“No, no, no!” Caste retorted, feeling his rage fire up like no one had ever ignited in him during his time in Astaril. “You are wrong, utterly and completely and grossly wrong!”
His opponent, the ever smiling minstrel, simply chuckled as if he was not taking the debate seriously. “Forgive me for saying so but in what tome in what dusty old forgotten library could there ever be a reference to the height of the giant that Andigre slayed at the battle of the wild plains?”
“I don’t need a reference,” Caste ground his teeth, “the idea that a giant could be fifty feet in height would mean it would have a stride of up to twenty five feet!”
“So?”
“So!” Caste’s hands were clenched into the uncharacteristic form of fists. “That means its legs would have been at least half, if not closer to the full height of the wall.”
“Your point being?”
“The point being, you distorter of facts to the obscene, a giant of that size could easily vault the wall and should it take a dislike to it, it could simply break it down and allow the hoards of Maul out. There can not,” Caste leaned closer to Giordi, “CAN NOT,” he barked angrily, “be a monster of those proportions in Maul, nor could there ever be one!”
“What if there was one and only one?” Giordi asked brightly, the argument only heated on one side and having drawn a bit of a crowd. “After all, in the historical tomes there were accounts of dragons and manticores but now none exist. Isn’t it remotely possible, even in your creatively challenged consciousness, that such a giant might have existed?”
Caste’s eyes bulged at him. “No!”
“Well,” the minstrel stood up, uncrossing his long legs and ruffling his curly blond locks, “I am afraid we are going to have to agree to disagree.”
“No, you are wrong.”
“Come now my clerical companion,” Giordi put his hand on Caste’s shoulder who shrugged it off with disdain as though Giordi was made of manure, “there are more important things in this world than right and wrong.”
“No there are not!”
“Your loss.” Giordi smiled brightly at a young woman who was gazing at him adoringly and left Caste and the argument aside, moving on to the next distraction while Caste fumed and fizzled, sure smoke was pouring out of his ears. Caste watched as Giordi took the young woman’s arm and led her out of the lower bailey and into the marketplace.
“I would caution you not to waste your time on such promoters of pomposity.” Bede suggested, having stood to one side while Caste had descended upon Giordi as he sang about Sir Andigre’s grand accomplishments.
Caste knew Bede was right but he just couldn’t stand to watch as the minstrel, who was clearly doing his utmost to turn any fact in his lyrical tales into fiction by the gross injustice of exaggeration. He was crowded by men and women alike, raking in a considerable quantity of coins for his lies and encouraged by adoration and admiration.
Caste had descended upon him to take him down a peg or twenty…but the minstrel was as slick and as wily as an eel.
“Why must people always give credence to stories and lies over the truth?” Caste demanded. “Why bother having the Order of the Grail to preserve the laws and truth of antiquity when those that distort it are praised, extolled and even vindicated?”
Bede didn’t have an answer for that so Caste turned and made for the library where he could soothe his raw pride and indignation by reading the dusty tomes that Giordi had mocked so unkindly.
Oddly enough, Caste began to wish Judd would send word when they would leave Fort Bastil. He wondered about it at the evening meal, when he went to bed, when he woke up, when he heard Giordi’s warbling tone singing, he was sure, deliberately beneath his window…
Eventually, after a week, Caste could not be comforted by the luxury of the fort, the knowledge of the library and the semi intelligent intercourse with his fellow cleric.
He remembered that the farmers they had chanced upon when they’d escaped the mangrove swamp had offered for Judd to stay so, after dodging Bede and skirting Giordi in the lower bailey, Caste left the fort. He traipsed through the marketplace then, after being directed in a southerly way, found himself amongst the cultivated land within Sir Alaykin’s authority.
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Upon asking where Judd LaMogre might be staying, he was pointed to some huts where the workers who came for seasonal harvests slept. However, Judd was not there, nor was Aalis or Verne. Caste began to fret a little, wondering if Judd had left Fort Bastil without telling him. He wouldn’t have done so if he was still hoping to become a knight but if he had given up after Dalain had…
…Caste felt a strange wave of dread well up inside of him. He had made no pretence of his scepticism that Judd could ever complete the quest task list that would enable him to rise above his peers and become a knight. He had hoped that sword master Thiery would knock some sense into Judd…
…but had he knocked so much into him that he had deserted his quest without telling Caste?
Or had Judd’s injuries been worse than what had been reported?
Before Caste could sink into the pit of panic and dismay, he heard his name called and turned to see Aalis coming towards him with a deep beaten metal bowl in her hands which she set down over the fire.
It was no wonder that people called her a witch or even that she called herself one. Her dreadlocks, which contrasted with the long, swinging or braided natural hair of other women, were an oddly definitive sign. Her clothing was also a little different, her narrow waist slung with crisscrossing belts, from which hung several pouches. Her dress might have been a lavender hue once but it seemed to be grey upon grey, her sleeves lightly puffed then cinched at the elbows, the cuffs a little ragged and stained. Her skirt hem had multiple layers so that as she walked, they rippled around herself.
But ultimately it was Aalis’ eyes that seemed to confirm the term ‘witch’. They were oddly reflective. Even if Judd hadn’t picked up on it by now, Caste was already well aware that Aalis’ irises changed with her surroundings. And if anyone gazed too intently into them, she shifted her gaze, furtive and hidden.
“Aalis, you’re still here?” He blurted.
“Yes,” she nodded, throwing some white grains, possibly salt, into the bowl, “of course.”
“I just…” Caste cleared his throat. “Is Judd still here?”
She folded her arms. “Why would he not be?” Caste shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Aalis cleared her throat. “He is.” She checked the bowl on the fire then wiped her hands. “I will take you to him.”
Caste followed quietly as she led him through the fields, past hedges grown to help separate crops to where smaller plots existed as people’s personal property. Before Judd came into sight, Caste could hear the sound of grunting and fighting, heavy blows and the ringing of metal. He dashed ahead of Aalis to see Judd on his knee in the midst of a destroyed garden patch, a shield braced above him as an old man and Verne hammered at him with a metal rod and what looked to be a piece of fence post.
“Hey?” Caste cried then ran to the fence. “Hey!”
“Huh?” Verne and the old man looked up.
“What do you think you’re doing?!”
“Trying to break the shield.” The old man snorted as if Caste were an idiot.
“Are you insane?”
“Take it easy, Caste,” Judd got up and leaned on his sword, the shield braced on his arm, “I’m uninjured.” He turned to Verne and the old man. “That’s incredible. I barely felt a thing!”
“Remember, keep this technique in reserve in the fighting ring. Don’t use it until and unless you need to.” The old man slapped Judd on the shoulder.
“Fighting ring?” Caste asked, feeling lost.
“Sir Alaykin is hosting another of his battle festivals in a week.” Judd explained, coming over to the fence. “I’m entering the combat portion of the tournament.”
Caste gaped at him. “You can’t be serious!”
“I am.”
“After the sword master beat you to within an inch of your life?”
“Oh, so you were watching?” Caste felt a twinge of shame that he had not intervened. At the time he was hoping Judd would start thinking logically but when Alaykin and Dalain were laughing about Judd at the feasting table that night, he’d formed the opinion that they enjoyed humiliating people.
“I…heard about it.” He muttered.
Judd chuckled. “It was a hard lesson but one I needed to learn. You were right, Caste, I don’t have the skills to survive in the wilds and any kills I’ve made so far have been a result of pure luck. I can’t rely on it forever.”
“So…you’re getting sword fighting lessons from a farmer?”
“Oster Agress, former sword master.” The old man sniffed.
“Ah,” Caste nodded, “I heard Dalain say your name the other night…”
“I bet it was none too respectfully.”
“Not really.”
Oster shook his head then groaned, clutching at arm. “Ah, lassie…I don’t suppose…”
“I have something that will soothe your muscles.”
They regrouped at Aalis’ campfire where the water was boiling. She grasped it with her skirts and moved it aside to cool, soaking a cloth in it before instructing Oster to sit. There was a basket of apples nearby and they used metal forks to skewer the fruit and toast it over the flames.
“Are you really going to enter the tournament?” Caste asked after inspecting his apple thoroughly for worms and other burrowing creatures.
“I am.” Judd studied Caste. “Are you worried about me?”
“No,” Caste shrugged, “just counting how many days I have to suffer that infuriating minstrel’s melodies for.”
“With the fort flooding with hopeful warriors, he’ll be out in the marketplace.” Verne bit into his apple and wiped his sleeve across his mouth.
Caste sighed, poking his apple.
“Caste,” Aalis said softly, “were you worried we had left without you?”
Caste froze, only his eyes looking up. Her cornflower blue irises gazed gently at him.
“I…no of course not.” He blundered. “I knew Judd would need me with him if he wanted to complete his knighthood quest.” He stood up, leaving the apple behind. “I…well, you know where I am when you do decide to leave.” He kept his eyes on the ground and fled the company around the campfire.
“He’s a tightly wound little fellow.” Oster remarked.
“You have no idea.” Judd shook his head. “Goodness knows why he was here. I mean, what would it matter if I left without him? He’d just go back to Astaril.” Judd leaned on his knees. “So…what else do I need to know about this contest?”