Grifford stepped from the quiet of the Infirmary, into the chaos of the Enclosures. The news of his brother's rescue had been carried across the Great-bailey, and the Pride was returning. Many of the nearby pens were occupied by ill-tempered beasts, and the Madriel-masters were busy in their attempts to release them to the Territories. But as the minutes passed, more knights were returning, and the avenues were filled with the disgruntled growling of their steeds. As he left the scented droning of the herb garden, a group of ladies passed by, their steeds panting from the exertion of their swift return.

Grifford did not mind the noise. It was a welcome relief from his sister's wittering. When he had left the room where Dak had been put, in a bed alongside her Field-hand friend, Tahlia had been telling the tale of their brother's rescue again. She had already told it to Maddock, and then to his brothers who had arrived shortly after. Then Master Hepskil and Chief-communicant Vennar had come in and the story was started again.

He knew he should have remained because Tahlia's version of events was a mutilation of the truth. She seemed to relish the part where she shot Vlambra and caused him to drop their brother, but the fact that Kralmir had been hanging out over the waste reservoir had been strangely omitted. Until Grifford had corrected her. Similarly, their pursuit of the Engineer afterwards, and their abandonment of Dak and their brother, had been deliberately glossed over.

Grifford frowned to himself as a gang of Field-hands and a Madriel-master guided a group of unsaddled males from the pens, leading them out towards the Enclosure's edge. As he watched them, the feelings inside him turned over. He was relieved that they had saved his brother, but he still cursed himself for his mistake of forgetting about the nadidge. The safety of his brother should have been his priority, but instead he had followed his sister's wild fancy, and if it had not been for Dak then Kralmir would doubtless be dead. Or taken elsewhere. According to the Engineer girl, it appeared the nadidge had been more intent on taking Kralmir away than it was on killing her or escaping itself.

Dak's account of her bravery was also causing him trouble. He did not doubt the girl's honesty, but if what she had told them was the truth, then she'd had the opportunity to let the nadidge escape with Kralmir. She had not. She had closed the doors and risked her life. In a similar way, the Field-hand, Maddock, had put the life of Hakansa before his own the previous night, and it should not be in the nature of common people to show such bravery. That's what his grandfather had always told him, and his grandfather had been wrong.

Maybe he had been wrong about a lot of things.

He shook his head in exasperation, and headed through the noise of the Enclosures. As he passed through its avenues he became the focus of conversation. Returning knights halted their steeds to watch him pass, and Madriel-masters paused in their duties. A group of young ladies, barely old enough to hunt, whispered behind their hands in a giggling conversation, but Grifford was too intent on his thoughts to notice the attention.

The tall clock in the centre of the Enclosures indicated that it would soon be the hour of Fortak, and when that had passed it would be noon. Grifford knew his father would be back in time to face Sir Galder. He was certain of it. As he passed through the clock's shadow, its outer marker clicked another notch, indicating the passage of another minute.

His father would return.

Nothing would prevent him.

* * * * *

The three outcast Clan knights closed their position to twenty metres before they halted. The remaining hydrayet riders spread themselves out to either flank, though the mounts of those on the right tossed their heads fretfully and snorted at the riderless broindell that crouched, growling in the long grass. A half metre of one of its horns was tipped with bright blood. The surviving razorbeak had disappeared, its pursuit of a wounded hydrayet carrying it out of sight over the valley's lip.

"Pride-commander Kralaford," said the Clan knight in the group's centre. His voice sounded hollow within his helm, but the amusement in it was still clear. "You are trespassing on our land."

Sir Kralaford could not hide his distaste as he answered.

"You are Outcast. You have no land."

The knight's reply was echoing laughter.

"You have my name," said Sir Kralaford. "Would you give me the honour of delivering yours?"

"I am Outcast."

The knight's companions smiled, and one of them spat on the ground.

"If you wish to live," the knight went on. "Throw down your weapons. You will not be harmed."

Had it been Clan knights of the Order that he faced, Sir Kralaford would doubtless have done so. Even if they had been of the Free Clans he might have considered it, but these were Outcast, degenerated to something lower than the worth of bandits, shriven of their honour. There was only one way his sword would be taken from him.

Sir Kralaford wiped his curved blade through Hakansa's ridge of dark hair, spiking it with blood.

"You will not have my sword," he said. "Its services are still required."

The two knights who sat to his left and his right raised no words of opposition. He was their Pride-commander. He had earned the right to their sacrifice.

The Outcast knight adjusted his grip on his lance.

"As you wish it."

His javac hissed through serrated teeth, and its body tensed in readiness for its charge. His companions drew their swords and grinned in anticipation of easy kills, but then one of them paused, his eager expression falling as he looked to the valley's brink.

The razorbeak had returned, and it ran screeching over the rise of land, its eyes wild and its long talons tearing up the grass. It ran towards the farmhouse, and the archers inside panicked and arrows flew to strike the bird down. Its screeching stopped, its leg slashed at the air, and then it was dead. It was in the following silence that Sir Kralaford heard the other noise; the subdued clashing of metal and the panting of labouring breath, echoing behind guards of metal.

The lances showed first, and then the high sun glinted on dark metal as the first knight crested the valley's rim. A second appeared, and then a third, and they halted there, their madriel panting and growling as more climbed into view, until twenty knights of Klinberg stood facing into the valley.

Sir Kralaford retuned his attention to the Outcast knight.

"It seems that it is my turn to ask for your sword."

The knight hissed some inarticulate reply, his javac tensed itself, and charged.

There was no thought as Sir Kralaford ordered Hakansa forward. Behind him he heard the words of command as the new arrivals began their own charge into the valley, but then the noise and activity behind him washed out, and his concentration was fixed on the strip of land ahead of him and the enemy charging along it. Unarmoured, and with his opponent having the advantage of his lance, he did not have the freedom to test his skill.

"On!" he called, and Hakansa increased his pace, despite the bleeding wound at his shoulder.

The lance was a hand's span from his stomach when he turned it with his rail-shield. Deflected metal shrieked. The lance blade's threat passed him, and he struck low with his sword, through his opponent's own defence, but the blow was turned by armour. The two knights passed each other, and both were equal in their speed as they turned.

Before they closed again, Sir Kralaford was aware of the knight's two companions close by, but they did not attack him. Armoured knights and madriel were charging down the valley towards them, and the remaining hydrayet and their riders were caught, hesitant and indecisive, stunned by the sudden appearance of their attackers. The two knights shouted commands, the ragtag of riders went forward, and the two knights turned their steeds and fled.

The remaining Outcast knight's next attack was not made with his lance. His javac hissed and pounced as it closed on Sir Kralaford, its heavy jaws wide and aimed at Hakansa's throat, but his steed had faced such attacks before and was skilled at their counter. He lowered his head, and his horns beat the javac's jaws aside, though the edges of its helm etched damage into their surface. Then the two beasts passed each other, too close for Sir Kralaford to employ his sword. Instead, he struck with his rail-shield, its triangular boss beating at his enemy's bestial helm and rocking him in his saddle. He turned Hakansa swiftly to exploit his advantage, but found that his opponent was not staying to continue the fight.

His final desperate attack had failed, and he was urging his steed away in the wake of his two companions, who were already climbing the steep slope at the valley's head. Hakansa followed, growling and roaring his umbrage at the cowardice, but Sir Kralaford understood the futility of the pursuit. These were the hills, and they belonged to the javac.

The distance grew between the two knights as the ground rose, the javac's talons grappling into the soft earth as it lurched up the slope. To see the creature run presented an ungainly sight, but when it reached the first sloping face of rock banding the valley's higher slopes the ugliness of its gait changed to elegance. It bunched its limbs beneath it and sprang upwards. Its jointed talons found unseen holds, and it leapt again, and then climbed as though the rock were flat land and its armour and rider impeded it no more than the air did.

Hakansa made one final attempt at hurting his quarry, leaping high and slashing with his horns, but they beat uselessly at the rock. He scrabbled awkwardly through the scree beneath the cliff as he landed, and Sir Kralaford could do nothing but watch the man who had led the attack on him climb to safety.

He saw him reach a high grass ledge, which sloped to the plateau above, and there his two companions were waiting for him. Once he had joined them, they turned their steeds and the three of them rode away, unhurried, as though no danger could reach them.

They were right.

Sir Kralaford growled his frustration.

"And that is why I have always hated javac," said a voice behind him.

Sir Kralaford wheeled Hakansa about.

"You have my thanks, Commander Unsaethel."

The old knight, sitting astride his steed on the slope below him, lifted his helmet from his head. A bandage still shrouded one of his eyes, tied tight through his unruly grey hair, and he was grinning like a youth. Falsch, beneath his own armour of plate and mesh, was panting and growling in sated satisfaction.

"It is only a pity I did not arrive earlier," said Sir Unsaethel. "But it seems you have accounted yourself well. You tore the stomach out of this rabble."

And it was true.

The hydrayet riders in the valley had foolishly met the knights' charge, and many had died on their lances. Those who had not had thrown down their weapons in surrender, and were already being pulled from their mounts and herded towards the ruin of the farmhouse. Sir Kralaford saw that Sir Hogan had dropped from his steed and was lying on the grass, one of Sir Unsaethel's retinue, in the uniform of a ranging-medic, kneeling to the arrow in his side. Sir Beddingvale had also had dismounted, and was calming his own steed and inspecting its blood sheeted leg.

"My men fought well," said Sir Kralaford as Hakansa loped down the slope, and Falsch turned to follow him. "Though I am neither proud nor foolish enough to admit that we would now be dead if not for your intervention."

"You can thank our High Lance-master for that. The man has been doing some digging this morning, and has found those responsible for your son's abduction."

Sir Kralaford turned in his saddle. Hakansa growled and stopped at the abrupt movement.

"And my son?"

"Still not found when I left, but Master Tzarren believes Kralmir is being held somewhere in the fortress."

Sir Kralaford made no attempt to hide his anger.

"By whom?"

"The man responsible, a merchant by the name of Dres, died by his own hand before he could be questioned, but Master Tzarren interrogated his Trade-proctor. From his questioning he surmised that you would be riding into trouble and sought my assistance."

Sir Kralaford looked down dispassionately at the dead and dying in the valley.

"I was a fool not to have realised it sooner. That they had no chance of escape was clear, and they made no attempt to hide their trail from us. They knew I had no choice but to follow."

"Indeed."

"Now I have some questions to ask them."

Sir Kralaford urged Hakansa towards the farmhouse, and Sir Unsaethel followed, catching him as he reached the first of their attacker's dead. A wounded hydrayet, which had been grazing a patch of bloodied grass nearby, snorted irritably and limped away.

"You have business with Sir Galder at noon, Commander," Sir Unsaethel reminded him. "And that time is fast approaching."

"I cannot face Sir Galder until I know the fate of my son."

Falsch pushed forward and blocked Hakansa, who snarled at the impediment.

"You have acknowledged one foolishness today," said Sir Unsaethel. "Do you wish to continue with further idiocy? What purpose do you think this trap was supposed to serve?"

"Do not fret, old man. My questioning will be quick."

Hakansa moved forward, and Falsch did not stop him.

"Ensure that it is," said Sir Unsaethel, and wheeled his steed away.

* * *

Falsch picked his way between the bodies, to a patch of thick grass where Sir Unsaethel's lance stood, driven slantwise into the earth. He grasped it and pulled, and with Falsch's strength he wrenched the weapon from the broindell's body, which had been pinned by it to the ground.

"Do you still remember the impetuousness of youth, old friend?" he asked.

Falsch gave a low growl.

Sir Unsaethel grunted.

"Come on then, beast. I fear my fellow Commander has too much of his father's blood in him this hour, and you and I both know what a hot-headed fool he was."

They turned, and Falschloped towards the farmhouse, where some prisoners awaited questioning.