Ardeen – Volume 2/C2 2. The Contest
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Ardeen – Volume 2/C2 2. The Contest
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C2 2. The Contest

The swords crossed and disengaged again. An exchange of hard blows followed, and then the two combatants separated once more. It was a pure practice fight, yet the doggedness of both adversaries to secure the victory created a somewhat different impression. Again the swords clanked against each other, and this time one of the combatants suffered a small lapse in concentration which his opponent immediately exploited to decide the fight for himself.

That’s at least how the referee – in the figure of the thoroughly correct Sir Galden – saw it: “Stop the exercise! Sir Ravenor has won this time.”

Ravenor resheathed his sword. Hah! Won this time. I often win. As expected, Ravenor, the clear favorite, has once again emerged victorious – that’s what he should be saying.

Despite this small flaw, the bastard son of Prince Raiden was exceedingly happy, for he had – yet again – put Sir Askir Orten in his place. The vanquished opponent put his sword away in an angry and uncontrolled manner, earning a reproachful glance from Sir Galden in the process.

Our Sir Orten seems to be a bad loser. Fancy that - shows his anger, too. I would have got a bollocking for that. But such an Orten doesn’t get a proper reprimand.

And that mocking thought was confirmed immediately. Sir Galden drew up a closing balance on the fights and then terminated the morning exercise to allow the officers to return to their other duties.

With a spring in his step, Ravenor hastened away. How sweet the taste of victory is. So, my day has already begun quite well today. Since I’ve been made an officer, everything is better, anyway. I knew right from the beginning that I’d achieve more than just being a simple soldier. It’s in my blood. Commanding, fighting and... enjoying life. My achievement this morning was all the more astonishing when you consider that yesterday we drank like fish. The usual allowance is a very elastic term, especially if you are further up in the chain of command. And then Ravenor thought back to the time shortly after his promotion. To begin with, I really had to exert myself to learn what was what. Different routines, different pitfalls – but in the meantime I’ve settled in quite well with the officers. Now the number of those who can boss me around has been drastically reduced. Just Lord Boron and the five commanders, plus a few staff officers. Not more than fifteen men altogether who can bug me. As a soldier, it was much worse, having to click your heels together all the time. By this time, Ravenor had reached the parade ground where his men were already waiting for him.

“Attention!” he bawled and the whole platoon stood to attention and saluted. Ah, what a beautiful sight, my drill.

Ravenor had taken over the men of his old platoon, and new men had been recruited for those who had died in action. Having his old dormitory mates under his command had been odd at the beginning. After all, they were also good friends. Meanwhile, however, he had found a way of dealing with this situation. On duty, there were no exceptions, but afterwards he sometimes sat together with his old comrades. Not as often as he used to, and when he did so, he ordered them to come to his office and sent all the other soldiers out, as it was not common for officers to mix with their men. Eryn was the only one he was able to meet officially now and again, as he had a special status anyway. The mage scholar was missing at drill often enough, but Ravenor did not consider that a bad thing. It meant he had one man less to oversee. And if someone was not there, then he could not make mistakes either.

Now though, at the end of his working day, Ravenor was celebrating his little victory over Sir Askir and telling his friends how he had crushed good old Orten.

“No wonder Sir Askir was in such a foul mood today. He was hounding his men across the ground for the longest time,” remarked Farat, and Deren nodded in agreement: “I almost felt sorry for them, the Lordlings…but only almost.” Then he changed the subject and asked Ravenor curiously about a rumor he had heard: “Voices saying something about a possible assessment of the officers. Is it true?” Ravenor waved his hand dismissively: “Yes, there is supposed to be some kind of test. But I’m only interested in the sword fighting competition as that’s where I can put the losers in their place. I don’t care at all about all the other rubbish.”

Deren grew serious: “I wouldn’t take it too lightly. Later on, if you’re able to produce an assessment that you’ve passed with distinction, then you can get really good posts. They’ll take you anywhere if you have that. But you really need to pass it ‘with distinction’.” “Hmmm!” Ravenor growled as he contemplated this. Actually, he ought to have known about the assessment, but this wasn’t the case.” And how do you pass an assessment with distinction?” All eyes were fixed on Deren, who was quite well-informed about such things. “You just have to be the best.”

“Hah! That’s easy. You see, I’m already the best at sword fighting,” the progeny of the Prince crowed.

“All disciplines are evaluated, and only the person who is ahead overall is awarded an assessment with a distinction. Normally there are about eight disciplines – practical as well as theoretical exams. But even if you want to stay in the Guard, they’re bound to consult this assessment when it comes to promotions, and before you know it, Sir Askir will be climbing further upwards, straight into the staff.”

The mere thought of this annoyed Ravenor and he spat out bitterly: “Since when has a promotion been a matter of evaluating one’s performance? I always thought it depended on your background and your connections.”

“That’s mainly true at the beginning, but later performance also plays a role. Do you already know what kind of tests are actually set?” Ravenor scratched his head. A memory spell wouldn’t come amiss now. Sir Galden did tell us but I brushed that aside as unimportant information.

“Sword fighting, archery, parading with your own troop, jousting on horseback and three theoretical tasks: Regulations... military... something or other and... planning strategy and so... ” Ravenor stuttered, then he announced rather selfconfidently: “I’ll inform myself tomorrow. And after all, there are still two more weeks left till the competition.”

The faces of his friends spoke volumes. They’re skeptical. “What’s the matter?” He snapped at his friends, and then Eryn began with the doom-mongering: “Are two weeks enough to have even the slightest chance of learning the military theory?” “It can’t be that difficult. I just haven’t focused on it for as long as the Lordlings have. ” And it didn’t interest me one iota. “If I win the rest, then that’ll be enough.” That was arithmetically correct but otherwise very optimistic.

Deren shook his head: “Archery?”

“...and jousting?” Eryn added.

“What’s your problem?” Ravenor flared up. “Don’t you want me to win? Would you prefer to see Orten in the lead? How about that – my own men aren’t prepared to stand behind me. That’s not how you win a war!”

Farat had been keeping a low profile up to this point but now he intervened to calm things down. “You’re wrong. We want to see you in the lead and not Sir Askir with his heap of bootlickers. But we’re not the enemy, Sir Ravenor.” He consciously used the official form of address: “We’re only trying to help you to victory, but to do that, it’s a realistic assessment of the basic situation that we need. Not big speeches.”

“Are you criticizing your platoon leader, soldier?” Ravenor rounded on Farat.

“I’m talking to a friend – if that’s what you still are,” Farat replied, equally irritated.

“Now, settle down,” Eryn placated them.” No one’s questioning your rank, Ravenor. But if you want to win, then you have to keep a cool head. Let’s just analyze the situation for a moment. Sword fighting goes to you; parading is also a possible win. Jousting is Sir Askir’s domain. You won’t get close there.”

“Pah. I can ride, too.”

“Yes, but not as well as our Lordling. Please, leave emotions to one side and listen to me.”

Eryn is becoming a real mage – at least when it comes to the way he talks, Ravenor mocked inwardly, but he let him continue.

“Right, then we have archery and that’s neither your thing nor Askir’s, although Askir is brilliant at theory. His superiors have praised him for that on more than one occasion. At the moment, it looks as though Askir has the advantage in four, maybe even five exams, while at best, you are ahead in two. Which will not be enough.”

“I can count, too! Nevertheless, I want this distinction, because neither connection nor background count in my favor.” “Let’s think about it, then. What can be changed in two weeks? How well-versed are you in theory? Can you learn so much that you can outdo Askir?” Eryn looked at his friend expectantly, and Ravenor lowered his eyes, admitting his ignorance:

“The truth? No. Askir knows every single letter in those books and amazes even Sir Galden with his questions sometimes. I, on the other hand, am still a bit of a novice when it comes to the material. After all, I’ve only begun working on it since I’ve been an officer.”

That was putting a positive spin on it, for Ravenor considered the whole thing to be unimportant and set no great store by theory. In his world, the sword ruled and it was by the sword that the battle was decided – and not on paper. Had he not proved that himself in the battle for Aspenweg?

Luckily, Eryn did not harp on about the subject any more.

“Hmm, if Askir definitely wins the theory, then he’ll have three points, and you would need all four from the practice. And we oughtn’t to forget that there are also other participants apart from you and Askir. Are the platoon leaders from I and II also taking part or is it only between the Bastards and the Lordlings?”

Only III and V Companies.”

“That’s encouraging, because the regulars and the veterans have excellent archers. You wouldn’t stand a chance against them. But this way, if you really practice a lot with your bow...”

Involuntarily, Ravenor pulled a face, which earned him a rebuke from Eryn: “If you want to win, then no misplaced vanity. I can help you with that. And of course we’ll do it in such a way that no one else gets wind of it, After all, I’m only a soldier and you’re the officer in command.”

The words flattered Ravenor’s ego but then another idea occurred to him: “What if you helped me out with a bit of magic? That would increase my chances considerably.”

“Cheating?”

Eryn can sometimes be such an honest soul. “What are connections and family background if not cheating? Or is that fair? I suppose you can still remember how quickly Sir Askir has climbed the ladder. And merely creeping up Sir Haerkin’s backside wouldn’t have been nearly enough for that.” “True enough,” Deren concurred before adding; “But it won’t be so easy. They're bound to check very closely for illicit means.”

Now, however, Eryn found himself spurred on by his ambition: “I’ll think about it. Maybe I can come up with something. It depends, though, who they organize to do the checks. It’d be possible to deceive one of the lower mage students, but not mage scholar Harkon or Master Eriwen. I don’t think Master Lionas or Master Calwas are likely to concern themselves with the task. If I ask around over there with the mages during the next few days, I might be able to find out something.”

Ravenor joked: “And there I was thinking that from tomorrow onwards, you’d be doing drill with us every day so that we’d at least win that.”

Eryn replied somewhat tartly: “I can already do it. You should see to it that you bring the new men into line. If anyone’s going to mess up, then it’ll be them.”

Ravenor did not pursue the subject any further. “Which just leaves jousting. So, how do I win that?”

“With outrageously good luck,” murmured Deren.

“I’ll think about it,” Eryn promised once more.

“Things aren’t looking at all bad anymore – for me,” Ravenor remarked rather confidently and then joked: “Meanwhule, it’s also about time you got back to your quarters before I have to report you.” There were the necessary regulations to be observed. Not that Ravenor would badmouth his friends out of spite, but if a fellow officer appeared, then he’d have no other choice. So, they took their leave, and Ravenor was rather happy to be able to get to bed earlier that evening, being still dog-tired from the short night and the celebrations of the previous day.

Over the following days, Ravenor practiced jousting and handling the bow with great doggedness.

He was making progress with the jousting but the same could not be said of his efforts with the bow and arrow.

So, he chose to forego the social get-together with the other officers once he was off duty in order to carry on practicing.

Soft, flowing movements, hold your breath, aim and... damn, missed the bullseye again. The arrow had at least stuck in the second circle of the target, but that did not satisfy Ravenor. He tried again and again and again, until his quiver was empty. Then he walked over to the target and collected the arrows once more. On his way back, he saw that Sir Askir had arrived, accompanied by Demon and Marten, and that he was also holding a bow in his hand.

Aha, look at that. He’s here, too. When Ravenor came out of the blocked off area, he greeted the man with the higher rank offhandedly, just about remaining within the realms of what was acceptable: “Sir Askir.”

“Sir Ravenor, you haven’t hung out the flag,” Sir Askir lectured him immediately. The flag showed that someone was going towards the target and shooting was not permitted that time.

Smart ass. “I was alone on the shooting range. Am I supposed to give myself a signal, Sir Askir?”

Sir Askir stated superciliously: “However, as you may have noticed in the meantime, you are no longer alone, and I might have overlooked you completely. A stray arrow, and before you know it, an accident has happened. It would really be a pity if such a thing happened to you. Nevertheless, I will have to report your negligence and your unnecessary comments, as you are no doubt aware.”

With as much politeness as he could muster, Ravenor replied: “Just as you think. But I would like to point out that I am no longer on duty, Sir Askir.” Stupid wanker. Go ahead and report me to Sir Haerkin, who can then pester Sir Draken and then absolutely nothing will happen. You can’t badmouth me the way you used to, my friend. Not now that we’re all on the same level – well almost anyway.

But Sir Askir quoted the regulations officiously: “For safety reasons, one must always proceed strictly according to regulations on the shooting range. Were you not aware of that?”

Just leave me alone, will you? I came here to practice and not to indulge in a cultivated conversation with the noble Sir Askir: “I have taken note and in future will behave accordingly. But now, forgive me, I would like to continue to improve my skills with the bow.” So, that was polite and now, bye, you twit. Ravenor moved over to the next stand but one to put a bit of distance between him and his rival.

Askir’s two toadies did not give up the chance to disparage Ravenor, and as the distance was not particularly great, he was able to hear the defamatory words quite clearly.

Demon was just saying: “Don’t worry, Sir Askir, the Prince’s bastard is a born loser with the bow and will never learn how to use it. Look, he’s missed the target yet again.”

Stupid jackass, that’s hardly surprising when you’re ruining my concentration with your babble.

Ravenor was just positioning the next arrow when another stupid comment issued from next door. This gave him an idea. I’ll shoot to miss on purpose, and then Sir Âskir will fancy he has the advantage and stop practicing for the contest. After all, as far as this discipline goes, he’s just concerned with outshining me and not particularly with being the best with the bow.

There were a few other platoon leaders who could handle this weapon quite well. And those men were truly considered favorites in that contest.

As planned, Ravenor no longer aimed at the black circle, but only at the outermost edge of the target. After a few more mocking tirades, the Lordlings lost interest in him and turned their attention to the discussion of other subjects, including the visit of Lord Egmond Orten in Naganor. Ravenor pricked up his ears.

“Your father will be very pleased with your performance, Sir Askir, if you win the contest before his very eyes,” Marten fawned.

“To extort praise from my father is difficult. He is constantly comparing me with my brothers. But I’ll do my best and bring glory and honor upon the House of Orten.” Ugh, can you be more of a stuffed shirt? I’ll bring glory and honor upon myself, and Daddyprince can go hang. He couldn’t care less about me anyway. He'd probably be happy if I lost, then I wouldn’t attract his unwelcome attention. Me, a living image of his transgressions.

“You are sure to shine. Don’t worry, Sir Askir. Who can pose a threat to you? The puppet over there with the bow, surely not.”

Such bragging, Sir Demon. I really should demand satisfaction for that, but if I allow myself to be provoked, then I’ll jeopardize my participation in the contest. I’ll make a note of it for later. And then, one day, I’ll meet you three Graces in a practice fight with my favorite weapon. That will be my moment of revenge when I beat the shit out of you quite legally... and even win admiration for it.

And reason really did triumph over Ravenor’s impetuosity so that the offensive words fell off him like water off a duck’s back.

In the mages’ laboratory, Eryn was sitting at a table together with mage student Kerven, processing healing herbs. Collecting the herbs was a pretty quick affair with the help of magic, but then the processing steps ensued, which were better done unmagically. It was also advisable to check once more whether the herbs were really the ones you wanted, and to make sure no others had got mixed up with them. Since his error with the lolleberries, Eryn knew the importance of checking this only too well. So, now it was a case of sorting, drying, pulverizing, making extracts and salves, and then bottling and labeling these properly. It was a job that certainly provided time for an enjoyable conversation.

“Kerven, have you ever been allowed to supervise a contest among the Unmagicals?” “Yes, why?”

“Oh, I just wanted to know what sort of things you have to watch out for. A competition will be taking place soon and I was wondering whether they will assign me to carry out the supervision some day.” Eryn had rehearsed the words and immediately busied his mind again with the plants on the table. After all, the wrong thoughts could give you away easily. But as it seemed, Kerven did not suspect anything and did not resort to the shameful method of spying. Among those who were less practiced, Eryn was able to detect when they rummaged around in his thoughts. Prince Raiden, on the other hand, was constantly scanning him when he least suspected it.

Kerven replied: “Oh, there’s nothing much to it. You check to see if the Lords have acquired any artifacts and whether magic has been performed.”

“But that means some of the mages must have given a helping hand,” Eryn remarked with feigned astonishment.

“It happens. But it’s punished severely if it’s found out. Some of the Unmagicals procure spells, but from outside. It costs them a pile of money and doesn’t achieve anything in the end. I mean, a mage can scan that immediately.”

“Have you ever caught a cheat?”

“Nah, but it must have happened in the past. Especially the new people who haven’t been here so long reckon they can outwit a mage.” The brew was boiling up and Kerven extinguished his magic flame. “Hand over those jars, will you? I have to pour off some of this.”

“Don’t you do that magically?” Eryn handed over the containers.

“And spill half of it in the process? No, I do the whole thing in a very controlled way with unmagical fine motor skills.” As he said this, Kerven tipped the pan and the brew poured out in a thin stream into the waiting jar. When it was full, he filled the next one.

Eryn watched this, lost in thought before returning to his former subject: “And who organizes the supervisors for the contests? I just mean, would I have a chance at all?”

Kerven looked up with a frown. “You? You’re not nearly ready for that. How reliable are you in reading thoughts?”

“Well.”

“And the deeper layers of scanning?”

“All right, I’ve got the point. It was just an idea. I’m sure there are more important things for me to be taking care of.”

“Indeed. But I think in two years’ time or so, they will also entrust you with such tasks.” Kerven sealed the jars and turned to new herbs. “Or you ask the Prince personally if he has you in mind for it. I’ve heard you’re on good terms with him.”

A very good idea. Eryn pulled a face: “Bothering His Highness with such matters is not a good idea. Besides, you can forget that part about being on good terms. It’s not true at all. His Highness is very... taxing.”

Kerven grinned. “And that’s exactly why you’re going to carry this little parcel over to the citadel, and not me. We’ve all already got our experience with the Lord of Naganor.”

Mage meanness. “No problem. I’m happy to voluntary.” Eryn got up to take charge of the small package.

On the way to the citadel, he thought about how Kerven’s information might be of help to him. They scan the participants mainly for aids. But what if it was the destinations that were manipulated? If they catch me, I’m for it. It will definitely mean the pole and several additional duties. Damn, should I really take that risk to help Ravenor? But I wouldn’t like to let Sir Askir win either. The Bastards should triumph over the Lordlings. That would be just. What’s the best way of going about that, though? I’m a long way from being good enough as a mage to be able to hide my actions from expert eyes.

He racked his brains as he searched for a safe plan. Then he reached the citadel and was about to hand over his little parcel to the soldiers at the entrance. I don’t attach such great importance to meeting His Highness in person.

At that moment, however, he received different instructions. “Eryn, bring it to me in my study!”

So, after giving a brief explanation to the guards, he took back the little package and walked into the citadel.

He had just opened the door a crack when he was hit completely unexpectedly by a spell. Ouch! What’s that for?

“A mage must always be on his guard and prepared at all times. You never know what evil surprise is awaiting you. Don’t they teach you anything over there?” Generously, Master Raiden explained his teaching method, while Eryn entered the room somewhat uncertainly and saluted.

“Er... my Prince, I was told that performing magic in the citadel was forbidden.”

This earned him a look of immense pity: “What you get up to is a long way from what I would call magic. You would be far better using every opportunity to practice, otherwise you’ll never improve.”

“Yes, my Prince.” Eryn’s eyes skimmed over the table, looking for a place to dispose of the parcel. But there was so much stuff on the desk that it didn’t seem as if there were any room left for it. He stretched out his hand: “Prince Raiden, here is your parcel.”

“What am I supposed to do with that now? Put it on the shelf over there.”

Wrong again. Cautiously, Eryn raised his shields while he stored the package away in the place indicated.

“Hah, ridiculous. You have to pay attention that you don’t injure yourself with your unsteady shields.” Then Master Raiden softened his tone. “Don’t worry. I don’t intend to pelt you with any more spells. It was just a little joke anyway.”

Well, I didn’t find it particularly amusing. It hurts too much for that.

His thoughts were ignored because Prince Raiden’s attention was diverted by a wasp that he had captured magically in an air ball. “Oh, how did that get in here? The windows are sealed. But then, if my inferiors don’t know that doors are there to be closed.” “I’m sorry, my Prince,” Eryn replied mechanically, although the wasp in the bubble fascinated him. The insect flew wildly against the barrier but was unable to escape. Slowly, the bubble now gravitated towards the open window.

He’s letting the wasp go free? Eryn marveled, but he could not have been more wrong. When the wasp had wandered outside, there was a ‘plop’ and the creature burst inside the bubble. Then, the remains went up in flames, leaving a few particles of ash which the wind bore away.

The unexpected explosion shocked Eryn, and with a feeling of unease, he stared transfixed at the rain of ash. Ohh.

“That’s how I treat my inferiors. I spare them work and remove all traces of rubbish myself,” joked the Lord of Naganor, who had not failed to notice Eryn’s shock.

“And as for you, Nurin, practice your shields conscientiously so that nobody will be able to trap you in a ball one day.” With a wave of his hand, he shooed Eryn out of the room. The young man was only too happy to comply.

Once more back in safety, he thought: It never ceases to amaze me what an unpleasant experience it is to be in the presence of the Prince. Admittedly, it’s better than at the beginning when he cast the soulban – but it’s still a long way from what I’d call a sense of well-being. In the past, out there in the mountains, that was good – but it’s all so long ago now.

Eryn thought wistfully of his journey with Prince Raiden when he had entered the Unhaer consciously for the first time. The mountains, I’ll never see them again. Unhaer. That’s over. A new life is what the prophecy promised. A martyrdom would have been a more accurate expression for this situation. The Prince did that thing with the bubble intentionally to intimidate me. He thinks I was afraid but I wasn’t. I was merely startled by the sudden noise because I’d been watching the spell with such fascination.

When it came to magic, Eryn had meanwhile become like a child who had learned to take its first steps and was now toddling around to discover the new world with huge wondering eyes – whenever his duties left him enough time for that.

When I scanned the bubble with the insect, I only saw air magic woven with something yellow. It didn’t seem especially difficult to me. I wonder if I could do such a thing. Trap an animal in an air bubble? And as he was brooding over that, a further thought manifested itself. That might be of help to Ravenor, but I’ll have to try it out first…

In fact, it was not particularly difficult to catch insects in this way. Eryn’s preferred specimens were flies, because these were present in droves. The little beasts propagated steadily until the mage students were assigned the task of cleaning the garrison. But it did not take long before the flies had reappeared, as was the case now. The air bubble for sealing in the creatures was astonishingly easy. Things became more difficult when Eryn attempted to move the bubble in a specific direction. The structure flew erratically hither and thither, overshooting the mark on the way out and then drifting too far on the way back. Sometimes, the prison exploded prematurely, and the fly was once again released from captivity. But Eryn had other plans and at last he got to the point that he had imagined. And now for a test.

He waited for Ravenor at the shooting range, and it was conducive to the plan that they were alone.

“No more duty, soldier?” the platoon leader greeted him jocularly.

“Nah, you ought to know that. You’re the one who writes the plans.”

“But not those for the mages, which is where you spend most of your time. I don’t put you on the roster at all any more. My platoon consists solely of nineteen men and one shadow soldier.”

Eryn looked at Ravenor’s target and saw four arrows actually sticking in the black circle and not a single one outside.

“You’re improving.”

“I’m practicing like a man obsessed. At night I dream of it. No longer of lovely woman, which is what I usually do. No, a load of nightmares about archery and the contest. Just last night, there was a ghastly moment when I had to watch how Askir was presented with the victory wreath. I was startled out of my sleep very abruptly, and it took quite a while before I understood it was all just a bad dream. That must not be allowed to become reality, so I use every free minute to practice.” Ravenor pulled an arrow out of the quiver and hooked it into place. Eryn examined his friend from the side as he arched the bow. Ravenor lowered his arm again.

“Eryn, you’re making me nervous. I’m better if there isn’t anyone standing next to me, watching.” Eryn had no intention of leaving, however. After all, there was something he wanted to try out. “In the contest there’ll also be people standing around you. Consider it special practice.” The corners of Ravenor’s mouth drooped and he gave a hostile growl: “Unsolicited lecturing from a regular. Luckily, no one’s noticed it.” But then he decided to carry on practicing in Eryn’s presence after all, and the next arrow missed the bullseye, though it did stick in the target. While this was going on, Eryn went in search of flies and caught one. Next, he waited until Ravenor had drawn the bow again before placing the insect to one side, close to Ravenor’s ear. He’s going to shoot any minute. Eryn opened his magic bubble. The fly buzzed away, but in the other direction, and Ravenor’s arrow hit the bullseye. “Hah! On target!” he rejoiced while Eryn cursed inwardly. Damn. I missed! Where are you, flies? Ah, there’s one over there.

“Words fail you because I’m so damned good.”

Oh for goodness’ sake, Ravenor, just because you hit something for once. “Quite good. Just keep it up and the victory is yours.” However hard it might be for me to say that, if I joke around and demoralize him, then in the end those dreams will become true and Askir will get the victory wreath. I just hope my praise doesn’t go to his head too much.

“If even you see it like that, then I can stop for today.”

Stop! Wrong. There’s something I still have to try out. “It’d be better if you shoot another quiverful instead.”

“Well, there is still time and it wouldn’t be to my disadvantage.” Oh, so quickly persuaded. Ravenor is really very insecure if he’s so hell bent on practicing with the bow of his own free will. In the meantime, Eryn had caught his fly and made another attempt to place the creature where it would annoy Ravenor, right in front of his face. This time, the magic bubble opened too early and Ravenor shooed the insect away with a shake of his head before preparing to shoot. In this way, Eryn gathered experience arrow by arrow until he finally succeeded in releasing his disruptive fly at exactly the right moment. The arrow missed the target and bored into the ground some way behind it.

“Damn flies! What’s going on today? The critters have been swarming around me the whole time, and there isn’t even a dung heap nearby.”

Eryn could not help but laugh, and then it dawned on Ravenor, too: “It was you. The whole time. Haha, you joker. I’m not at all in the mood for such foolishness.”

Whoops, he’s really annoyed. “It’s not foolishness, but our chance of success.” “You’re confusing me on purpose so that I learn to hit the target in every situation,” Ravenor concluded entirely wrongly, causing Eryn to sigh: “No, I was thinking more of confusing the others, but first I had to try it out in practice. It’s not so easy to release the fly at the right moment.”

“Oh, I see.” Ravenor grinned fiendishly.

He’s finally got it.

“Then why not take a whole swarm of them so that it’s bound to work,” the young officer suggested, but Eryn shook his head. “Too conspicuous. Do you know what’ll happen if they get wind of it? That could lead to a similar reaction as the affair in the wine cellar.”

But Ravenor was optimistic. “Who’s going to notice? A little test. It’s not that important. And anyway, you’re the Prince’s pet. Nothing’s going to happen to you.” Now he’s envious again because his father doesn’t pay him any attention. “Yes, yes, if you say so – the Prince’s pet. Like today. I come in through the door and the first thing I get is a magic slap around the chops. For not blocking what I couldn’t block even if I tried. Then, for good measure, he made fun of me. I found it enormously amusing.”

But Ravenor’s face still displayed the same trace of bitterness without the slightest modicum of understanding.

He doesn’t believe me. Nevertheless, I’ll be careful. “Two flies at most, I won’t risk more than that. And I can’t promise you that it’ll really work.” With feigned sorrow, Ravenor now announced: “I can already see Sir Askir as the radiant victor of this contest. That’ll be a black day in the shadow of the Black Tower.”

They horsed around a while longer before returning to their quarters. The trick with the flies wasn’t a big deal, but it was the only thing that seemed inconspicuous enough to Eryn to be worth attempting.

The two weeks whizzed by and the day of days was now upon them. It had become apparent in the meantime that ‘the little test’ was more important that they had first presumed, as Lord Egmond Orten would be coming to Naganor for a meeting with the Prince. The high society had deigned to attend the contest as part of their entertainment program, a circumstance which did not particularly please either Ravenor or Sir Askir.

The tournament would be held on a meadow near the citadel, and the area had already been staked out and prepared the day before. A small fabric-covered stand had been erected at the edge of the grounds and now awaited the noble visitors and brave warriors.

While Lord Orten met together with Prince Raiden during the morning to discuss the concerns of the country, the young officers sat the theoretical part of the test and racked their brains to find solutions to the tasks they’d been set. Ravenor had still hoped he might be able to sneak a look at his neighbor, but Sir Galden and a mage student were invigilating, and in that constellation, there wasn’t much he could do.

So, basically, he killed time because he did not have a lot to say on the questions, and it was liberating when he could finally hand in his paper.

Eryn was waiting for him in the canteen: “And? How did it go?”

“Don’t ask. The questions were just stupid and there wasn’t a lot I could write on them: Meanwhile, Sir Askir scribbled down a whole book. That really got on my nerves. The miserable little pen-pusher – why doesn’t he go to an administration school if he likes writing so much?” They were sitting right in the center aisle, and Sir Askir was just coming from the serving counters, his retinue in tow.

“Look, talk of the ink devil... here comes Sir Askir. Why doesn’t he eat over there with III Company or in the officers’ mess hall?” Ravenor said scornfully and pretended to be preoccupied with his food. Eryn could not see the approaching enemy anyway as he was sitting with his back to them, but at that moment, the voice of Marten Durin intruded into his ear.

“You have certainly got everything right, Sir Askir. At the end of the day, you will shine out as the well-deserved victor. I mean, who can threaten your victory now that you are already three points ahead?”

“Ultimately, it’s the outstanding intellect in all areas that’s the clincher,” lectured Sir Askir, who had now reached Ravenor, and to the latter’s chagrin, came to an abrupt standstill next to him.

“Enjoy your meal, Sir Ravenor.”

Ravenor pretended to be surprised: “Oh, Sir Askir, I didn’t see you coming. Aren’t you eating over there with your Company? ” Trivial chit chat about lunch is better than talking with Askir about the competition.

But Sir Askir did not want to chat about food. “No,” he replied curtly before coming to his real concern. “And how did you get on this morning? It seemed to me as though you handed in an empty sheet of paper. But then we know your background is modest, with no great value having been placed on the intellect, unlike with my education. Basically, you can be happy that you have some knowledge of writing. It is indeed supposed to be true that there are adults who have not yet mastered the skill.”

Stupid dickhead! Eryn thought angrily, and Ravenor’s thoughts were scarcely more polite.

Wanker! “In history, few words remain in the minds of everyone, but those that do are invariably all the weightier. Like the famous sentences of great men after a battle has been won. Apart from the fact that battles are won by the sword and not with words.” As I will prove to you later, jackass.

“That’s how you see it in your distorted world view because you have not yet looked further than your nose. Heed my words: Great politics are made with paper and pen. And now excuse me. It will not be long now until I stride to my victory.”

“Sir Askir,” Ravenor said in parting, almost having to bite his tongue to do so. Once the delegation of noblemen had left, he spat bile and mocked Askir: “Heed my words. Pah, the miserable braggart. I’ll strike him dead in the sword fight and put an end to his words – once and for all.”

Then he begged his friend: “Eryn, please do everything in your power. I have to win today, no matter how. Afterwards, I’ll be in your debt. I’ll release you from duty for a few days. I’m sure I can swing something there. But I have to win today.”

“You don’t have to try to buy me. I’ll help you anyway.We’re friends, remember, and that’s what friends are for.” And I’m also doing it because it would really pain me to see Sir Askir win.

“Nevertheless, I owe you a favor.”

Put it on the list…

A mere three meters and we had to go on horseback. Prince Raiden slid out of the saddle and waited until old Lord Orten had also dismounted, albeit not quite so elegantly.

“After you, Lord Orten,” the Prince allowed his guest to go ahead. Then they sat down in two chairs in the shade of the canopy.

“This assessment of military performance cannot be compared with the great spectacles in the capital. So, don’t expect too much.”

“I beg you, Prince Raiden, there’s no need to apologize. I am entirely familiar with the difference between a colorful theatrical display and the real demands placed on soldiers. Besides, as you know, my youngest son is taking part and I would like to see the progress he has made so far.”

If I am not mistaken, I also have a son in the race. A good-for-nothing who was only made an officer through an oversight. “Sir Askir is doing a good job so far, as Lord Boron assures me constantly. The man himself is just approaching over there, and then he can personally give you a report on your son.”

The Gray Wolf joined them on the stand and exchanged pleasantries with Lord Orten while the Company Commanders talked with Sir Volton, Lord Orten’s eldest son.

Prince Raiden was growing impatient: “When do we start, Lord Boron?”

“I was just about to give the signal, my Prince.” The Commander of the Guard raised his hand.

The arbitration panel consisting of four Company Commanders sat down at a smaller table in the shadow of the stand, and the soldiers took up position on the field together with their platoon leaders.

Lord Orten bent over to his host: “Are you monitoring the fairness in the competition yourself?” That was a bold hint that no magic for cheating was to be used, and Prince Raiden was slightly annoyed. Me? What makes you think so? “That would be completely beneath my dignity. One of the mage students will be fitting for that purpose. Apart form that, which of these young men would come up with the idea of using unsound means? The officers of my Guard are all honorable, and I do not believe that any one of them would sink so low as to cheat.”

“Young men are ambitious. And everyone who wants to win may at least toy with such an idea. Master Oxlin accompanied me through the gate today. If you have nothing against it, he can also keep an eye on things.”

Prince Raiden shrugged his shoulders. “If that settles your misgivings, then do as you wish.”

In the meantime, the order for the first competition had been announced. The participants were officially presented, and when it came to Sir Askir, the herald added loudly that after the evaluation of the theory, he had come top in all three exams.

“Hah, my boy!” enthused Lord Orten. “Now he just needs to win one more competition and he will carry away the spoils of victory. All my sons have proven their aptitude in the army with flying colors. And my youngest is no exception.”

The boasting annoyed Prince Raiden: “You shouldn’t count your chickens before they’re hatched.”

“My Prince, even you must admit that anything else would be a miracle. Askir is an excellent rider and conversant with all weapons. Not to mention that commanding is in his blood. Or would you bet against him winning?”

Buttpox and damnation, now he has me. Of course I wouldn’t bet against him but what am I supposed to do now? Join in the eulogizing of his youngest progeny or bet against him… against my better judgment. “It’s not very likely, but it might be possible. After all, there are still four events to be decided.”

“So, you’re betting against it?” Lord Orten probed straight away, for betting was a popular sport among the nobility.

“Fifty pieces of gold,” Prince Raiden plunged himself knowingly into disaster.

“Not very daring, but I understand your reservations. And who is your favorite?”

The Lord of Naganor allowed his gaze to slide over the line up of platoon leaders. Who am I going to take now? I barely know their names. Lord Boron has maintained several times that Sir Ravenor is outstanding with the sword. So, I’ll make my decision in favor of him. After all, it won’t look so bad if my 'favorite' can win at least one competition. “Sir Ravenor, the second from the right.” A sorrow shared is a sorrow halved. “Lord Boron, will you also join me in placing a bet?”

The Commander, however, declined with a smile: “My Prince, I fear I am biased in the matter. After all, I train the men.”

Biased. Hah – the coward. Let’s his Prince perish without a murmur. “A pity.”

Wise, my Prince. Extremely wise, thought Lord Boron in return.

While they had been talking on the stand, the herald had explained the rules and was finally coming to the end of his account. The platoon leaders were then summoned individually and had to demonstrate their drills together with their men.

Prince Raiden suppressed a yawn, but Lord Orten seemed to be enjoying the performance. “Excellent. Not without reason is your Guard praised as the best troop in the land, my Prince.”

Anything less would be inacceptable. “You flatter me, Lord Orten.”

“Not at all. I mean it most sincerely. To make a decision here is difficult. They are all of an almost equally fine level.”

This was actually true, and the arbitration panel was busy with its considerations. While Sir Haerkin was naturally quite impartial in choosing Sir Askir, Sir Draken gave his vote equally impartially to Ravenor. Sir Oswold saw in the person of Sir Wylfir an entirely different winner, and Sir Wylden, who was still annoyed about a bet he’d lost to Sir Haerkin, preferred this time to give his vote to Sir Ravenor, just to get back at Sir Haerkin. The frictions between the Bastards Company and that of the Lordlings were only too well known to everyone.

Oh, astonishing! Admittedly, he wasn’t bad but I wouldn’t have judged him to be in the lead. On the other hand, that increases my chances, so why am I complaining? “Well deserved,” was Prince Raiden’s comment on the occurrence, whereas Lord Orten forgot himself and blustered indignantly: “Oh. But that’s... words fail me! Caprice, pure caprice. My Prince, your...”

“Careful, Lord Orten, before words cross your lips in a way you didn’t intend. The judges – my commanders – are absolutely correct and incorruptible. A decision has been made and must be accepted, otherwise our bet is invalid.”

This brought Lord Orten to his senses: “Forgive an old man his fits of temper. It merely gives me the feeling of still being alive,” and he gave a hearty laugh before remarking airily: “And why I am getting so upset? There are still three competitions to come and my son will certainly be able to win one of them.”

And mine would have to win all three, which is nigh on impossible.

In the meantime, the participants had mounted their horses while their soldiers had gone over to the side of the spectators. This was all right because ultimately, the officers were all preoccupied and who should have issued them with orders? So only Sir Heime’s IV – the Mages Company – was missing, but they were involved in three days of field exercise and apart from a few exceptions, were almost all on the move.

Jousting was Sir Askir's best discipline, so his father was all the more surprised when Askir missed his first target.

“What? Is he blind?” Lord Orten wondered out loud as usual. But Prince Raiden was also amazed. What on earth was that? Skillful, admittedly. Briefly, he observed Master Oxlin both magically and unmagically, making absolutely sure that he would attract no attention. He hasn't noticed anything. Eryn, Eryn, you little rascal.

One rider followed the other, and in the fourth round, Sir Askir missed another ring, so that now only two riders were left in the contest, each with four rings. Sir Gahret and Ravenor, who had had good luck on his side, and who had also practiced with incredible tenacity during the last two weeks. The practice also paid off in the deciding round and the event remained exciting right to the end, when it came down to a single ring, and then the victory was Ravenor’s. He took the opportunity to do a lap of honor on horseback, holding the lance with the impaled ring aloft in a victory pose.

Vain coxcomb. “Lord Boron, I thought you paid attention to disciplined behavior among the officers, too.”

A rebuke, although the faithful son has just won for his father. But Sir Ravenor is a trifle too exuberant in his lack of control. He cries out to be taken down a peg. But that can wait for now. First, I just want to watch the conclusion of the competition.

The archery at the end will decide it. And then things will be really exciting. Three points against three, for Ravenor is unbeatable with the sword. And then it’ll be: Orten against Ardeen. Prince Raiden was still waiting for an answer and now Lord Boron agreed: “My Prince, I will reprimand the young man once the competition is over. Or do you expect me to take measures immediately?”

“No, afterwards will be soon enough, but then don’t hold back from teaching those values with the necessary severity. You know yourself well enough that Sir Ravenor likes to forget discipline from time to time.”

That’s exactly as the case may.

Meanwhile, a mournful Lord Orten was drinking a heavy wine that Prince Raiden had had poured for him. After all, the good man needed a little comfort to get over the unexpected and very clear defeat of his son in what was apparently the lad’s best discipline.

Now it was time for Sir Ravenor’s best discipline and he was even more inspired than usual following his previous victory.

In a clean sweep, the Prince’s bastard brushed his rivals from the field. Afterwards, he saluted the stand with his sword raised, and even the shadow cast by his helmet could not hide his broad grin.

Even if you win, that’s no reason to be so exaggeratedly pleased with yourself. He is grinning like a court jester. He can’t have got that from Myrne, she was warm and modest... and definitely not from me, of course. Perhaps he is rather simple minded. He does think about building stones quite often when I read his thoughts. What on earth can be so fascinating about building stones that you constantly have to count them? Even if you’re on watch duty, it’s a very monotonous preoccupation. You could spend the time dealing with intellectual subjects. Prince Raiden’s thoughts returned to the reality happening around him.

The only good thing about Ravenor’s success is that he is neck and neck with Askir, and I now have a fifty-fifty chance of winning the bet.

Eryn stood slightly to one side at the edge of the field, and cold sweat was running down his back. Ever since he had discovered that Prince Raiden would be in attendance, he had been in the grip of a sensation of extreme unease.

If I use magic he'll notice that in a second. But Eryn had given Ravenor his word and in that respect he was quite particular. The teasing about his name Bloodhand, which apparently meant ‘Oathbreaker’ really gnawed away at him, and he was anxious to prove the opposite was true. It calmed him a little that after his spontaneous action in the jousting, no one had pointed the finger at him. An illusion at the right moment had made Sir Askir’s lance miss the target. Eryn would also have intervened in the fifth round but Sir Askir lost his nerve and already messed up the fourth, enabling Eryn to breathe more easily and to leave Ravenor to do the rest himself. Which, luckily, he managed to pull off.

Now for my masterpiece. Either it’ll work and Ravenor will be the winner or they’ll catch me and we're both up shitcreek. His hand closed round the little glass vial in his pocket and he pulled it out unobtrusively. It was full of swarming flies. He had used the past few days to continue to perfect his technique. This supply of insects saved him from having to engage in the time-consuming search for the right specimens. Now he opened the seal a crack and immediately trapped in a bubble the first fly that crawled out.

It’s probably not enough to prevent only Sir Askir if I want to help Ravenor to victory. Mentally, Eryn ran through Ravenor’s most dangerous competitors. And then began the fight of the flies. Fly in the eye was the most promising, followed by fly in the nose and fly on the lips. Eryn would have loved nothing more than to send his fighters into an open mouth, but the archers all kept their lips tightly shut. He had to be careful and this he certainly was. His magic bubbles crept through the grass, which was no taller than the width of a man’s hand. Like little snakes, they cleaved their way and then rose up at the right moment to hurl themselves upon their victims. It did not always work, yet several arrows were diverted by this means. Eryn was constantly casting nervous glances towards the stand where Prince Raiden sat with his guests. But the Lord of Naganor seemed to be enjoying himself and it did not look as though he had noticed what Eryn was getting up to. Hah, so he isn’t as good as everyone says after all. Here I am, performing magic under his nose and he isn’t aware of it. Otherwise, I’m sure he would have jumped down my throat instantly. And so the flies went bravely into battle. Despite Eryn’s risky operation, however, all was not going well for Ravenor.

Come on, make an effort! I can’t shoot the arrows into the target for you as well. Eryn had indeed caused Askir to fall a long way behind, but Sir Cerdik and Sir Wylfir still lay ahead of Ravenor, and two other men had the same number of shots on target as the Prince’s bastard.

Damn! I’ve knocked out Askir and it’s still not enough. If one of the others wins now, then Askir and Ravenor will be head to head and both will be given a distinction. But that was not very likely, which is why Eryn now considered the second variation: Or there’ll be a tie-break and I bet that won’t be conducted with the sword. Eryn did not give up and in the next round succeeded in knocking out two more opponents. Luckily, Ravenor managed to hit the bullseye once and went head to head with Sir Cerdik, although Sir Wylfir was still one point ahead. Damn, the last round. This will bring the decison.

“Come over to the stand immediately.” The voice accustomed to giving orders suddenly sounding in his head almost frightened Eryn to death. “Yes, my Prince,” he uttered mechanically, plagued by the worst speculations. Curses. Now I’m for it. I shouldn’t have done it. They’ll kill me. No they won’t, because Master Elderon needs me. But they will punish me.

With every step, Eryn came closer to the stand, and then he saw a small glimmer of hope: But not as long as Lord Orten is sitting there. No, the Prince won’t make a scene. Later, perhaps, but not now. And I’d best pretend nothing's happened. It hasn't anyway, has it? And what’s so wrong about catching some flies?

Then he forced himself to control his thoughts: A great contest and exciting right to the very last moment. I wonder who’s going to win. I hope I don’t have to run any errands for the Prince now. I’d really like to see how it ends.

Then he stood, his knees shaking, in front of the stand. Prince Raiden had already noticed him. Eryn saluted and continued to fill his thoughts with trivialities.

A short while before, when the archery began, a palpable tension prevailed on the stand. This competition would decide matters. Lord Orten was already drinking his third glass of wine while Prince Raiden had merely sipped at his goblet. The first archer stepped into the shooting range and prepared himself.

It is in the nature of a mage to scan. The Prince did this almost without thinking – just taking precautions. So a small, black and very well-concealed magical eye created by His Highness was also swarming across the field.

Ah, there they are; the other guard eyes. Master Oxlin’s yellow aura of moderate strength, and the even feebler eye of the mage scholar. Assiduously, they are observing the Unmagicals, circling in search of magic aids. There is nothing there, a blind person can see that. Novices! Incompetent amateur mages! You need to know what you’re looking for. So, what’s our Nurin doing, having cheated already earlier in the contest? The little illusion next to the ring seems to have escaped Master Oxlin – but not me! As quick as a dragonfly, Raiden’s eye swarmed over to Eryn, where it remained hidden over the spot to watch calmly how Eryn packed the first fly into the bubble, and Prince Raiden wondered: This is the wrong time and the wrong place to be performing small spells. What does he intend to do with that? When the bubble then floated towards the archers, Master Raiden had a pretty good idea what this was all about. But he saw a snag in Eryn’s plan.

Too obvious, Nurin. Even the mage students will detect that, not to mention Master Oxlin. I could conceal it – but I won’t cheat in a competiton. That is a point of honor.

Prince Raiden decided on another method. He created a great, majestic eye that was clearly visible to all mages. In an instant, it drew the interest of the other floating eyes upon it, and even the unmagical Sir Ravenor seemed to sense the presence of dark magic. At least, he threw a nervous glance over his shoulder exactly at that particular point in the sky where his father’s eye was located. Although to the Unmagical there was nothing to be seen but the usual blue.

Then Ravenor turned back and raised his bow. He took aim and just managed to hit the second circle.

Only Eryn did not notice anything about the spectacle, as he did not have an eye out patroling and was completely preoccupied with his fly magic.

Meanwhile, the eye of the mage student withdrew in awe from the Prince’s black eye, and took up a position so far away in the opposite direction that it posed no danger to Eryn. Master Oxlin’s eye on the other hand, circled the Raiden-eye like the earth orbiting the sun. He seemed to imagine that more danger threatened from there than from anywhere else. After all, Master Oxlin had understood that there was a bet on, and he had already spent the whole time scanning the Unmagicals. They had nothing magical on them. So the black sun wandered here and there, closely pursued by the satellite. The illustrious sun, however, always stood in such a constellation that it made the way free for Eryn at just the right moment. While this was going on, Prince Raiden conversed with Lord Orten, who was once again commenting on Askir’s efforts: “By the Gods, what is the boy doing? He’s missed again.” And the horse I’ve got in the race also seems to be a lame duck. Surely it can’t be so difficult now to win the bet for me.

“All in all, the achievements of the men are not what I’d call outstanding. Lord Boron, I must admit that I am a trifle disappointed with this presentation.” Prince Raiden wanted the words to sound polite, and not to show Sir Askir’s accomplishments in a thoroughly bad light. After all, he was well aware of the background to the men’s abortive attempts.

Lord Orten was by now slightly inebriated and rather annoyed about the general performance of his son. “Indeed. It does not do justice to the good reputation of the Guard. What the others have achieved is quite passable, but none of the gentlemen seems to master the bow in a way that is presentable. Is that not sufficiently practiced here, Lord Boron?”

Yes, Askir is out!

While Prince Raiden recalculated his chances of winning his bet, Lord Boron answered: “It’s true that the men don’t seem to be in particularly good form today, but rest assured, Lord Orten, the Guard has excellent archers.”

“Well, I’d have to see that with my own eyes to believe it.” Lord Orten clearly doubted the Commander’s words. At this point, Prince Raiden joined in the conversation again:

“I won’t permit any criticism of the quality of my Guard. There are outstanding archers in this troop, but they are just not to be found among the officers. What does an officer need a bow in his hands for anyway? You know well enough yourself, Lord Orten, that an officer must have other qualities. Archery is merely a proof of skill. Nothing more.”

Pensively, Lord Orten looked into his wine glass and grumbled away to himself.

“You don’t sound very convinced. But as a polite host, I would like to offer my guests the best possible entertainment and therefore I suggest we interrupt the competition briefly to allow a good archer to demonstrate his art so that you can see the men of the Guard certainly do understand their craft.”

“It can’t do any harm. And it’ll add to the excitement. My son has three victories in the theory exams, your man has three in the combat disciplines and he is still in the running. He could be the victor if he wins the archery. If he loses, we have a draw and I would suggest in that case that no one has won the bet. What is your view on the matter, Prince Raiden?”

“I accept. And now I hope – in the short term - for better entertainment.”

Lord Boron gave Prince Raiden a questioning look, but the latter merely nodded: “The man is already on his way. You will see he handles the bow excellently.”

Eryn was approaching them, and Lord Boron had by now understood who Prince Raiden had chosen. Master Oxlin, meanwhile, was whispering something into the ear of his Lordship.

“My mage has already informed me that your chosen man possesses strong magical powers. Will he be providing an unmagical performance as proof of the excellence of your Guard?”

His Lordship is slowly getting on my nerves with his constant doubts. “My good Lord Orten, do not be concerned, the man will not employ his magic. Master Oxlin can observe this and report back to you afterwards.” It would be complete idiocy to let Eryn shoot magically. He wouldn’t hit anything at all. A fact that amazes me time and again. Aiming is aiming, after all – or am I wrong?

“We don’t want to trouble ourselves with trivialities, my Prince.”

“My sentiments exactly,” he replied and turned to Eryn, who stood to attention like the perfect soldier while he waited to be addressed.

What an effort he goes to to hide his little magic act. He must be absolutely terrified – rightly so. But I must permit myself this bit of sport if I am going to let him get away with it. Magical cheating – I ask you. It’s simply not done.

“Soldier Eryn!”

“Yes, my Prince.”

The moment seemed to stretch to eternity, with Eryn standing there in a permanent cold sweat.

“You will now give a short demonstration with the bow before the last round of the competition takes place. Ten arrows – all in the bullseye. Don’t disappoint me now. The honor of the Guard is at stake.” This was the last thing the young man had expected. He replied according to regulations and then with very shaky knees, he walked over to the shooting range where someone placed a bow and arrows in his hands. His hand shook slightly as he pulled the bowstring, and it took all his concentration to force himself to be calm. I’m still alive and everything's fine. Now show them how it’s really done. At last, he found inner tranquillity and the arrow departed from the string to pierce unerringly into the target. Nine more followed, earning Eryn some much–deserved applause.

Then the competitors stepped forward once again. It seems they had allowed themselves to be inspired by Eryn’s skill, for their performances were considerably improved, not least because the plague of flies had died away, as Eryn no longer dared to intervene.

Nevertheless, the decision was going to be between Ravenor, Cerdik and Wylfir. Ravenor was seized by an astonishing calm, and he dispatched his arrow directly into the bullseye. In the end, Cerdik grew a little nervous and miscalculated. The arrow hit the second ring, leaving all eyes fixed on the last archer, Sir Wylfir. He pulled the bowstring all the way back behind his ear, breathed in calmly, held his breath and shot his arrow straight... past the target. Not even the most mediocre of archers missed in such a way, let alone an outstanding archer like Sir Wylfir. For all the bystanders, it was quite clear that Sir Wylfir had let Ravenor win on purpose so that the Bastards Company would take the overall victory. A single win wouldn’t have been of much use to Sir Wylfir, but the satisfaction of putting the Lordlings in their place pleased everyone in Sir Draken’s Company.

“That’s incredible!” Lord Orten burst out, while Sir Ravenor started cheering on the field and was celebrated as the victor. The Prince was extremely displeased by this behavior. Foolish peacock! And the other man let him win on purpose. Of course Lord Orten feels provoked and yet...

“Unexpected, but fair. The winner has been decided and all quite properly, as your mage will certainly confirm. Master Oxlin, did you detect anything suspicious? Was this unmagical competition interfered with magically, perhaps?”

The mage sat diagonally behind Lord Orten and made an effort to reassure him: “My Prince, Lord Orten, I can only confirm that no magic was employed and no artifact activated. An absolutely correct competition.”

“Well, you see. There you have it.”

The Lord of Goldferry admitted defeat: “My son is more of a theoretician after all, better suited to sitting behind a desk than taking an active part himself. An esthete. Takes more after his mother, I fear.”

And what am I supposed to say about my son? The way he is bragging about his victory? A vain, narcissistic peacock, lacking in decorum and demeanor, who only won because he cheated with the help of that Nurin. A disgrace to the Guard and an officer to boot, through my own fault. So, what am I supposed to say to that now? “Lord Orten, I fear you have lost the bet and you now owe me fifty pieces of gold.”

While Lord Orten settled his betting debts, Sir Ravenor’s victory was officially announced and the commendation conferred by Lord Boron personally. Then the gathering disbanded. Lord Boron and the soldiers marched back to the barracks while Prince Raiden accompanied his guests and their companions back to the Black Tower before taking them straight to the gateroom.

Over the following days, Eryn’s fear persisted that he would suddenly be summoned to the Prince, who then would reveal to him that he had seen through Eryn’s magic trickery and would now sanction him accordingly. But nothing of the sort happened, so Eryn gradually relaxed and his conviction grew that no one had noticed anything. After all, he had gone about things with great caution, and Prince Raiden had certainly been too preoccupied with entertaining his guests to detect his actions. The Lord of Naganor is just not as outstanding and omniscient as all the other mages claim. Only the Gods are omnipotent, and no normal person, even if this one is an exceptionally gifted high mage.

While the competition remained without consequences for Eryn, there were certainly repercussions as far as Sir Ravenor was concerned. He was summoned to Lord Boron the next day, and he stood there now in front of the Commander’s desk while Lord Boron leaned back in his chair and pursed his lips before launching into his speech: “I have summoned you because your behavior yesterday requires discussion.”

Ravenor’s face was motionless.

At least now he can control himself, but yesterday he really let himself go quite badly. It angered me as much as Prince Raiden, and he advised me to give that rascal a piece of my mind. Which wasn’t possible in the presence of Lord Orten.

Ravenor was still waiting while the Gray Wolf composed his sentences: “You have won a commendation through your skill and with a little luck.” Prince Raiden is right. How self-satisfied that grin is around the corners of his mouth. He is insolent and arrogant – just like his father, but with the distinction that he is in no way entitled to such behavior. “What displeases me immensely is your conduct, the way you flaunted your victory, celebrating yourself with as much exaggeration as a fool in a comedy. Such behavior is inappropriate for an officer.”

The grin faded from Ravenor’s face: “Commander, I was just happy. What’s so wrong with that?”

A number of things, first and foremost your big mouth. “Did I ask you for your opinion?”

The Gray Wolf had spoken with a cutting voice and now Ravenor became more prudent when he noticed that the initial praise was no more than the introduction to the actual subject, which seemed to be developing in the direction of a strict lecture. “I’m sorry, Commander.”

“In future, I expect you to control yourself – in every situation. You may have a certain skill in combat but you lack intellect.” How defiant he looks now. No trace of understanding. “I have even taken the trouble to look at your theoretical papers myself. Your ignorance is shocking and this terrible shortcoming in itself far outweighs your commendation.” I find myself slowly coming round to Prince Raiden's opinion. The lad really does seem to need a good thrashing from time to time to become more sensible. Nevertheless, I’ll try to do it differently this time. The magical beatings on the pole are often forgotten too quickly. I need something instructive which will have a longer lasting effect. So, I’m going to take away your beloved toy, my friend. “Seeing that your skill differs so greatly in the individual disciplines, I have revised your duty roster for the next few days. You need to work more on your deficits. I’m sure you appreciate that yourself.” “Yes, Lord Boron!”

He doesn’t appreciate anything. The only thing is, I’m in the better position and have seen several of your sort, my Prince Ravenor. A smile played around the corners of Lord Boron’s mouth, yet it was not meant in an unfriendly way: “You will take part more intensively in theoretical lessons, and in order to learn appropriate behavior for an officer, you will serve as orderly for Sir Draken. In return, we’ll reduce the practical part of your training a little. For the immediate future, you won’t need to practice sword fighting at all.” Ah, that’s got to him, judging by the way his face has fallen. And now for the second helping. “You will only carry out basic exercises with your platoon. Other officers will take over the weapons training as you will have to attend the theory courses. And at the start, I mentioned your behavior had caused my displeasure so that despite your commendation yesterday, a small punishment is also due: Duty officer on the first shift for the next two months. That’ll give you plenty of time to think about yourself and your conduct.”

Ravenor pushed his lower jaw forward, and his facial muscles were tense. To put it mildly, he felt sickened at that moment. All the boring crap. I win a commendation and end up being punished too. A shudder ran down his spine. Perhaps they did notice something after all. I mean, Daddyprince was present the whole time. What if he discovered what Eryn was up to? But no, then we'd both be standing at the pole. And as that isn’t the case, I reckon they simply begrudge me the victory because I’m not one of the slick Lordlings, so now they’ve turned against me. It is just so unfair – as usual. Is that all now, or is there more to come? Ravenor had actually had enough as it was, and Lord Boron now held out the relevant papers.

“You can take these with you and hand them over to your Commander.”

Ravenor would have loved to take the envelope together with its contents, crumple it up and throw it onto the fire, but he stuck it in his pocket and saluted. “Commander.”

He had half turned on his heel when Lord Boron called him back: “Stop. Wait a minute. I’d almost forgotten.” And he gave Ravenor a second envelope. “A few of the men from your platoon have been transferred and you’re being given new recruits in their place.” With this comment, Ravenor was finally dismissed, and he stomped out of the room in a rage.

So, I think we’ve succeeded in hitting our young buck between the eyes. Now let’s see what happens. It was Prince Raiden’s wish that all of Ravenor’s close former comrades were sorted out of the platoon. Particularly, Eryn and his former dormitory mates. Basically, it’s best for all of them, but whether our pigheaded Ravenor will see it that way is questionable. He is so difficult to deal with – just like his father.

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