In the morning, Oliver carried his armor into the tavern yard and cleaned it carefully with fine sand and dry grass. When he put it on, the plates shone in the sunlight.
Kellan was already waiting. He straightened and brought a hand to his chest.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Looking keen.” Oliver touched his hair, then looked at the shadows beneath his eyes. “Did you sleep?”
“Yes, sir.”
Oliver spared him further questioning. “Come on. Down to the river.”
The little river outside Grayfold was scarcely a meter across, clear enough to see every stone. Oliver had passed women washing clothes there and children playing in the water. Their voices had made it seem a good place for what he had in mind. As they walked, he and Kellan went carefully through the ceremony they meant to perform.
At the bank, Oliver sat on a broad, steady rock.
“Ready.”
Kellan knelt on one knee. He took out a cup borrowed from Garrik, filled it with rye ale, and offered it in both hands.
“Please drink, sir.”
Oliver emptied it, drew the sword he had forged, and touched Kellan's shoulder lightly with the flat of the blade.
“From now on, you are my pupil, and I am your teacher.”
It was a simple ceremony, assembled from what each of them knew. The quiet water, morning light, and the boy's solemn face gave it more weight than Oliver had expected.
He lowered the sword.
“Stand up. And you can stop calling me sir. You're my apprentice now. Call me Master.”
“Yes, Master!” Kellan was on his feet almost before he had finished speaking.
Oliver sheathed the sword and handed it to him.
“This is yours. Properly yours, as my gift to you. Give it a name if you like. You'll be keeping company for a while.”
“Ellynne.” Kellan held it close, smiling. “I've already decided.”
“Sounds like a girl's name.”
His cheeks reddened. “She lived next door. I liked her.”
Oliver remembered telling him to marry the sword. Apparently the boy had already considered the arrangements.
“Ellynne it is, then. May she see you through whatever comes.”
* * *
There was no reason to hurry back to the tavern. They stayed beside the river and began to train.
The greatsword techniques Oliver had taught on the coast belonged to a skill set meant to stand against things as terrible as the Old Gods of Azeroth. They had already done a great deal for Kellan's fighting. For an ordinary battlefield, though, Oliver wanted him protected.
His thinking was straightforward. At long range, bows and crossbows. Closer, a spear. If an enemy got nearer still, sword and shield. Keep distance while you could, and put something between yourself and the other man's weapon when you couldn't. He regarded a two-handed sword as far better suited to a duel than to keeping his young apprentice alive amid a press of men.
He was responsible for Kellan now.
Oliver set the shield with Lordaeron's royal crest on his arm and took up the Blade of Eternal Justice. They practiced with real steel. This time, he didn't simply knock the boy about. He stopped each dangerous stroke just short and made Kellan work to see how it had passed his guard.
That did not make it comfortable. When a blade came around his shield and stopped a fraction from a vulnerable place, Kellan's panic was real. Sometimes he answered too hard, striking with force well beyond the limits of practice.
Oliver let Ellynne hit him.
The first blow that landed on his waist made Kellan drop the sword and rush to him. The armor wasn't even marked. Oliver drew him aside, showed him what had been wrong with the stroke, and told him to pick the weapon up again.
After several such scares, Kellan began to believe him. He attacked with more confidence. The armor held, and Oliver kept correcting him.
By evening, the boy was exhausted. He would eat, climb upstairs, and fall asleep, leaving Oliver to find company in the tavern. His father's years of basic instruction proved their worth. After three days of demanding practice, he was still a long way from mastery, but he had begun to turn what he knew into something he could use. Against a few untrained men, Oliver thought he should manage, provided he kept his head.
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At the end of the third day, Oliver washed sweat from his face in the river. Kellan sat nearby, breathing hard.
“That'll do for this stage. Keep working on the things we've found. The rising cut. The straight thrust.” As he considered it, Oliver's brow tightened. “Especially the thrust. I keep telling you: take the center. Don't add a clever little movement first. Straight means straight.”
“I'm sorry, Master. I'll practice.”
They washed and walked back in the fading light.
The village sounded different. Strangers stood in little groups beside the houses, carrying knives and swords, talking with the people of Grayfold. Nobody seemed alarmed. Some of the conversations ended in laughter.
“Who are they?” Kellan asked quietly.
“Not pirates. Keep quiet a minute.”
Oliver could direct a raid without embarrassment, but he had never much enjoyed being the center of attention outside a headset. The armor made avoiding it impossible. Heads turned as he passed.
Inside the tavern, every available space was crowded. Men raised cups, shouted across the room, and cheered at things Oliver hadn't heard. It had the atmosphere of a pub during a World Cup match.
Then he stepped through the doorway, and the room went quiet.
His reason told him there was nothing to fear. His legs still felt stiff as he crossed the hall under all those eyes. He went upstairs, changed into ordinary clothes, and came down again. This time, the talking continued around him.
Better.
He found a stool by the counter.
“What's brought this lot here?” he asked Garrik.
“Militia from the other villages. Warrin sent word to Lord Roderic, and he called them up to hunt the pirates. They fought last night. Killed more than a dozen, I heard, but we had losses too. They stopped to rest, and we were the nearest village.”
“That explains where Warrin's been.”
“Him and the others came back tonight. Gone home to their families.”
“How many did Roderic bring?”
“A hundred and fifty, perhaps sixty. More than the pirates, anyway.”
“Where are you putting them all?”
“Anyone with kin here stays with them. The rest have tents.”
Oliver nodded. “Dinner, then, if you can.”
“No ale left. I've fresh milk.”
“Milk's fine.”
Garrik knew he usually kept Kellan off drink on the grounds that the boy was still growing. He served Oliver a large piece of dark bread, a bowl of thick vegetable soup, cheese in place of smoked meat, and a generous cup of milk.
Oliver had eaten two mouthfuls when a hoarse voice carried across the room.
“Big lad like that still on milk? Does he need his mother to wipe his chin when he brings it back up?”
Laughter followed. Oliver turned. A lean, wrinkled man sat grinning at him.
“Who's he?”
“Erran. Leads the Redfield militia. Lord Roderic thinks highly of him.”
“Have I upset him somehow?”
Garrik gave a small shrug and returned to his work. He had no intention of joining the conversation.
Oliver thought for a moment, then carried his cup to Erran's table. Looking directly at him, he drank the milk. He closed his hand around the empty cup and squeezed until it broke. Pieces clattered onto the table.
“Wonder if your bones are stronger than that.”
The room fell silent for the second time that evening.
Erran rose. “A cup doesn't fight back, lad.”
“Doesn't talk either. That's an improvement.”
“Perhaps somebody ought to teach you respect for your elders.”
Oliver pointed out Erran and the four men with him. “Outside. All of you.”
They exchanged looks, then followed him into the yard. Villagers and militiamen crowded after them.
“I don't know what your problem is,” Oliver said, loosening his arms, “but I doubt talking will cure it. Come on. Together. Save us some time.”
“Warrin says you took six or seven pirates by yourself.” Erran spread out with the others. “I've met men who claim other people's work. Let's see what you can actually do.”
None of them held a weapon. Oliver checked that before answering.
“And what do I get when you all fall down?”
“Win first.”
A man rushed him from behind and locked his arms around him. The others closed in. Oliver turned sharply, spreading his arms as he moved. The grip broke. He flung the man into one of his companions, and both hit the ground.
He struck the nearest of the others across the face and sent him into the dirt. The fourth punched for his head. Oliver blocked with one arm, caught the man's wrist with the other, and threw him down.
Erran came in low from the side, aiming at his kidney.
Oliver recognized the move with something close to amusement. He leaned away from the punch, caught Erran's head, and pushed. The man stumbled backward over a companion who was trying to stand.
In little more than ten seconds, all five were down.
Oliver stood over Erran with his arms folded.
“I won.”
Erran rubbed the place where Oliver's fingers had gripped his scalp. “So you did. What do you want?”
“An apology. And a drink.”
“Hope you can drink as well as you fight.”
Oliver offered his hand. “Find out.”
Erran took it and got up. Then he raised his other arm toward the crowd.
“Now there's a man!”
Cheers broke out. Oliver endured them awkwardly. It had been a fight. Why was everyone so pleased?
His control had spared the five men lasting injury. They got up, tested their limbs, and followed him back inside. Erran sent the others to their table and took Oliver to a seat by the window, where a middle-aged man in black velvet waited beside a younger man with curling hair.
“Lord Roderic. He's got a grip on him. My head still hurts.”
The older man laughed softly, then looked at Oliver.
“My apologies, ser. I put Erran up to that pointless display. If you're angry, direct it at me.”
“I'm not the one who got hurt.” Oliver sat. “Did I pass the interview?”
Roderic tossed a silver deer to the young man. “Harrick. Ask for proper wine. Something worth drinking.” Then he returned his attention to Oliver. “You did. Strength, and sense. Which family in the Fingers do you belong to?”
That question was less welcome. According to Kellan, the Fingers were poor and remote. They were unlikely to have produced anyone equipped as Oliver was, and inventing a family would be embarrassing if Roderic happened to know the region.
“Actually, I'm from Pentos. Kellan's uncle and I served in the same company. His last wish was that I bring the boy over from the Fingers to join us. Things went wrong on the voyage, and the captain put us ashore.” Oliver met the man's eyes. “Is that a problem?”
“Not unless you're a pirate.” Roderic smiled. “Roderic Colbert. I hold Grayfold and the villages around it. I'd like you to join us against these raiders. A man of your ability could make a considerable difference. Would you object to earning something before you go back across the sea?”