He forced himself to draw out his second bout, against a well-muscled blade called Keit. Keit was a natural swordsman, flexible and strong, and far superior in skill to Hunna. Back and forth they went, swords flashing with speed and precision. For Bel it seemed like a dance, and he almost laughed with pleasure as his opponent forced him backwards under a barrage of blows. Cheers went up amongst the onlookers, and Bel realised with annoyance that they were barracking for Keit. Although he knew he should let Keit win, vanity proved more powerful than humility. As calls for Keit filled his ears, he suddenly found himself standing over the fallen man, his sword levelled at Keit’s heart. The troop fell silent as Bel reached out to offer the man a hand up. Keit’s hard blue eyes stared up at him, and for a moment Bel thought his offer was refused – but then Keit’s hand caught his in a strong grip and Bel helped him to his feet.
‘Well fought,’ said Bel.
‘And you,’ said Keit. ‘Corlas must be quite a teacher.’
‘That he is,’ came the dry voice of Munpo.
The troop leader removed a brittleleaf end from his chapped lips and flicked it away, then drew his sword from its frayed scabbard. He nodded at Bel, who realised he was being challenged by his commanding officer. Staring at Munpo, he resented the man for placing him in such an awkward position. He had no desire to show up Munpo in front of his troop, but he didn’t trust his pride to let him take a fall to such a dilapidated opponent. Corlas had spoken of the man with respect, but even so Bel couldn’t imagine the wiry little warrior posing much threat. Reluctantly he took up an answering pose, sword held ready. It was too much for the soldiers still jousting, who stopped to watch their troop leader challenge the new blade.
Munpo took a step back, inviting Bel to attack. Bel lunged and their swords clashed. Munpo’s grip was surprisingly strong, his sword steady against Bel’s blows. The troop leader edged backwards, blocking Bel’s sword each time with understated moves, defending only a small circle around himself. He was quick, and Bel found his defence difficult to penetrate. He aimed a powerful swing, hoping strength alone would unbalance Munpo. Munpo simply lowered his blade, and Bel stumbled as his blow met no resistance. Munpo attacked for the first time, stepping forward to spike his sword, dagger-like, at Bel’s stomach. Already off balance, Bel had to put more effort into his defence than he would have liked, batting away the attack gracelessly. Munpo pressed his advantage, little jabs and slices coming one after the other in quick succession. Such was the economy of his movement that he remained totally steady as he continued forward. Bel’s defence was bigger by comparison and he knew he was expending more effort than Munpo. He tried to control his frustration at being pressed back by the quick little man, just as Munpo swung his sword back in a wide arc, leaving his left side exposed. Bel seized the opportunity, swiping quickly, but Munpo was already dodging away. Too late Bel knew it had been a trick, luring him to attack when he was already off balance. Munpo bounced forward to press his practice blade against Bel’s rib cage.
As the troop applauded the victory, Bel stared at the older man. Munpo, who’d barely broken a sweat, nodded at him. ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ he said.
Conflicting emotions fought in Bel. Although he had not wished to beat this man in front of the troop, he’d considered the choice of losing to be his. He knew he wasn’t invulnerable – Corlas still beat him sometimes, but Corlas was a hero and his teacher besides. Against the spindly Munpo, Bel found it hard to accept defeat. Added to that, the rest of the troop was clearly glad that he’d been proven fallible. He understood this, of course, but he would have preferred to have secretly known that he could have won if he’d wanted to. It was a sobering blow to his ego.
Outwardly he took it with good grace. He nodded respectfully to Munpo and stepped back into the troop, where he received a few slaps on the back.
‘Head up, blade,’ said someone beside him, who turned out to be Keit. ‘Munpo is wilier than a fox in a henhouse.’
‘Indeed,’ agreed Bel. ‘Though such a fox would look better fed.’
Keit barked a laugh, and suddenly Bel was very thankful that Munpo had won.
After dinner the troop went to the Soldiers Bar, located next to the mess hall in the barracks. Being the only bar in the Halls, it wasn’t just a meeting place for soldiers and so did a strong trade most nights. It was a long room, with squares cut into the floorboards through which trees grew from the earth beneath. Along the walls lanterns shone brightly, their heat rising up through the non-existent roof into a sky of twinkling stars. The bar itself ran the length of the far wall, while in the rest of the room attendants moved between tables taking orders. None of the noise travelled outside the bar due to the ‘Essence of Walls’, and thus didn’t disturb sleeping soldiers elsewhere in the barracks.
Bel was waiting at the bar for his next drink when M’Meska stepped up beside him, a tall glass of bloodfire in her bluntly clawed hand. He noted that a tail was a handy thing to lean on when its owner had consumed too much bloodfire.
‘You lucky today, Varenkai,’ she said in a voice ill equipped for human language, rasping and full of odd clicks. ‘Hit target good, yes?’ She upended the glass of thick liquor down her throat.
‘If anything,’ said Bel, ‘I’d say you’re the lucky one.’
‘What mean?’ demanded the Saurian, slamming her glass down empty on the counter.
‘Since I’m about to buy you a drink.’
He gestured at a bartender, and a moment later a mug of ale and another glass of bloodfire arrived. The Saurian grunted and took another large swig.
‘You do know that’s bloodfire, not water?’ said Bel, counting out copper.
‘I know,’ said M’Meska, missing the friendly dig. ‘Saurian blood not so thin as Varenkai, and sun not shine so bright in Halls as at Furoara Sands. I need warm my blood so far from home.’ She gulped from the glass at a rate that made Bel queasy.
‘Now,’ said M’Meska, ‘you.’ She tapped the bar, summoning the bartender. ‘Two,’ she said, holding up two claws.
‘Ah,’ Bel began in protest, ‘I don’t think –’
‘Warm your blood,’ said the Saurian. She held up her claws again at the hesitant bartender. ‘Two,’ she repeated.
The bartender shrugged and soon two glasses of bloodfire stood before them on the bench. Bel stared at his with some trepidation.
‘Drink,’ said the Saurian, lifting her glass in a clumsy toast. Bel, not wishing to offend the strange soldier, lifted his too. They drank, Bel sipping and M’Meska swallowing greedily.
‘Bah,’ said M’Meska, licking her lips. ‘You shoot like Saurian, but still drink like human.’
‘Thank Arkus for that,’ said Bel, coughing; his throat burned. He quickly drank some ale to wash it down.
‘Be wary, Blade Bel,’ came a creaky voice from beside him, and the smell of stale brittleleaf wafted past his nostrils.
‘Troop leader,’ Bel acknowledged.
‘We have a long ride tomorrow,’ said Munpo, ‘and I’ve seen the aftermath when men try to match a Saurian at drink. It isn’t pretty.’
‘Bah,’ reiterated M’Meska and moved away, bobbing birdlike on her hind legs. A barmaid with a drink tray had to sidestep quickly to avoid her swinging tail.
‘Can I buy you a drink, sir?’ said Bel.
‘You may, soldier.’
Again Bel gestured to the bartender. Munpo took out his brittleleaf pouch and began to make himself a roll. ‘What did you think of today?’ he asked.
‘Seems like a good troop, sir,’ answered Bel. ‘I’m glad to be part of it.’
‘Mmm-hmm,’ said Munpo, sealing the roll over his lips. ‘And you did well in the bouts.’
‘Sir.’
‘But you lost to me,’ said Munpo, putting the roll in his mouth and lighting it. Smoke issued over the counter. Munpo nodded to the bartender as his ale arrived. ‘Any ideas why?’