Another lump of madriel crap arced through the air towards Maddock, and he barely managed to avoid the noisome projectile.

Another barrage of the foul missiles was launched towards him, and as he crouched and changed direction to avoid them, his feet skidded on the dry earth of the training-arena and flew from under him. He landed heavily on his arse, but it was the malicious glint in Cirric's eye, as he dug his hand shovel back into the cartload of dung for another throw, which stung more than the pain of his landing.

He had still been seething with anger from his meeting with Dak's brat of a friend when he had woken that morning, but he had consoled himself with the thought that at least he had friends among the Field-hands. Boys who would not judge him by where he came from, or who his father was, because they did not care. They liked him for who he was. At least that was what he had thought before he had stepped into the training-arena. He had arrived with his hand cart and shovel, expecting it to be another morning of moving madriel crap about, but he'd had no idea he would be getting more intimately involved with the creatures' waste than was usual.

The Enclosures had been busier than he had seen them previously. Normally it was unusual for a knight to be seen there before the middle of the morning, but despite the earliness of the day, the place had been full of them. Madriel-masters and senior Field-hands were riding in from the great-bailey, leading in what seemed like whole prides of madriel males. They were being taken to the smaller pens, where squires waited with saddles and trappings, and where knights stood about, dressed in their light riding-armour.

As he'd been wheeling his cart around one of the armoury's grenkep wagons, he'd heard a shout from behind him, and five madriel had thundered past, their knights sitting straight backed in their saddles, shouting encouragement to their steeds to spur them out across the great-bailey.

Maddock had looked about to see if he could find anyone who could tell him what was going on, but everyone seemed so busy he thought it best not to disturb them. Instead, he'd wheeled his cart on to the training-arena and had been surprised to find Cirric and four other Field-hands waiting for him inside. Each of them had been standing beside a full hand-cart of dung, small hand-shovels in their fists and looks of eager expectation on their faces.

"Close the gate behind you and stand over there," Cirric had ordered.

"What's going on?" Maddock had asked.

"No questions, boy," one of the Field-hands had replied. His name was Macus and he was a few years older, with a curly mass of pale hair, which made him look amiable enough, but Maddock knew that the boy had a surly streak to him.

He had looked about the hard packed earth of the arena as he wheeled his cart over to where Cirric had pointed, but there was no dung there to be cleared.

"So what's this all about..?"

"Now!" Cirric had shouted, and the missiles had begun to fly.

Maddock had not been expecting the initial barrage, but he was at least fast enough to avoid the worst of it, though some of the stinking shit had caught him on his shoulder as he leapt into cover behind his hand-cart.

The boys, in response, had wheeled to either side to flank him and continue their pelting. He had felt the wet dung pattering the ground around his feet as he scampered away. He'd managed to avoid the worst of their missiles for a while, but now he was sitting on his arse with no cover, and the five boys were reloading their hand-shovels, grinning and shouting encouragement at each other.

"He's down!"

"Have him!"

The new dung flew and he rolled clumsily, feeling something splatter on the back of his leg.

"Nice one, Cirric!"

Maddock got his legs under him and looked up to see one of the Field-hands digging out an especially large lump of liquidy crap from his cart, his face split in a gleeful grin. Maddock ran. He went straight for the boy, and his movement was so quick, the hasty shot that came at him went arcing over his head. The boy quickly bent to scoop up another missile, but Maddock was already on him, careering into the cart and tipping it over, causing the boy to let out a yell as its wooden edge caught his shins a cracking blow, and its contents spilled out. He stumbled backwards, but Maddock didn't wait for him to regain his balance, nor did he bother with the niceties of a hand-shovel. He scooped up a pile of the spilled dung in his hand and flung it at the Field-hand, spattering his tunic's front with filth.

He didn't have much time to savour the boy's disgusted look, because the other Field-hands had closed on him and began their pelting again, this time at close range, covering his back, shoulder and arm. The giggles of mirth that accompanied the assault made him spin about in time to see the boys running back to their carts to reload. Without thought, Maddock scooped up two handfuls of dung and gave chase.

Macus was bending over his cart when Maddock caught him. One fistful of shit slopped down his neck, matting in his golden hair, and the other, as the older boy turned in alarm, was slapped into his face.

"Hey! Not in the face!" cried one of the remaining boys.

Maddock turned to face them.

The three of them stood in a tight knot about him, each with a loaded hand-shovel. The other boy was still regaining his feet, and from the disgusted sounds that Macus was making behind him, it sounded like he was hastily clearing dung from his mouth.

"I'm sorry," said Maddock, between gritted teeth. "No one told me what the rules were."

"He's right, you know," said Cirric amiably. He was standing directly in front of him. He looked down at the shovel of madriel dung in his hand and grinned.

"So," he said "Rules are out."

He threw the dung in a sudden swift movement, and even though Maddock was equally swift, he could not avoid it and he felt it strike the side of his head, the ooze forcing itself into his ear.

The other two foul missiles hit home, and suddenly he found himself in the centre of a relentless onslaught. The Field-hands retreated to their carts, and though he could have given chase, he had nothing with which to attack. The boys themselves had given up on accuracy, relying instead on rapidity, and so the barrage was relentless. He dodged about as best he could, and though most of the throws were wild and wide, a good number still hit home, so that soon he was covered in a layer of foul smelling shit. The stuff also covered the earth about him, so it wasn't long before his foot slipped and he crashed onto his back again.

Once he was down, the boys took their time and focussed their aim, and the next shots struck with horrible accuracy. Maddock was beginning to think that the attack would never end, when a voice bellowed out across the arena.

"Enough!"

The last missile fell, splattering across the ground, and the boys fell silent.

Maddock looked up from where he lay to see Master Dramut standing across the arena from him, an unreadable look on his face as he tapped his scarred training stick against his leg.

He paced towards the group of boys and stood in front of Cirric.

"Well?" he said

Cirric thrust his hand-shovel back into his half empty cart and grinned.

"He's fast enough."

Master Dramut smiled, then looked down again at Maddock.

"Good."

Maddock looked up at him, foulness falling from his face as he frowned.

"On your feet then, boy," said the Madriel-master.

Cirric came around from behind his cart and stood in front of him. He held a grubby hand out, and at first Maddock simply looked at it, but then he reached up and took it. Cirric hauled him to his feet.

"Well done, grub," he said, and clapped him on the back.

Maddock, still a little bewildered, looked again at Master Dramut.

"Report back here tomorrow," he said. "First light. I think it is time to begin your madriel's training."

Then he turned and strode towards the arena door.

"You mean this was another test?" said Maddock to his retreating back.

"Of course it was a test," said Master Dramut over his shoulder, before turning back to him. "You passed, and it seems that in doing so you gave almost as good as you got."

Master Dramut looked pointedly at Macus and the other Field-hand, both of them smothered in madriel dung.

"You had all better get to the bath-house before you continue your duties. You will doubtless be kept busy today."

The old Madriel-master turned and strode out of the arena, the door closing behind him with an echoing bang.

Maddock was suddenly aware of the other Field-hands around him. They clapped him on the shoulder and punched him on the arm, even those he had struck, although Macus did pull a gob of shit out of his hair and smear it over his cheek, though the smile he gave seemed genuine enough.

"Don't think I've ever seen anyone move so fast," he said.

"Certainly not you," grinned Cirric.

"Yeah, yeah," said Macus, flicking a lump of crap at him, which the other boy dodged easily.

"Come on then, lads; let's get this lot cleaned up, then we can do the same for us."

Maddock went to collect his own shovel. He nodded to the arena door through which Master Dramut had exited.

"What's going on out there? Why's the place so busy?"

"Ain't you heard?" said Cirric. "Assassins got into the fortress last night and tried to do away with Commander Kralaford."

"Really?"

He wasn't sure what he should think about the attempted murder of that unpleasant girl's father.

"Was anyone hurt?"

Cirric and the other boys began to shovel up the thrown dung that littered the arena floor.

"Nah. The Commander stuck one of them good, and his lady shot the other through the brain. They strung them up this morning. Me and the lads here have a mind to sneak up later on and take a look if you fancy coming."

"Not sure if I'm so keen on seeing dead people."

Maddock bent and began to shovel.

"Not people," said Cirric. "Critters."

"I heard they was demons," put in one of the Field-hands.

Cirric shrugged.

"That they may well have been. We'll see later. You coming?"

"Sure," said Maddock, his curiosity roused.

"Only if we get our work done today, though. Seems like half the knights in the fortress will be tearing the great-bailey apart. They seem to think there might be more of the things about."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Don't worry none though; ain't you they'll be wanting to kill."