It was a fine summer day, and men were gathered in the shade of the covered walkway that circled the parade ground of the Royal Barracks. They watched the duel taking place in the middle of the parade grounds excitedly but in respectful silence. The combatants couldn’t have been more mismatched. One was a tall, gangly boy from the countryside, who looked like he barely knew which side of the sword to hold while the other was their prince, who was toying with his opponent as though he was a kitten.

“You are still looking at where you’ll attack with your eyes,” Arthur said tiredly as Eric took another powerful but ponderous swing with his new longsword.

The prince sidestepped the blow easily and kicked Eric’s feet out from under him. The boy landed on the ground with a bone jarring thud and the prince placed the tip of the stick he was using as a weapon under Eric’s chin.

“Be mindful of your feet,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “Your opponent is a cunning one who will stop at nothing to win.”

Eric gritted his teeth in frustration and sprang to his feet. “I’m ready, let’s go again.”

“Take a minute to catch your breath,” Arthur ordered. He accepted a towel from a nearby orderly and used it to wipe the sweat from his face.

“I think you’re improving,” Tim remarked as he and Horatio approached Eric.

“It doesn’t feel like it,” Eric said sourly. “It doesn’t help that this sword is heavier than I’m used to.”

“Blaming your tools, are you?” Horatio said with a grin.

Eric scowled. “I don’t see why you’re so happy. I’m the one who has to duel this Steven fellow, who is apparently the best swordsman in the whole kingdom, in five days.”

“Prince Arthur is the best swordsman in the kingdom by a country mile,” Horatio corrected him, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “The best, I’m told, that the kingdom has seen in the last four generations. However, I would place Steven Stafford comfortably in the top twenty of the current crop.”

“That’s some consolation,” Eric remarked dryly.

Tim could see that his friend was fraught with worry, but couldn’t resist getting a dig in. “I hardly recognize you these days, Eric. Normally, you’d say you could take on the best swordsman in the world, no problem.”

“Maybe getting my arsed handed to me for five days has opened my eyes a little,” Eric snapped back.

“Boys, that’s enough,” Horatio said as he placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Prince Arthur, do you have a moment?”

The boys looked up to see a powerfully built grey haired man approach them. He was walking arm in arm with Emily and the pair were flanked by twelve well armed guards wearing black cloaks with a gold thread border.

“Who’s that then?” Eric asked.

“Get on your knees, you fools,” Horatio hissed. “He is our king.”

“Lord Carver, please, stand,” Storian Dragos’ voice was surprisingly light and genial. “I just wanted to have a quick word with my son.”

Arthur glided over to the pair and kissed Emily on the cheek before turning to the king. “How are the preparations, father?”

“I hear that the Royal Barracks are already overflowing,” Storian remarked. “And it’s about to get worse. The remainder of the second mustering are already on their way and should be here a day early.”

“I suppose it’s good that they’re eager,” Arthur allowed.

Storian then waved his hand in front of his face. “There will be plenty of time to talk about that sordid business later.”

The king paused and took both Arthur and Emily by the arm and beckoned them to lean in closer before breaking into a broad smile “What I really want to know is whether or not I’m going to become a grandfather.”

The prince and princess reddened, and Tim stomped on Eric’s foot to keep the quip he knew his friend was coming from escaping his lips.

“What was that for?” Eric hissed.

“I was saving you from the gallows,” Tim whispered back.

“Your Majesty!” Emily exclaimed when she recovered enough composure to speak.

Storian took her by the arm and smiled warmly. “I’ve asked you many times to call me father.”

“Father, that’s an inappropriate question to ask in public,” Arthur protested.

The king arched an eyebrow. “I turned sixty last year and I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

“Still, father, such talk in front of a lady,” Arthur pouted.

“Nonsense, I’m just a concerned father…” Storian’s voice trailed off and he sighed peevishly. “What is it, Lord Joseph?”

Tim looked up to see a man with white short cropped hair step forward from the crowd of spectators. He had the same square jaw as Erwyn and his posture was perfect. He strode forward with precise, deliberate steps and came smartly to a stop ten yards from the king before bowing his head.

“Your Grace, the High Council has gathered and is waiting for the pleasure of your company,” The man’s clipped tones rang out over the parade grounds as clearly as the ringing of a bell.

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Storian scowled. “Lord Carver, Prince Arthur, you will come with me.”

“By your command, My Liege,” Horatio said formally.

The king walked two steps before coming to a halt. He turned around, and a sly smile crept across his face as he looked at the boys. “Lord Carver, are these the boys who have drawn Lord Ferdinand’s ire?”

Horatio blinked. “They are indeed.”

“And I assume the large one is to duel Sir Steven?”

Horatio gave the king a confused look. “Yes, the prince was kind enough to take him under his tutelage.”

Storian’s smile broadened. “Excellent. Get them cleaned up and have them come to the Council’s Chambers at noon. I want them to pour our drinks while we speak.”

“My Liege, begging your pardon, but why?” Horatio asked, looking dumbfounded.

“Because it will annoy Lord Ferdinand,” Storian replied simply. He paused to bow in Emily’s direction. “Begging your pardon, My Lady, but your father has caused me considerable ire in ordering that ghastly attack on the docks.”

“I must apologize on his behalf,” Emily said in a rush but was cut off by the king’s raised hand.

“No one apologizes on Ferdinand Soren’s behalf,” Storian said with a kind smile.

Emily covered her mouth with her hand and nodded. “Yes, you’re right of course, Your Majesty.”

“Now then,” the king said. “Let’s not keep the fine lords waiting.”

“Come on you two,” Horatio called as the king began walking towards the palace flanked by Emily and Arthur. “While you two clean up, I’ll try to drill as much etiquette into you as I can.”

“He wasn’t serious about having the two of us pouring drinks, was he?” Tim gasped, terrified at the prospect of being in such distinguished company. “I don’t know the first thing about pouring drinks.”

“No, that is the one thing I have confidence in the two of you doing,” Horatio sighed. “You should have plenty of experience doing precisely that.”

“We served farmers and traders!” Eric protested. “Not the most powerful men in the kingdom!”

Tim looked at his friend in shock. “You know who the High Council are?”

“It’s not hard to guess from the name, is it?” Eric shot back.

The window next to them offered an expansive view of the city, the cathedral, and the river beyond, but the boys scarcely noticed as a servant pointed out the expensive sounding liquors in a polished oak sideboard and what each lord’s preferred drink was. That was easy enough for Tim. He and Eric could read the labels on the bottles and knew the appropriate glass for each from their time working in the Frisky Goat. However, these glasses were made from fine crystal with a faint blue hue instead of the blown glass they were used to.

Tim looked over his shoulder at the large round table that dominated the room. It was divided into five segments that bore the seal of the lord who sat there. Tim went over the name and seal of each lord in his head again.

There were three high backed chairs at the largest segment that bore a gold dragon’s head on a black background. That was the seal of House Dragos. Horatio, Arthur, and the king would sit there. The segment to the right was a black tower on a brown background. That was the seat of a man named Victor Theon, the lord of the Flemlands. The next one down was a prancing blue horse on a green background. That was Herbert Farringdon, lord of Goslind’s seat. Next to it was Ferdinand Soren, Lord of Esterfel’s segment, which bore the snarling head of a white wolf on a red background. The final segment to the king’s left was two crossed maces in front of a shield on a yellow background. That belonged to Callum Krastor, lord of Wexcalth. And finally, there was another smaller desk with a single chair just behind the king’s seat, and that was where Joseph Framond, the king’s valet would sit.

“Do you boys have any questions?” The thin man asked nervously as he wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers.

“I don’t think so,” Eric began.

“No, no, no,” the man said as he shook his head vigorously. His name was Nicholas Gibb, the head servant, whose job it would have normally been to serve the lords, and he was beside himself at having to permit these two complete novices from the country to take his place. “I don’t think so won’t do. Do you know what to do?”

“Yes yes, it’ll be fine,” Eric replied impatiently as he tugged on the stiff collar of his borrowed serving uniform. Tim could tell his friend was nervous but had exhausted his patience learning what to do in the upcoming meeting.

“Oh, what was His Majesty thinking, giving the two of you the duty of serving the distinguished lords today?” Nicholas fretted. “Lord Callum has been in a bit of a state lately.”

“Why’s that?” Eric asked.

Nicholas’ eyebrows soared. “Don’t you two know anything?”

Tim shook his head slowly. “We just arrived in the city.”

Nicholas’ eyes rolled back in his head, and Tim feared that the frail old man was about to faint, but he managed to pull himself back from the brink and shook his head. “Wonderful, two boys fresh from the sticks are about to serve the most important men in the kingdom. I shall be fortunate if my head is still attached to my shoulders by the end of the day.”

Eric frowned. “Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”

Nicholas’ jaw dropped in shock. The man’s mouth worked but no words could come out, and Tim felt he had to intervene. “Why is Lord Callum in a state, Mister Gibb?”

“He was the Lord General of the invasion force,” Nicholas replied after taking a moment to regain his composure. “You heard about the rout, didn’t you?”

The boys nodded slowly, and Nicholas breathed a sigh of relief. “Good, so you’re not completely ignorant.”

The boys exchanged looks and Nicholas continued, “He barely escaped with his life, but he is ultimately responsible for what happened. It doesn’t help that he had a fiery temper to begin with.”

Nicholas pointed at a deep indent on Lord Callum’s section of the table. “He smashed his fist into the table during the last meeting of the High Council because Lord Herbert wouldn’t stop complaining about the expense of the war.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Tim’s cheek. The table was made from solid oak, and it would take a mighty man indeed to make such a mark on it with his bare hands. As the boys were staring at the mark, the door opened abruptly, causing them to jump.

“Look alive, Lord Callum is coming!” one of the guards stationed outside hissed.

“Three help us, it’s time,” Nicholas wailed and grabbed both boys firmly by the shoulder. “Please, try not to make fools of yourselves.”

Before the boys could say a word, the frail old man scuttled out through the discrete servant’s door with surprising speed. Moments later, they heard the guards outside say, “Good afternoon, Lord Callum.”

Tim stood to attention and elbowed Eric who quickly did the same just as the door swung open to reveal a short, powerfully built man. A mop of unruly brown hair sprouted from his head, and his cheek was split by a deep scar. His eyes smouldered as he looked at the empty table. Then, he saw the boys and scowled.

“Where’s Nicholas?” he demanded.

“We were ordered to tend to our Lords today,” Tim breathed as he rushed over to pull the lord’s chair out while Eric set a brandy snifter down in front of him.

Tim pushed the chair in as Callum sat while Eric expertly poured the nut brown liquor into the exquisitely cut crystal glass. Callum studied them for a moment with a discerning eye. “Ordered by whom?”

“King Storian, My Lord,” Tim replied after a moment’s hesitation.

The heavyset man raised a bushy eyebrow. “What are your names, boys?”

Tim blinked. “My name is Timothy Weaver.”

“And I’m Eric Cooper,” Eric added.

“Ah, so you’re the infamous Eric Cooper,” A smile crept across Callum’s face as he looked at Eric. “Coming early was worthwhile.”

Eric gave Callum a confused look. “My Lord?”

The heavyset man’s grin broadened. “Oh yes, the look on Ferdinand Soren’s face, when he finds out who is serving his wine, will be worth a thousand sovereigns.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Ferdinand,” they heard the guards outside say.

Callum folded his arms across his chest and smirked as the door swung open. “Look alive, boys.”