It was in the sparring yard that Bard crossed paths with Orl Ejjar. He was searching for Orel, hoping to hand her an apology that would both heal the wounds of the morning and take his mind off the worry.

Instead he had found her father. The Orl of Hammar was watching his youngest son, Ulf, be put through his paces by the master-at-arms, the grisly old man Orel had called Torf.

Orl Ejjar looked to be in a foul mood, yet his face lit up upon spotting Bard struggling through the yard, doing his best to pass unnoticed.

'Lord Eran! How did you sleep? The kennel-master tells me hounds were loose in the night.' He had to boom over the din from where Ulf was pounding a quintain. Bard noticed then that the orl had an ale-skin clutched in his fist. The sun was barely risen.

'I didn't hear them, my lord. I slept well, in any case, the chamber was most comfortable. Your daughter hasn't passed by this morning, has she? I must speak with her.'

Orl Ejjar threw forth a chuckle. 'Which one?'

Bard joined him with his laugh, until he realised it had been a serious question. 'Orel, my lord, I was with her at the dinner last night.'

The Orl waved a meaty hand to show he wasn't concerned. 'How fare the injuries? Stiffer than a night in a whorehouse?'

'They fare well, my lord. Your physician, Oyvin, is most competent. Orel has not been here?'

'Tell me, Lord Eran, how will you spend such a fine day?' Orl Ejjar threw his arms up to the sky.

It was true, the Elders had blessed them with weather scarcely seen in Scavania. There was no real bite to the breeze, the sun invading the darkest corners of the keep.

'I would seek out your daughter. She promised to show me the catacombs today.' And there are many things I must say to her.

'Nonsense! Dark places are for dark moods, Lord Eran. We shall go to the archery this morning, we shall watch the delicate flowers and their fancy shooting. Come, you must join me. I have much to speak with you about.'

Bard felt his shoulders slump but the protest died before it left his lips. It would be wrong of him to refuse Orl Ejjar's request, particularly since it was so reasonable. And how much ale has he had? If I refuse him, he may take offence and expel me from the keep. What then? 'As you wish, my lord, it would be an honour to accompany you.'

When Bard eventually lowered himself into a seat beside Orl Ejjar he was convinced he would shortly lose consciousness. The gallery was exposed to the eastern sun and it had taken tremendous effort to walk the distance from the keep to the archery range, more so at a speed Orl Ejjar was happy with.

Upon first arriving, he had hoped Bodkin might be present somewhere. Bard could find no sign of him, though. Nor Taaj, but then, he supposed, that was difficult at the best of times, even when he was bedecked in his fiercely bright robes. Instead, he sat in the main viewing gallery with Orl Ejjar, his wife and Hogstas Kyro, Lord of Giants Fort, fighting against the urge to use his tunic to mop the sweat from his face. At least there was no sign of Erikk. Bard didn't want to see him again until it was all over, the deed done.

The archery range sprawled out before him; a long strip of field separating the archers and their marks. Four men had made it to the final, three of them from Ark, but there would be many arrows fired before a winner was declared. Orl Ejjar entertained himself by laughing about how cowardly they were to enjoy such a sport, though Bard reckoned him merely bitter not a single Mountainman had made it to the last stage.

'It takes a great deal of skill, my lord,' Lord Hogstas countered, after a time. He supped wine in place of ale and watched on keenly as the four archers loosed practise shafts at the targets.

Orl Ejjar harrumphed loudly and looked to Bard as though he might find an ally.

Bard returned the broadest smile he could muster and plucked his own jug of wine from the table behind their seats. Elders knew it was far too early for the dulling of wits, but Bard needed something, anything, to alter his current state. The sun was too hot, the noise too much. His every breath was a warning from his body that there was a good deal not right after his encounter with the Blue Lance in the lists.

He tasted the wine and winced at the acridness. Bard wasn't a wine drinker in the main. Sure, he'd had a glass or few of the spiced stuff they made in Zaffaar, but he'd take an ale from a wooden tankard over wine from a jewel-studded goblet every time. Unfortunately, he was Lord Eran of Oakhold so this was the exception to the rule.

Orl Ejjar leaned over. 'Lord Eran, don't tell me you practise this where you're from?'

'Err ... no, my lord. I mean ... yes. I mean ... I don't partake, really.'

The Mountainman turned to Lord Hogstas. 'You see! Not for true men. Who needs a bow when you have an axe?'

The lord of Giants Fort smiled pleasantly. Bard reckoned he had spent enough time in Orl Ejjar's company not to bother arguing with him.

'You are a man after my own heart, Lord Eran, a man after my own heart,' Orl Ejjar continued. 'I knew it the moment you rode that second tilt. You joust like shit, but by Mortus you've got big balls, that's what I said. Where is it you hail from again?'

'Oakhold, my lord. Green Country.'

Orl Ejjar mouthed the words to himself. Bard could see Lord Hogstas raising an eyebrow as he watched the archery.

'On Woodrock. It's an island, west of the Blue Hills. Quite small actually.' Bard would have said more, but for the painful realisation that Giants Fort claimed a lot of the mainland west of the Blue Hills. Technically, Lord Hogstas ruled right up to the border of where Woodrock was supposed to be. Fortunately, Lord Hogstas was also preoccupied with the entertainment.

'Is that the one with the hounds?' Orl Ejjar quizzed.

'No,' Bard replied, 'that's Dog's Tooth. Much further south.' And a real place, to boot.

'It matters not. Green Country is all the same to me. Men, however, are not.'

Bard sensed he was building up to something. He was assured of such when Orl Ejjar placed his ale-skin on the table and swivelled so that his attention was entirely on Bard, not the finals of his own archery event.

'I notice you are not married, Lord Eran. This is strange to me. You have lands, titles, coin and a pretty face. Such things no woman can resist. You're not for ... men, are you?'

'No, my lord, I am simply waiting for the right time to claim a woman.'

Orl Ejjar cocked his own brow and threw his head to his young wife. She had eyes only for the archers. Bard wondered if her match to Orl Ejjar was one that she would have scorned if given any choice in the matter. 'I have had four wives, Lord Eran. There's no such thing as the right time.'

'I prefer to let the Elders decide such things, my lord,' Bard said.

'Why leave it for them?'

Bard remained silent. One of the archers hit centre-target with an arrow and the crowd sounded off their appreciation.

Orl Ejjar leaned in once more, 'I have a proposition for you.'

Several possibilities swam from the murky depths of Bard's mind. Only one made ít to the surface. 'A ... proposition?' He's going to propose I marry Orel. Elders, he's actually going to offer me Orel's hand.

'It's the Lover's Climb tomorrow. It would be my honour for you to climb and seize my daughter's hand.'

The shock hit Bard like a hammer to the chest. Oran, not Orel. Has he forgotten it was Orel who brought me to his Ale Hall for the banquet? Elders, has he forgotten I almost died yesterday?

Bard made to respond but Lord Hogstas got their first. 'Remember, my lord, there are other worthy men that have put their names forward. It might be unfair to introduce another champion at this late hour. Lord Rodron tells me his son is most keen.'

Orl Ejjar's laugh was loud enough to make Lord Hogstas recoil. He didn't care though, his eyes remained fixed on Bard. 'You remember Lord Rodron, Lord Eran?'

Bard did remember him from the meal. Lord Rodron of House Emal, from the Steeps of Maladrom, pointed of nose. Causing great offence to a man of such status didn't bode well.

'His son, Custace, will try to climb tomorrow.'

'I will pray Mortus lends strength to his arms, my lord.'

Orl Ejjar's eyes widened. 'You'll do no such thing. I can tell you something, Lord Eran, I don't want a son named Custace. I don't want his curly hair and soft hands. Just the same as I didn't want any of the others. Two of my girls married Greenmen. I hate them both, don't even know their names. One of the others, Egrid, I think, is widowed. I didn't like him before he died, didn't know his name either. And he was a Mountainman! But you ...'

'My lord, I'm afraid-'

'-You,' Orl Ejjar bulled on as though Bard hadn't tried to interrupt him. 'I want a son I can drink with, ride with, hunt with, Lord Eran. I want a son that will give me strong pups to carry on my blood. Most of all, I want a son who can defend my daughters to his last breath. Then, when life has kicked him to the floor or hit him off his horse with a stick, he will get up and fight back again. You are such a man, Lord Eran, I have seen it. My son, Erikk, used to be such a man. The Spires changed him, though. I love him still, Mortus knows this, but the joy has gone from his eyes.'

Bard noticed Lord Hogstas watching him shrewdly from Orl Ejjar's other side.

'Oran has given me her word she will not fray the rope, Lord Eran. She will sit on the tree trunk to ensure it stays in the tower, too, if I command it.'

Bard got a bristle of pain just thinking about trying to climb a rope. He used the barb to inspire his excuse. 'I cannot fight any man tomorrow, my lord. I'm afraid my arm is useless. I would not even reach the rope, kind as your offer is.'

'Nonsense!' Orl Ejjar replied. 'If you fart hard enough on Custace Emal he'll likely fall over.'

'All the same, I'm afraid I cannot give you what you ask, my lord ...'

Orl Ejjar's face was a picture of genuine hurt. 'No?'

Bard shifted his glance to the Hammer keep, high on the hill beyond the black walls. 'My heart is elsewhere.'

#

It wasn't until mid-afternoon that Bard was finally able to win free from Orl Ejjar's grip. They parted company when they had returned to the keep, the Orl well in his cups and boisterously merry because of it. Fortunately, for Bard, Orl Ejjar's young wife felt faint from the heat and so the journey up the hill had been little more than a languid stroll. All to the good; Bard reckoned he would have fallen, never to rise again, had the Orl insisted on another forced march.

When Orl Ejjar and his wife had vanished inside the keep with their guards, Bard turned to take in the city and the sprawling mess of tents that marked the tourney grounds. Somewhere, out there amongst the hundreds, Taaj, Tall Toyne, Bodkin and Weasel are readying themselves. Tonight. We move tonight.

'You will forgive the Orl for his brashness, I trust, Lord Eran?' Bard had almost forgotten that Lord Hogstas was still present. He was flanked by two burly spearmen, both sporting the giant eye of House Kyro.

'There is nothing to forgive, my lord,' Bard said back. Standing alone in the company of Lord Hogstas gave him unease in the pit of his stomach. The ruler of Giants Fort came with a reputation, and power besides.

'Even so, best not mention that business with the Lover's Climb. Lord Rodron is not a man to forgive slights.'

Bard tipped his head dutifully.

'Of course, I'm sure you know this. Where was it you said Oakhold lay again?'

'West of the Blue Hills. The island of Woodrock.'

'I'm shocked I do not know if it. I shall spend the evening brushing up on my cartology, I think,' he said dryly. 'Enjoy the remainder of the tourney, Lord Eran.' And with that, Lord Hogstas walked off into the keep, leaving Bard wholly unsettled.

Unsettled or no, however, he knew what he had to do before the sky darkened. He forced himself in Lord Hogstas' wake, crutch pounding the corridors, and made, once again, for the kitchens.

By the time he found an ale-boy free to help him, the flutters had started in his core. It was always the same. It had been the same when he'd been in the hangman's noose, waiting for the other Gallowmen to kill Hoffvar Jatteson. It had been the same when, once upon a moon, they had waited three days and three nights to ambush that tribal chief on the Shrouded Isles. It was the time. Except, on this occasion, there was a slight reprieve, a hand to grab at the flutters and steady them somewhat. A hand of ice-white.

The ale-boy went off to search the city for Orel while Bard struggled around the keep. He first came upon Oran and Ingun, two of Orl Ejjar's other daughters. Oran gave him a mischievous smile and as he walked away he could hear Ingun making remarks about how comely he was. Neither were any help in finding Orel.

He checked the Ale Hall, re-checked the kitchens and larders, the butteries and all of the passageways and courtyards. There was no sign of her. Bard finally conceded when he saw the sun hovering just over the horizon, waiting to complete its descent. Erikk. I'm here for Erikk. He had to forcibly remind himself.

With a great weight on his shoulders, Bard laboured back to his chambers to wait. Soon the castle would dine and then, sometime after, Erikk would make his way up to the Moon Tower, as Orel said he always did in the evenings, to drift off into wakeless sleep.

That was the plan anyway, a plan that tumbled from the castle walls the moment Bard opened his door to find a piece of parchment had been slid underneath it.

It read, simply, 'I will wait for you at the Moon Tower when the sun is set. Orel.'

Bard cursed the Elders, re-read the parchment and sat on the bed. He had much and more to contemplate, all of it centering around Erikk and striking another name from the list. Instead, he thought of ice-white hair and sat watching the window, waiting for the sun to disappear.

#

The stairs of the Moon Tower were torture. Bard stopped three times to give himself respite, all the while aware that time was of the essence. The sun was gone from the sky and so he assumed the feasting would be commencing, Erikk drinking the Sweet Ale, as he did every night.

When he reached the highest door, Bard paused, caught his breath, straightened his tunic and hair. Then he pushed it open slowly and peered in.

He could see no one. The rope and the trunk were before the window, as they had been the previous night, the throne positioned in a way that made it impossible to tell if Orel was sitting in it or not.

'My lady?' Bard called. 'Orel?'

There came no reply. He edged in cautiously, ears pricked for sound. Upon reaching the throne he peered over its top ... and there was no one there.

The door slammed shut behind him and a deep laughter echoed about the chamber. Bard turned, slowly, helpless as a hare in a bear's den.

Erikk smiled.

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