PART 2

The sun climbed slowly, casting the long shadow of the fortress across the great-bailey hub. The dry brownness of the grass-lands had been restored by the rains to the blazing colours of second summer; the new deep green of the plains stippled with the vivid brightness of flower grass.

The air vibrated with a high pitched whirr as the swarms of nipeflies clouded about the new supply of pollen, and the clear sky was continually painted with scything ribbons as the flocks of widdershins turned and spiralled, feeding on the abundance of tiny insects.

Grifford was in no position to notice the new beauty of the plains.

"Fighting!" shouted High Madriel-master Sprak. His breath on Grifford's face smelt like rancid olap berries. "Brawling like a common Farm-hand!"

Grifford did not meet the Madriel-master's malicious gaze, and instead fixed his eyes straight ahead at the twisted lump of sky metal hanging on the wall above the Madriel-master's table.

His own raging temper, which had been clawing at his brain ever since he had left the training-arena, had subsided and reformed into a cold brooding.

He had awoken that morning, eager to get out to the Enclosures, glad to be outside once more after ten days confined to the fortress, with nothing to occupy him but his lessons and his sister's constant wittering about some new obsession of hers. During those days he had dwelled constantly on how he would recommence his training, which had been suspended, even before the rains swept down from the northern mountains. He was sure he knew what new approach he had to take when he next met his steed in the training ring. He simply had to be more commanding.

His stubborn brute of a madriel had rewarded his new fervour by continued disobedience, though it had, at least, begun to acknowledge his existence.

It was trying to kill him.

Master Chen still held him in disgrace for using his training stick to strike his madriel, and even though he did concede that the beast's new attitude was an indication of some progress, he explained that, due to the way in which the progress had been reached, the next part of his training would be all the harder. Grifford didn't understand. It did not seem as though any part of anything was improving, other than his ability to avoid the animal's belligerent claw swipes.

He had left the training-arena with his impotent anger boiling and seeking a release, and had come upon the three squires near the Enclosures' lower pens. Gefry, at their centre, had been proudly showing off a new tunic.

"Made of the best frax," he had been boasting gleefully. "All the way from the gardens of Albain. My father has contacts with a merchant within the Association who trades the material."

The boys had not seen Grifford as he advanced on them, and only noticed him when he spoke.

"Frax? That is made from flowers is it not?"

Gefry had given a terrified start and spun around to face him.

"I believe so, yes," he had said, a look of forced superiority falling over his fear.

"It makes you look like a girl."

Gefry had scowled.

"It is a finer garment than the rags some are forced to wear."

One of the other squires had sniggered.

"One would think that a Pride-commander could dress his son better."

Grifford had taken a step towards Gefry.

"You are talking disrespectfully about my father again."

The other squires had closed in on either side of Gefry, their presence giving him confidence.

"And I am sure you know why we have no respect for your father, or have your family kept the truth a secret from you out of embarrassment?"

Grifford had taken another step towards Gefry and gripped his fist into his tunic of finest frax. On his own, Gefry was a coward. Squire Brefoir had a malicious streak in him, but was slow, and Squire Marcin, though capable enough with a sword, was dim witted and lacked initiative. He had not been concerned by the boys facing him.

"Let go of me!" Gefry had demanded.

Grifford had not released his hold.

"I am tired of hearing the lies of a traitor's son."

Despite Grifford's grip on his tunic, Gefry had smiled.

"Oh, have you been talking to yourself?"

Grifford had pulled Gefry towards him.

"It is Tasker I am talking about."

Gefry had rolled his eyes.

"I know it is Tasker that you are talking about, oaf! Tasker; our very good friend, whose father yours betrayed."

Grifford had dragged the other boy closer still, so that their eyes were locked together.

"I dare you to speak one more lie about my father."

Which is how he had come to be standing in the dimness of Madriel-master Sprak's office, with his eyes rooted to the lump of sky metal.

The other squires stood on either side of him, eyes fixed firmly on their boots. Brefoir and Marcin both had swollen lips, and all three had bruises, but of them all, Gefry had suffered the worst. Blood trickled from his nose, his left eye was swollen almost shut, and his clothes were covered in mud and grass stains. His new shirt had a tear in it from neck to armpit.

Grifford had a small cut above his right eye.

Master Sprak cast his baleful glare along the line of squires, before returning it to Grifford.

"So it's punishment for you yet again. Let's see if it will make you guard your temper a little better." He spat onto the floor at Grifford's feet.

Grifford felt the anger tense at the back of his head.

"Making me polish harnesses again won't change anything!" he said.

"Oh no," said Master Sprak with sadistic malice. "Your friends here will spend the rest of the day wearing their soft hands with polishing. You, I have a special job for."

Grifford turned his eyes to those of the vicious Madriel-master.

"I think it's time someone learned some humility," said Master Sprak.

* * * * *

Maddock sat on his upturned cart outside the Infirmary. He poked again at the bandages wrapped firmly around his arm, and was rewarded with a heavy flash of pain. He swore under his breath.

He consoled himself with the thought that at least he had finally thought of a name for his steed. Although, thinking about it as he waited for Master Dramut to return, 'Little Shit' probably wasn't really a very good name for a madriel, even if it was fitting.

Maybe he would have to rethink that one.

He had been determined, after a week of waiting for the rains to pass, that when he returned to his training, he would not make the same mistake he had made the last time he had faced his new steed in the training arena.

Fortunately, he had not.

He had made a different one.

Everything had seemed fine. He had held the creature's sharp gaze, and his continuous orders for the creature to sit were finally followed. It had even cast its eyes to the ground in seeming submission. Maddock had lowered his training stick, a huge grin of success spreading over his face.

Then the beast had struck.

Maddock gave the bandages a final painful prod.

He would have to do better. After his encounter with that ungrateful brat of an Order girl, on the day the rains had come, he was more determined than ever that he would be a knight one day. The memory of the girl's conceited face swam into his mind, and he scowled.

"Dreaming again, boy?" came a harsh voice from behind him.

Maddock jumped up and turned quickly around. High Madriel-master Sprak was standing behind him.

"I was just waiting for Master Dramut," he said, his words dying when he saw that Master Sprak was not alone.

Standing beside him, and looking broodingly ferocious, was a dark haired squire, who Maddock recognised only too well.

"It's your lucky day, boy; you will have some help in your labours," said Master Sprak. "Up with your cart and follow me."

With no further word, he strode past Maddock and down the aisle of madriel pens. Maddock hastily righted his cart and threw his bucket and shovel in before taking up the handles. He looked over at the squire, who had not moved, and was surprised to see that he too carried a bucket and shovel, though he held the shovel like a weapon and the bucket hung by his side as though he didn't know what to do with it.

"What are you looking at, Field-hand?" he said savagely.

Maddock did not reply, and simply turned and followed after Master Sprak.

"Have you got a problem, boy?" said the High Madriel-master when he caught up with him.

"What's he doing here?"

"That's squire Grifford, Sir Kralaford's brat. He's under punishment."

Maddock looked over his shoulder to see Grifford following slowly behind, stomping through the mud and staring at them from beneath tightly drawn, angry brows.

They came to one of the larger pens, where some of the males had been housed while the Order waited for news from the north. It was empty now, its occupants let out to the great-bailey once more.

Master Sprak opened the gate and Maddock wheeled his cart through.

"Come on, squire Grifford. Move yourself!"

Grifford stomped through the gate. Master Sprak closed it behind them.

"This boy will show you what you have to do," he said to the squire. "Get to work."

Then he turned, and with no further word, strode off between the pens.

Maddock turned to the squire, unsure of what to say. The boy dropped his shovel and bucket into the mud and leant on the pen's fence, his arms folded defiantly.