Engines & Demons - The Undestined

Chapter 3ii

Master Tzarren raised his hand over his eyes, and tipped his head further back.

"You will understand one day," he said. "Just recognise now that Grand-commander Morath's death has cast uncertainty on the peace between ourselves and the north. Uncertainty that will only be resolved, one way or another, by the man who will replace him. Really, if you wish to understand the ins and outs of everything, then Master Hepskil is the best person to talk to."

"But he is so old!"

"Of course he is old! He has been alive for a long time, but that means he has seen a lot and heard a lot, so he is worth listening to." Master Tzarren turned his attention away from the fortress. "Enough dawdling. Let's move."

They crossed the hard packed road that led from the unseen Workshops' gate, and not far beyond, came to the riding-grounds where two Madriel-masters, accompanied by a senior Engineer, were reviewing the target posts. They stood beside one post whose red paint had been faded to pink by the constant sun, and the numbering icon at the top of the three metre pole had been split in two by the strike of a madriel's claw.

The Engineer, who towered over the two men by half a metre, made a note on the hand-ledger that she carried, and the group moved on. The next post was faded yellow and leaned precariously to one side, its mid-section so scarred and gouged that it seemed to be half the width of the rest. The Engineer made another quick note and the group moved on again.

"You fought well today," said Master Tzarren as they passed through the field of posts.

"What?"

Lance-master Tzarren stopped and grinned back at him humourlessly.

"You fought well," he said. "In the ring."

Grifford scowled.

"I found your attack with the rail-shield particularly resourceful."

"It was not allowed. I was disqualified."

"You were justifiably disqualified, because in the ring such a blow is prohibited, but you will find soon enough that it is sometimes better to disregard certain rules of battle. If I have one word of criticism, it is that you let your anger better you. You overstretched yourself and left yourself exposed. Do that in a real fight and your opponent will take his advantage and you will be dead."

"If it had been a real fight, then it is Malik who would have been dead."

Master Tzarren ignored the truth in his statement.

"If you make similar mistakes in the jousting ring, then you will soon enough be on your face in the dust."

Klinberg's High Lance-master looked down at him and gave another ill-humoured grin.

"But in order to get to the jousting rings, you must first have a steed." He set off again. "Come on, boy! We can't keep the High Madriel-master waiting."

* * * * *

Maddock walked with the other children as Master Grellik escorted them, without explanation. They passed through the Enclosures, which took up a quarter of the hub's area and lay beneath the southern slope of the fortress hill. It was the first time Maddock had properly seen the place and he marvelled at the row upon row of pens, divided by their wide grassy avenues. They were much like the stalls back on the farm, but were of far sturdier construction. They were taller for a start, and the beam tree wood from which they were made was twice the thickness of a man's arm, and bolted firmly together with dark metal clasps. A few of the pens were occupied, and as they passed between them, the half glimpsed beasts within growled and roared and vented the frustrations of their confinement with the banging crack of their horns against the side of the pens, which shuddered with the blows.

"Stay close to me, lads and lasses," Master Grellik warned. "The Pride has not taken your scent yet so they don't know whether you are to be for a meal or not."

As Maddock passed with the other boys and girls down the avenues of the Enclosures, their noses assailed with the scent of animal musk and dung, they all stayed close together. Even those who had come from the ranches, and were familiar with the ferocity of felgar, seemed nervous. By all accounts, the madriel were wilder than their smaller cousins, and of more concern to anyone who worked close with beasts, bore a greater intelligence after their centuries old relationship with the knights of Klinberg.

Beyond the Enclosures was a place of empty grassland, dotted with round windowless buildings, and there two grim figures were waiting for them. Their clothes were rough and patched with thick tragasaur hide, and the arms of both were marked by old scars. The man was tall with a thin face of bony angles, his long grey hair tied back tight to his skull. His eyes remained impassive as he watched them approach, revealing nothing of the man behind them. The woman had only one eye, and it watched them with a feral glare. Her other was a welt of old scar tissue, a wound slashed above her cheekbone, splitting her face to her ear. Her hair was wild, tawny and grey, bound in rough spikes and tresses.

"You boys! Over there with Master Dramut," Master Grellik ordered. "Girls; go with Mistress Xtallon."

The girls were led away, and Maddock followed the boys to stand uncertainly before the tall Madriel-master. The man unslung the heavy stick that hung over his shoulder and then studied each of the boys in turn.

"So," he said after his scrutiny. "Who shall we start with?"