standing at a wagon below the eastern wall; here the wagons had been drawn in a line to create a pen for the oxen.
Waylander strolled across the courtyard. Dardalion had put aside the sword and scabbard he had taken from the dead robber and had selected a sabre of blue steel. The broadsword had been too heavy for the slender priest. Sarvaj produced a breastplate from under the tarpaulin. It was wrapped in oilskin, and when he brought it out into the sunshine it shone like silver.
'A Vagrian officer of the Blue Riders,' said Sarvaj.
'Made to order. Try it on.' Delving deeper into the depths of the wagon, he pulled clear a large parcel. Ripping it open he discovered a white cloak, trimmed with leather.
'You'll stand out like a dove among crows,' said Waylander, but Dardalion merely grinned and swept the cloak over his shoulders. Shaking his head, Waylander climbed on to the wagon where he selected two short swords of blue steel in matching black scabbards; these he threaded to his belt. The edges were dulled and he moved away to the battlements to hone them.
When Dardalion joined him Waylander blinked in mock disbelief. A white horse-hair plumed helmet was buckled at the chin, and the leather-trimmed cloak lay over a shimmering breastplate embossed with a flying eagle. A leather kilt, studded with silver, protected Dardalion's thighs, while silver greaves were buckled to his calves. By his side hung a cavalry sabre, and on his left hip a long, curved knife sat in a jewelled scabbard.
'You look ridiculous,' said Waylander.
'Most probably. But will it serve?'
'It will serve to draw the Vagrians to you like flies to a cowpat.'
'I do feel rather foolish.'
'Then take it off and find yourself something less garish.'
'No. I can't explain why, but this is right.'
'Then keep away from me, priest. I want to stay alive!'
'Will you not get yourself some armour?'
'I have my mailshirt. I don't intend to stand in one place long enough to be cut.'
'I would appreciate some advice on swordsmanship,' said Dardalion.
'Gods of Mercy!' snapped Waylander. 'It takes years to learn and you have an hour, maybe two. There's nothing I can teach you - just remember throat and groin. Protect your own, slice theirs!'
'By the way, I told Sarvaj - the soldier who greeted us - that your name was Dakeyras.'
'It does not matter. But thank you anyway.'
'I am sorry that saving me has brought you to this,' said Dardalion.
'I brought myself to this; don't blame yourself. Just try to stay alive, priest.'
'I am in the hands of the Source.'
'Whatever. Keep the sun to your back - that way you'll blind them with your magnificence! And get yourself a canteen of water - you'll find war dries the throat.'
'Yes, I'll do that now. I . . .'
'No more speeches, Dardalion. Fetch yourself some water and position yourself down there by the wagons. That is where the action will be.'
'I feel I ought to say something. I owe you my life . . . But the words are all trapped inside me.'
'You need say nothing. You are a good man, priest - and I am glad I saved you. Now, for pity's sake, go away!'
Dardalion returned to the courtyard and Waylander strung his crossbow, testing the strings for tension. Satisfied, he laid it gently on the stone rampart. Then, taking a short length of rawhide, he tied back his hair at the nape of the neck.
A young, bearded soldier approached. 'Good morning, sir. My name is Jonat. This is my section.'
'Dakeyras,' said Waylander, extending his hand.
'Your friend looks dressed for a royal banquet.'
'It was the best he could find. But he'll stand firm.'
'I am sure that he will. Do you intend to stay up here?'
'That is what I had in mind,' said Waylander drily.
'It is just that this is the best spot to cover the gap and I would prefer to place one of my archers here.'
'I can understand that,' said Waylander, picking up his crossbow and drawing back the upper string. Snapping a bolt in place, he glanced down at the wagon blocking the
Waylander strolled across the courtyard. Dardalion had put aside the sword and scabbard he had taken from the dead robber and had selected a sabre of blue steel. The broadsword had been too heavy for the slender priest. Sarvaj produced a breastplate from under the tarpaulin. It was wrapped in oilskin, and when he brought it out into the sunshine it shone like silver.
'A Vagrian officer of the Blue Riders,' said Sarvaj.
'Made to order. Try it on.' Delving deeper into the depths of the wagon, he pulled clear a large parcel. Ripping it open he discovered a white cloak, trimmed with leather.
'You'll stand out like a dove among crows,' said Waylander, but Dardalion merely grinned and swept the cloak over his shoulders. Shaking his head, Waylander climbed on to the wagon where he selected two short swords of blue steel in matching black scabbards; these he threaded to his belt. The edges were dulled and he moved away to the battlements to hone them.
When Dardalion joined him Waylander blinked in mock disbelief. A white horse-hair plumed helmet was buckled at the chin, and the leather-trimmed cloak lay over a shimmering breastplate embossed with a flying eagle. A leather kilt, studded with silver, protected Dardalion's thighs, while silver greaves were buckled to his calves. By his side hung a cavalry sabre, and on his left hip a long, curved knife sat in a jewelled scabbard.
'You look ridiculous,' said Waylander.
'Most probably. But will it serve?'
'It will serve to draw the Vagrians to you like flies to a cowpat.'
'I do feel rather foolish.'
'Then take it off and find yourself something less garish.'
'No. I can't explain why, but this is right.'
'Then keep away from me, priest. I want to stay alive!'
'Will you not get yourself some armour?'
'I have my mailshirt. I don't intend to stand in one place long enough to be cut.'
'I would appreciate some advice on swordsmanship,' said Dardalion.
'Gods of Mercy!' snapped Waylander. 'It takes years to learn and you have an hour, maybe two. There's nothing I can teach you - just remember throat and groin. Protect your own, slice theirs!'
'By the way, I told Sarvaj - the soldier who greeted us - that your name was Dakeyras.'
'It does not matter. But thank you anyway.'
'I am sorry that saving me has brought you to this,' said Dardalion.
'I brought myself to this; don't blame yourself. Just try to stay alive, priest.'
'I am in the hands of the Source.'
'Whatever. Keep the sun to your back - that way you'll blind them with your magnificence! And get yourself a canteen of water - you'll find war dries the throat.'
'Yes, I'll do that now. I . . .'
'No more speeches, Dardalion. Fetch yourself some water and position yourself down there by the wagons. That is where the action will be.'
'I feel I ought to say something. I owe you my life . . . But the words are all trapped inside me.'
'You need say nothing. You are a good man, priest - and I am glad I saved you. Now, for pity's sake, go away!'
Dardalion returned to the courtyard and Waylander strung his crossbow, testing the strings for tension. Satisfied, he laid it gently on the stone rampart. Then, taking a short length of rawhide, he tied back his hair at the nape of the neck.
A young, bearded soldier approached. 'Good morning, sir. My name is Jonat. This is my section.'
'Dakeyras,' said Waylander, extending his hand.
'Your friend looks dressed for a royal banquet.'
'It was the best he could find. But he'll stand firm.'
'I am sure that he will. Do you intend to stay up here?'
'That is what I had in mind,' said Waylander drily.
'It is just that this is the best spot to cover the gap and I would prefer to place one of my archers here.'
'I can understand that,' said Waylander, picking up his crossbow and drawing back the upper string. Snapping a bolt in place, he glanced down at the wagon blocking the
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