The King's Bastard - By Rowena Cory Daniells Page 0,46

of the seer's prediction?

This was ridiculous. He wished he had never met the old seer.

Had he acted differently since that day? Going over things, he was sure he hadn't. And he wouldn't!

Byren strode down the stairs.

Lence was in the midst of Rolenhold's young men, arm wrestling as they cheered him on. He sat at a table in front of the huge fireplace. Over this hung King Rolence the First's shield and sword, a symbol of his ancestors' long tradition of service to protect the kingdom, and the royal banner of Rolencia. Byren felt a surge of pride in his family's achievements.

'Ho, Byren,' his father called. 'Come take your turn. The best arm wrestler from Rolenhold is going to challenge the best of the warlords' men.'

He glanced to the other tables and saw that the warlords' honour guards had already selected a champion. He was a grizzled warrior from Manticore Spar, not as tall as Lence but broad through the chest. By the old burn scars on his brawny arms, Byren guessed he was a blacksmith when not leading raiding parties. The man grinned and yelled a challenge, revealing a gap where three teeth were missing.

Byren searched the eager faces of the warlords. Only four of the five were present. If Rolencia was the hub of a half wheel, then Manticore Spar was the first spoke on the wheel whose people were considered little better than Utlanders. Living on the farthest of the spars, they were fiercely independent, and they had to be, as they were constantly preyed upon by Utland raiders.

The next spoke on the wheel was Leogryf Spar. Their current warlord was a steady man who could be relied to keep his word and, so far, he had always supported King Rolen.

The third was Foenix Spar. Over the last three hundred years, their warlords had generally been loyal to Rolencia. Just as well, since they guarded the pass over the Divide that led to Rolenhold itself.

The fourth spoke was Unistag Spar and their warlord was dying with no clear successor.

Last of all was Cockatrice Spar. Another crucial spar, their warlord held the lands which bordered closest to Merofynia. If he turned traitor, Merofynia's invading army could cross Cockatrice Pass and march deep into Rolencia's soft underbelly before the king could muster his defences.

Of the five current warlords the loyalty of only two was guaranteed. The Unistag warlord's failure to appear and renew his loyalty would be noted.

There was a shout as Lence defeated his challenger.

'Come, Byren,' King Rolen beckoned. 'It's down to you and Lence now.'

Garzik and several of the youths started chanting his name. 'Byren Leogryfslayer. Byren...'

'Lence Kingsheir. Lence Kingsheir!' Cobalt started up a chant and Lence's supporters joined in.

Though Lence was heavier through the chest than Byren, their arm wrestling ability was about the same. And Lence had beaten everyone else so he would be tired. Byren caught Lence's grimace as he flexed his arm. The last thing he wanted was to upstage his brother again. On impulse he decided to refuse.

There, it wasn't so hard to prove the old seer wrong.

'Sorry,' Byren muttered, massaging his shoulder. 'Pulled something when that leogryf rolled on me.'

'Right.' King Rolen clapped his hands together. 'Then Lence must uphold our honour. Come on.'

The grizzled blacksmith and his supporters marched over, heckling and jeering as the man took his seat opposite Lence.

The hunt-master joined Byren. 'You didn't mention that injury when we were on the Dividing Mountains. I would have put some arnica on it.'

Byren opened his mouth to lie but the hunt-master, who had known him and Lence since they were boys, had already read his face.

'Better put some on,' he advised in a low voice. 'Lence won't thank you for going easy on him.'

Byren nodded. He hadn't thought of that. By trying to avoid the seer's foretelling, he had almost made things worse. His head spun.

The men were chanting now - 'Rolenhold! Rolenhold!' - as Lence and the blacksmith battled, massive fists locked, forearms flexed so that the muscles stood out like cords under their skin.

The blacksmith's face grew darker as he strained. It was obvious he would not let Lence win to curry favour.

'Manticore! Manticore!' the spar warriors bellowed.

Byren found his hands had curled into fists as he willed Lence to win. His brother hated losing.

The blacksmith's massive biceps jerked with strain, veins stood out on forearm and at his temples. His arm trembled.

With a sudden grunt, he lost the battle.

Lence slammed the blacksmith's fist onto the table top.