The Crown Prince looked at him blankly. “Does that happen in your country? It sounds like the end of the world.”
Sharley laughed. “Yes, it happens every year, and then the time called ‘spring’ follows, and the trees and plants begin to put out new leaves and the sun gets warmer, after which we have summer, when it gets hot. Well, quite hot. Not like here. I mean, no one would actually die if they stood in the sun all day without a hat, or anything like that.”
Mekhmet tried to understand, but in a land of constant raging temperatures, the idea of seasons was completely alien to him. “I’ve heard tell that your entire land is an oasis with water everywhere and plants growing across every bit of ground. Is that true?”
“Well, yes. On most bits of ground, anyway. In some places people have cleared away the undergrowth, and of course there are farms that grow crops.”
“And when it isn’t snowing, it rains?”
“A lot of the time, yes. But the sun shines too.”
“Rivers!” Mekhmet said suddenly.
“Yes, what about them?”
“Have you seen one?” he asked, with an ironic grin on his face to show he wasn’t fooled by silly legends.
“I’ve seen lots,” Sharley answered. “I’ve got my own boat and I used to go fishing quite often with Hereward, one of the retired housecarles. Sometimes in the spring we’d stay out all day, and we’d find a clearing on the bank and cook our catch over an open fire. There’s nothing like fresh trout eaten at the end of a good day’s fishing with the moon coming up and a fresh breeze off the river . . .” Sharley’s voice trailed away as a sudden sense of homesickness descended on him.
Mekhmet immediately knew something was wrong. “I don’t understand half of what you’ve told me, Sharley, but it’s obviously a happy memory for you and something you miss. I tell you what, one day I’ll visit your home and you can show me these rivers and take me . . . fishing, was it? How can fish live outside the sea?”
Sharley smiled sadly. “I’d like that. I’d like that a lot. Fishing’s about the only sport I’m good at, so I should be able to teach you easily enough. And if not, old Hereward will set you straight. He always carries a spare rod, and he’d be happy to have somebody new to listen to his war stories.”
“He’s a warrior, then?”
“He used to be, yes. A housecarle. They’re infantry soldiers, the anchor of the Icemark army. My granddad, King Redrought, used to say they are the anvil and the cavalry is the hammer. They’re solid, you see. They’ll hold a shield wall all day if need be, and wait for the enemy to batter themselves to pieces on their spears and axes.”
“I see. Good defensive troops, then?” said Mekhmet, happy that the conversation was turning to a familiar subject.
“They’re good in offence too,” said Sharley. “A charging phalanx of housecarles with locked shields is like being hit by a rockslide . . . so I’m told.”
Mekhmet caught the small note of regret in his new friend’s voice. “So you’re told? Haven’t you seen it for yourself?”
“Seen it, yes. But never experienced it, not even in the practice lists.”
“Why not?”
Sharley shifted uncomfortably. Here it was again: that moment when he had to explain that he wasn’t thought strong enough to train as a warrior. “My mother won’t let me . . . I’m not thought . . . my leg . . .” his voice trailed away miserably.
Mekhmet gave this some thought as he silently piled fruit on the plates that had lain empty as they’d talked. This Prince of the North had obviously come on an embassy to the Sultan’s Court to ask for help in their war against the Polypontian Empire. And despite the thousands of miles separating the two lands, it was clear that both cultures had the same values of military prowess and honour. And yet, here was a Prince of the Royal Blood who’d not been allowed to train as a warrior – the very point and reason for his existence!
Mekhmet might have felt contempt for such a pathetic creature, but there was something about the boy he found deeply likeable. It was as though he’d known him for years even though this was only the second time they’d met, and Mekhmet would be prepared to swear upon the word of the One that he had the heart of a lion. So why did his mother, of all people, refuse to let him train?
“Charlemagne, you have the name of one of the greatest warriors of the north. Doesn’t that alone inspire you? Don’t you feel a need to honour your namesake by becoming the best soldier you can possibly be?”
Sharley slumped on his divan. He’d carried the contempt of family and strangers alike for years, but for some reason he couldn’t bear the thought of losing his new friend’s respect. “I’ve never been allowed to train. I’ve always wanted to, always, but no one would let me.”
“Why not?”
“The weapons are too heavy, and the shields. I couldn’t lift them. And the horses are too big for me to control.”
Mekhmet was puzzled; he’d heard that the fighting methods of the north were big and clumsy, but surely this boy could have been built up in some way. “It is only your leg that’s a problem, isn’t it?”
Sharley nodded. “But everyone says I’m delicate. I hate being delicate. I want to be like everyone else. I want to ride a warhorse and charge in the cavalry. I want to stand in the shield wall and carry a pike. I’m sure I could do it; I just need the chance to prove myself. I’m no smaller than my sister and she’s a great warrior!”
“Your sister fights?”
“Of course. She’s the Crown Princess,” said Sharley, surprised at the question.
Mekhmet wondered if the hot sun had addled his friend’s northern brains. Women didn’t fight. At least, not in civilised lands. The Lusu armies to the south of the desert were made up of men and women, but they were an exception. Sharley didn’t seem the type to make things up, and otherwise seemed totally sane, so with a shrug he thought it better to avoid the subject and get back to the important issue.
Standing, he straightened his back and looked down at his friend, who seemed to have shrunk into his divan. “Charlemagne. I don’t know why your family decided to deny you the right to be a warrior, but I, Crown Prince Mekhmet Nasrid, Sword of the Desert, Beloved of the One, offer you now the opportunity to train as a soldier of the Desert Kingdom. You will become a cavalryman, where your weak leg will be irrelevant and you will ride at my side in battle.”
Sharley hardly dared breathe. If he even moved, something might happen to take away the blaze of excitement and happiness that was flooding through him. But at last he could stay still no longer. He looked up at his friend, who was still gazing at him with fiery eyes.
“Can I?” he asked in a small voice. “Can I really? Oh yes, please! When can we start?”
He leaped to his feet, and collapsed to the floor as his gammy leg chose just the worst moment to let him down.
“Right away. But first we’d better see about strengthening that leg as much as we can. And I know just the man to do it!”
So it was that Sharley had met the palace Dance Master for the first time. Mekhmet had hurried to the door and bellowed loud and long down the corridor until a boy scuttled up and was given a message. Within ten minutes a tall elegant man sailed into the room. His face was finely featured and he salaamed with deep grace before standing as though about to dive from the highest rock into the deepest sea.
He looked at Sharley, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the slight frame before him, then he salaamed, and smiled. “If My Lord would do me the honour of walking to the door and back?”
Sharley set out, his face burning and his limp seeming to get ten times worse with each step he took. Then when he turned to walk back he stumbled through sheer nerves. He wanted to learn to fight, not prove to this dancer that he could walk! First his hopes had been raised and now he was being humiliated by this little charade.
The dancer glided over the floor to watch Sharley more closely. Then, with an apologetic nod, he smiled and said, “If My Lord will allow
me to examine him?”
Sharley felt he had little choice, and agreed. He was then subjected to an embarrassing ten minutes or so of intense prodding and probing as the Dance Master felt his leg from his buttock to his foot.
The man then drew himself up to his full height and smiled. “But there is power here! More power than has been allowed to develop. Give me a month and My Lord will have more strength in his leg than he ever believed possible. Give me a year and he’ll barely have a limp at all.”
Sharley immediately felt better. “When can we start work?”
“Only say the word, and my time is yours,” the Dance Master answered.
“We’ll need to draw up a programme,” said Mekhmet. “I’ll consult with the Weapons Master, and once we’ve all agreed a timetable we’ll begin. Prince Charlemagne must be ready for when we march to the north.”
Sharley looked at his friend in amazement. Not only was he to be trained as a warrior, but he’d succeeded in his mission. Had the Crown Prince of the Desert People really just declared his intention ride to the aid of the Icemark? He felt he’d burst with excitement and pride. Maggiore Totus would be enormously pleased. And he, Sharley, had managed it all without any help!
All of that had happened over three days earlier, and since then Sharley had spent hours in the Dance Master’s studio. His muscles positively screamed with strain and tiredness. Sharley had jumped, squatted, leaped, raised and lowered himself on his toes, kicked, sat down and stood up again, until he almost wept with the pain and exhaustion. And all of this torture was performed in a room lined with mirrors that stretched from floor to ceiling. If Sharley had ever wondered if he looked a fool or not, he could soon confirm it just by watching himself translating the Dance Master’s elegant movements into the fumbling, bumbling clumsiness of his own. To his tutor’s elegant swan, he was a shitty-arsed barnyard fowl! But he never once complained. He may not have seen a weapon, but this was only the prelude to his training as a warrior, and he was prepared to suffer any amount of humiliation and discomfort to achieve his goal. It had been agreed that the Dance Master would have at least a week to prepare him for weapons training, after which his dance lessons would continue in tandem with his coaching as a warrior.
In less than three days Sharley would at last walk into the lists to be taught the intricacies of a soldier’s craft. He stretched his aching muscles, and almost shuddered with delight as he covered himself with his silken sheets and settled down for the night. One good thing was that he didn’t have trouble sleeping at all these days; once he’d thought through the experiences of the day he always nodded off within seconds. At least that way the next day came quicker, and so would the time to start training with the Weapons Master.
“My Lord should meet the scimitar. She sings and stings and strikes like lightning,” said Aramat Ilaman Hussein, the Weapons Master. He drew a slender, curved sword from a leather scabbard and flashed it about his head in a dazzling display that made the air whoop and hiss with the speed of each thrust and cut.
Sharley gasped. The sword was beautiful, with a hilt that was encrusted with emeralds and a blade of such dazzling brilliance it was almost impossible to see the inscription, taken from the Holy Book, which had been engraved along its length.
“The Crown Prince himself selected this sword for you. I was to tell you that the emeralds on the hilt were chosen to match your eyes and that the inscription on the blade talks of the sanctity of friendship,” said the Weapons Master.
“But why didn’t he give it to me himself?” Sharley asked, puzzled.
“The Prince told me that you would ask this question. The answer is simple: it is a tradition amongst the Desert People that a man never directly hands a sword to a friend when giving it as a gift, lest they should call conflict into their lives together.”
“I see,” said Sharley, and an excited smile lit up his whole face. He gazed at the beautiful weapon in Hussein’s hands but waited patiently to see what would happen next.
Aramat Ilaman Hussein finally sheathed the sword and stood watching the strange barbarian boy before him. Was he ready yet to actually train? Would he ever be ready? Usually Hussein worked with the sons of Sultans and aristocrats. They began with small wooden replicas and graduated slowly to blunted lightweight blades, before finally being allowed to use the real thing. The scimitar was the main weapon, of course. It was the sword of a gentleman, and not merely a means of killing the enemy. A scimitar was an extension of the Desert warrior who carried it. So should a barbarian youth wield such a weapon? Oh, he couldn’t deny his enthusiasm – the boy was desperately eager to shine in all areas. But he was from the uncivilised north!
The boy was gazing at him now with his strange emeraldcoloured eyes, waiting so trustingly for his word. Hussein sighed; perhaps it was providence that had sent him, and if so, who was he to question the designs and plans of the One? Slowly he raised the scimitar to hand it over, but as he did so, a strange weight fell on his back, and his legs gave way so that he was kneeling as he offered up the sword.
“Take this Blade of Fire and carry it home to the northern lands, and there let it rage and roar at the head of the Army-of-Friends who will be as steel in the hearts of the invader!”
Hussein nearly choked with surprise; the voice had not been his own. He hadn’t even thought the words, let alone uttered them, and yet they’d leaped from his throat deep and powerful while his own vocal cords lay silent!
Charlemagne looked at him oddly, as if afraid, but then he strode forward and virtually snatched the scimitar. Quickly he unsheathed it, and shouting aloud some terrible cry in his barbarous tongue, he wielded the blade as though a veteran of many wars.
“The enemy is among us. They burn our cities and kill our people! Blood! Blast! And Fire! Blood! Blast! And Fire!”
Hussein watched, astounded, as the boy then perfectly executed every move from the training manual. He’d only seen the Weapons Master run through it once, barely minutes before, and yet here he was lunging and thrusting, parrying and blocking as though he’d practised for days.
Crown Prince Mekhmet looked out over the heads of his courtiers. He’d seen the door open and close at the rear of the audience chamber and he was hoping it was Sharley. Over the past week he’d had reports from the Weapons Master that read almost like Praise poems for his friend’s abilities. He was determined to give it only another couple of days before joining him in the lists and testing his new skills himself. Obviously Sharley had the gifts of a natural warrior, and Mekhmet was enormously proud not only that he, Mekhmet, had caused them to be revealed, but also that his new friend should have these gifts at all. This was a new sensation. Before Sharley had arrived, he’d had ambitions and interest only in himself, and now he was just as eager for Sharley to do well.
The perfumed and be-silked courtiers began to draw aside, salaaming deeply to a small figure that strode confidently through them. It was Sharley! Mekhmet grinned.
“Eh up, hairy arse! How’s things?”
“Great, fathead. Just great. How’s things with you?”
“Good. What’ve you got to tell me?”
“Not a lot. Old Hussein’s got me practising cut and thrust from the back of a wooden training horse, and he even gets some of his assistants to push it around so that I can have a go at slicing melons in two as we roll by. The wheels sound like thunder on the wooden training-floor. It’s a wonder you didn’t hear them.”
Mekhmet grinned again. “What about letting you loose on a real horse?”
“No sign of that yet,” Sharley answered, settling himself in a chair that a servant had hurriedly placed next to the throne. “I suppose he wonders if I can actually ride.” He’d long ago decided never to mention the incident of taking his mother’s charger, Havoc. Even so, ever since Hussein had presented him with the scimitar, speaking in a voice that obviously wasn’t his own, Sharley had been content to let events unfold in their own way. He knew he’d be allowed to ride a hors
e when it was necessary for him to do so. Obviously there were powers at work beyond his understanding.
“You must have a mount. The sooner you get used to the ways of horses the better,” said Mekhmet, who was secretly worried that this lack of experience could cause real problems. Many of the Desert People’s cavalry troopers had been in the saddle since before they could walk.
Sharley nodded, but he wasn’t really concerned. He’d been around horses all of his life and knew more about them than anyone in the Desert Kingdom realised. He might not have been allowed to ride them, but he’d helped the stable-hands since he was a little boy and was completely relaxed in the company of horses. Not only that, but he had managed to control Havoc for most of the time he’d been on him. Admittedly Havoc had bolted once, but he was known to be a horse with a strong will that not even the most experienced stable-hand could always control. Sharley was fairly confident that, given the right animal, he’d be just fine.
“Let’s go to my apartments. I want to talk without too many listening ears,” Mekhmet said.
Sharley looked about at the courtiers, almost embarrassed by the Crown Prince’s distrust of the men with whom he spent most of his days. But no one seemed concerned. If he accidentally caught the eye of one of them, they merely smiled and salaamed politely.
The Majlis of the Sultan was a world that Sharley simply didn’t understand. The most insulting attitudes and opinions could co-exist with friendship and loyalty, as long as they were decently dressed in the polite forms of society. In the Icemark a straight toe-to-toe fight would soon clear up any misunderstandings, but here the atmosphere was sometimes almost poisonous. The only other place Sharley knew of that was anything like it was the palace of the Doge in Venezzia.
He was jolted out of his thoughts as Mekhmet stood and touched his arm. “Come on, I’ve some sherbet cooling in my rooms. We’ll talk there.”
The entire Court rose and salaamed as the Princes left, and when the door closed behind them Sharley heaved a sigh of relief. “That’s better; the air’s fresher out here.”