The main part of the tent held a couch, a table, a canvas chair and a rack where Horace could store his arms and armour. His mail shirt, helmet with chain mail neck guard, and light metal greaves to protect his shins and lower legs had been delivered to the castle for scrutiny the day before. In addition, two round bucklers embellished with the sunrise insignia had been supplied at Halt's request. Now the shields and armour were neatly placed on the rack for him. He checked over each piece carefully, ensuring that nothing had been tampered with and that all straps and fittings were secure.

Sensing Will's continuing restlessness, he glanced around the interior of the tent to try to find something to keep his friend busy. His eye fell on a water jug and two mugs on the table. A quick glance told him the jug was empty.

`Would you mind filling this with cold water?' he asked. `I know I'll have a raging thirst after the first fight. I always do.'

Glad to be able to help, Will seized the jug and started out the door. He paused, uncertainly.

`You're sure you'll be all right?'

Horace smiled at him. 'I'll be fine. See if you can find some linen or muslin to wet and drape over the jug. It'll keep it cool.'

`I'll do that. You're sure you're…'

`Go!' said Horace, making a mock swipe at his friend. When he was alone, Horace sat on the chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, breathing deeply. He felt his pulse. It was racing a little, just as he expected. In spite of his outward appearance of calm, Horace was beginning to feel a familiar tautness in his stomach, as if a hard Jump had settled there. It didn't bother him. He felt it before every battle or combat. If he hadn't felt a little nervous, he'd have been worried. A little nervousness was a good thing. It gave you an edge. Maybe, he smiled to himself, that's why they called it edginess.

But he was glad to have a few minutes to himself, without the constant, concerned scrutiny from Will. He knew Will was tensed up because he felt useless in the coming battle. Sometimes, Horace thought, standing by and watching a friend in danger could be worse than being in danger yourself. Even so, it didn't help to have Will so keyed up and tense. He'd have to find another errand for him when he came back with the water, he thought.

It took longer than he expected, but when the young Ranger returned, he had the jug full of water and Horace could hear the unexpected clinking of ice as well.

`Where did you get that?' he asked, surprised by his friend's initiative. Will grinned.

`One of the drinks vendors had a supply. He didn't want to part with any but he agreed once I mentioned my friend.'

`Me?' said Horace, raising his eyebrows. Will shook his head.

`My saxe knife,' he said, grinning. 'Plus I paid a little extra.' He set the jug down on the table, carefully drapinga piece of wet muslin over it as Horace had suggested. Then, with nothing to do, he began to pace back and forth.

`So… are you all right?' he asked. 'Need anything?'

Horace eyed him for a moment, then had an idea.

`Will you take my sword to the steward's table?' he said. `Weapons need to be inspected before the combat. And find out what my opponent is using if you can.'

Will was out of the pavilion before he had finished the sentence. Horace smiled and began deep breathing again, clearing his mind, emptying it of any stray distractions so he could concentrate on the task ahead of him. It wouldn't be easy, he knew. But he was confident that he could defeat the two huge twins. Just so long as he could concentrate and bring his fighting instincts up to their highest pitch. So much of a battle like this depended on aligning his instinctive reactions to the movements he'd been trained to perform, so that he could execute a sword stroke or a lunge or a shield block without having to think about it. So he could anticipate, from his opponent's eyes and body position, where the next attack was intended.

He closed his eyes, concentrating on hearing the faintest noises: the burr of conversation from the stands. The sound of a songbird in a tree. The cries of the vendors. He heard them all and dismissed them all.

He didn't hear Halt re-enter the tent, take one look at the young warrior sitting, eyes closed and preparing himself, and leave again.

When Will returned a few minutes later, Halt intercepted him and led him to a bench under a tree a few metres away, where they could sit and watch the tent without disturbing its occupant. Time passed and they heard movement and the clinking of metal from inside the pavilion. Halt led the way to the entrance once more. Horace was pulling the mail shirt over his head. He nodded a greeting to them.

`What's he using?' he asked Will.

Will glanced around the tent nervously. 'A mace and chain,' he answered and heard Halt's sharp intake of breath. 'That's bad, isn't it?'

Horace shrugged. 'I don't know. I've never faced one before. Any thoughts, Halt?'

Halt rubbed his vestigial beard thoughtfully. The mace and chain wasn't a common weapon in Araluen but he had known men who had fought against it.

`It's awkward,' he said. `It'll give him extra reach – and he's got plenty already. And it develops massive force in its strokes. You'll feel like you've been hit by a battering ram.'

`That's encouraging,' Horace said. 'Any more good news?'

`For God's sake, don't try to parry it with your sword. It'll wrap around the blade and it could even snap it off. Most people use a battleaxe to counter a mace and chain. You could change to one,' he suggested.

Horace shook his head. `I'm used to my sword. This is no time to try out an unfamiliar weapon.'

`True. Well, try to keep your distance. If the chain catches the rim of your shield, the spiked ball will whip over and hit your shield arm or your head. One thing in your favour, it's an unwieldy weapon and it's slow. It takes a very strong man to use one effectively.'

`And unfortunately, that's exactly what Grumble One is,' Horace said, then shrugged. 'So I just have to keep mydistance, don't let him hit my shield with the chain, get hit by a battering ram and not parry with my sword. All in all, it sounds like money for jam. Now give me a hand with these greaves, Will, and I'll go out and finish him off.'

Chapter 40

'Now listen all people! Give silence for Sir Sean of Carrick, chief steward to the King and master at arms for these combats! Silence for Sir Sean!'

The herald's voice thundered the formally worded, rather stiff announcement across the market square, dominating the loud buzz of conversation in the stands. The herald was a thickset man, with a barrel-shaped chest and massive lung capacity. He had been specially selected and trained for his role.

Gradually, the chatter in the stands died away as people realised that it was almost time for the first combat to begin. They edged forward expectantly on their seats, those at the extreme ends of the bleachers craning to see Sean as he moved to the front of the royal enclosure. He held a rolled parchment in his hand. He unrolled it and began to read. His voice lacked the stentorian qualities of the herald's but it was strong and clear and it carried easily in the sudden silence.

`People of Dun Kilty! At issue today is the legitimacy or otherwise of the so-called god Alseiass, also known as the Golden God of Good Fortune.'

There was a moment of subdued muttering from the eastern stands as he said the words 'so-called god'. It stopped as he raised his eyes and directed a hard look across the combat ground.

`Ferris, High King of Clonmel, contends that Alseiass is a false god and that his prophet Tennyson is a false prophet.'

He paused, turned and looked at Ferris, who was sitting huddled in the throne-like chair at the back of the royal enclosure. A wave of cheers rang around the arena, mingled with cries of 'Hall Ferris!' and 'Long live the King!'. Sean waited till they died away and continued.