and following up with a right uppercut that lifted him to his toes. Stepping back, Dace let the man fall and then walked to Brune, who was groaning and trying to rise.
A movement from behind caused Dace to spin. Three men were approaching, knives in their hands. Dace laughed at them, then he walked towards them.
'Happily for you, I promised a friend I'd kill no-one tonight. However, that does not mean I cannot cripple you - like your friend on the floor, who will be lucky to use that arm again. So who is first? I think I'll smash a knee-cap next time!'
He advanced again and the men fell back, confused. 'What is the problem, children? Can't make up your minds about who will be the first? What about you?' he asked, stepping in close to a lean, bearded man. The knife-man jumped back so suddenly he fell over a chair. The other two sheathed their knives and backed away. Dace laughed at them. 'What a trio of buttercups,' he said. 'Pick up your friend and get him to a surgeon.' Swinging towards the bar, he called out, 'Two more jugs of ale, if you please.'
The men carried the unconscious attacker from the tavern and Dace helped Brune to his feet. 'How are you feeling?' he asked.
'My head hurts,' said Brune.
'Ah well, you're used to that,' said Dace happily. Ceofrin brought the jugs, and leaned in to Dace.
'I think you had better move on, my friend. The man you . . . injured ... is highly connected.'
'His arm isn't,' said Dace, with a wide smile.
'I mean it, Tarantio. He is a cousin of the Duke and a close friend of Vint, the Duke's Champion.'
'Champion, you say? Is he any good?'
'It is said he has killed thirty men. That makes him good - to my reckoning, anyway.'
Dace lifted his jug and half drained it. 'It makes him interesting,' he agreed. Ceofrin shook his head and moved away.
'You promised,' said Tarantio.
'I kept my promise. I didn't know someone was going to punch the idiot. And I didn't kill him, brother.'
'You crippled him!'
'You said nothing about crippling people. Did you hear what he said about Vint?'
'Yes. And we are going to avoid him.'
'There is no sense of adventure in you.' The door opened and Duvodas stepped in. The crowd saw him, and began to cheer. 'Damn!' said Dace. 'Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself. I think I'll sleep now.'
Tarantio took a deep breath. 'Where is the man who hit me?' asked Brune.
'He's gone,' replied Tarantio.
'Did you hurt him?' asked Brune.
'I think I did,' said Tarantio.
Goran, the shepherd boy, was forced to wait at the garrison for a full day as he tried to make his report.
As night fell he sat shivering beneath an archway at the main gate. A kindly sentry shared his supper ration with the boy, and found him an old blanket to wrap around his slender frame. Even so the cold autumn winds chilled him. Finally another soldier came to fetch him, and he was taken to a small office inside the garrison where the soldier ordered him to sit down and wait. Moments later a slender, middle-aged officer entered and sat down at a narrow desk. He looked tired, thought Goran, and bored. The officer looked at him long and hard. 'I am Capel,' he said. 'For my sins I am the second in command of this ... outpost. So tell me, child, your important news.' Goran did so, and Capel listened without expression until the boy concluded his tale of black moons and monster warriors on monster horses.
'You understand, child,' he said, 'that such a fanciful tale is likely to see you strapped to the post for twenty lashes?'
'It's true, sir. I swear it on my mother's grave.'
The officer rose wearily to his feet. 'I'll take you to the captain. But this is your last chance, boy. He is not a forgiving man, and certainly not noted for having a sense of humour.'
'I must see him,' said Goran.
Together they walked through the corridors of the garrison keep, and up a flight of winding stairs. Capel tapped on a door and entered, bidding the boy to wait. After several minutes, the door opened and Goran was called inside. There he told his story again to a young, fat man with dyed blond hair and soft eyes.
The fat man questioned him at even greater length than the older officer. Goran answered every question to the best of his ability. Finally the captain rose and poured himself a goblet of wine. 'I would like to see this miracle,' he said. 'You will ride with me, boy. And if it proves - as I think it will - a grand nonsense, I shall hang you from a tree. How does that sound?'
Goran said nothing and was taken to the barracks and allowed to sleep on a pallet bed within a cold cell.
The door was locked behind him. At dawn Capel woke him and they walked to the courtyard stables where a troop of forty lancers were standing beside their mounts. They waited for an hour before the fat captain appeared; a young soldier helped him mount a fine grey stallion, and the troop cantered out of the garrison, Goran riding beside Capel.
'Tell me again about these monsters,' said the soldier.
'They were huge, sir. White hairless heads, and strange mouths. Their horses were giants.'
'You describe their mouths as strange. Like a bird's, perhaps?'
'Yes, sir. Like a hawk's beak of bone beneath the nose, sharp and pointed.'
The troop stopped at mid-morning to rest the horses, and the men took bread and cheese from their saddlebags. Capel shared his breakfast with Goran. The fat captain drank wine from a flask to wash down a whole, cooked chicken; then a soldier brought water from a stream for him to wash his hands, which he dried with a white linen towel.
After half an hour they continued on their way, reaching Goran's village an hour after noon. It was deserted.
Capel dismounted and searched the area, then he moved alongside the captain's mount. 'Hoof prints everywhere, sir. Huge. Just as the boy said.' The captain looked around nervously.
'How many in the raiding party?' he asked, sweat breaking out on his plump face.
'No more than thirty, sir. But there are also footprints larger than any I've seen.'
'I think we should go back, don't you?' said the captain.
'We could do that, sir, but what report would we then make to the Duke?'
'Yes, yes. Quite right, Capel. Well . . . perhaps you should take the men on. I have much to do back at the garrison.'
'I do understand how busy you are, sir. One thought strikes me, however. What if this raiding party has moved south? It could now be between us and the garrison.'
The fat man's eyes widened and he glanced back nervously. 'Yes, of course. You think then we should
.. . push on?'
'With care, sir.'
The troop moved off into the higher hills, the fat captain positioning himself at the centre of the troop.
Goran edged his mount alongside Capel. 'The captain doesn't seem much like a soldier,' he said.
'He's a nobleman, lad. They're a different breed - born to be officers.' He winked at the boy. They rode for almost an hour, finally cresting the rise before what had been the Great Northern Desert. The men sat their horses in silence, staring out over verdant hills and valleys, woods and plains.