Excitement

Finally, it was dusk. That meant that a long day of carrying messages and performing other endless and dull tasks for his knightmaster was over at last, as far as Owen was concerned. For the umpteenth time since he had arrived at Fort Steadfast two days ago, he wished fervently that Lord Wyldon had not been assigned command here. Instead, he wished that Wyldon had been allowed to remain at Northwatch with Vanget. Then, Owen and Wyldon could have hunted down Scanran raiding parties, rather than being cooped up here, collecting dust and performing the myriad useless little behind-the-curtain rituals that an army apparently needed done in order to function.

Well, he consoled himself as he plopped onto a splintering oak bench beside the mess hall, at least he had a letter from Margary to cheer him. As he reminded himself of this fact, he slipped a hand into the pocket of his breeches. Like he always did, he brought the note she had sent to him to his nose and inhaled deeply.

Even though the seal had been slit where Wyldon had opened the epistle to ascertain that its contents were somewhat appropriate, the parchment still had a whiff of rosewater upon it. As pathetic as it sounded, he was starting to regard that smell as one of the brightest portions of his days. It wasn't so much the aroma, he mused, as what the odor symbolized. It was the smell of Margary, and her letters had yet to fail to bring a smile to his lips. All he knew was that he had determined what flower he would pick if he was able to, although he had refrained from establishing as much in his replies to her. After all, he didn't want to be decapitated by Wyldon.

Grinning at the mere mental image of Margary, he squinted down at the parchment and began to decipher her epistle in the waning sunlight:

Dear Squire Owen (and my noble protectors, who are too numerous to list by name without creating a comically long salutation like this one),

I trust that by now you have safely arrived at Fort Northwatch, unless Mithros is far crueler than a properly shielded and delicate young maiden such as myself can possibly fathom. From there, I hope that you receive the excitement that you stated that you so ardently desired in your latest correspondence with me. At any rate, I hope that your life is more exciting than mine is.

Re-reading my previous sentence, Squire Owen, I perceive how it might be misconstrued as a shrewish complaint or an unladylike wish for adventure. In the interest of preserving my invaluable reputation as well as that of this esteemed convent, please let me assure you that this is not the case. My small female brain finds more than enough excitement in my daily routine, and my inability to express my contentment with my present situation was nothing more than another display of feminine mental frailty.

I promise you, though, that I could handle no more excitement than today's finger-pricking sewing and embroidery, ear-shattering music lessons, and feet-smashing dance instruction. In fact, I suspect that I shall faint if Rosalynn requests that I iron out her already straight hair this evening.

Owen was about to read Margary's concluding paragraph when someone shook his shoulder. Irritated at the intrusion upon his brief respite, Owen glanced up at the soldier who had jostled him.

"What?" he inquired more tersely than he otherwise would have done. The fact that his muscles were sore and his bones weaker than a newborn calf's did not contribute to his agreeableness.

"Don't be botherin' him, Tristan," grunted a burly man-at-arms who stood behind him. "Can't ye see that he is of noble stock and is much too good to be minglin' with us common folk?"

However, the soldier named Tristan ignored his comrade and kept his hazel eyes riveted on Owen's, as he asked, "Would ye be willin' to help us move the food sacks into the kitchens?"

While he posed this question, he pointed his finger at a wagonload of rucksacks of victuals that had rolled into the bastion after the courier that had carried Owen's letter. Since he had been preoccupied with Margary's note, Owen hadn't truly noticed it until now, however.

As Owen swiveled his head slightly to look at the bags of food, Tristan jabbed his finger at the doorway beside the mess hall entrance that led into the kitchens, where the sweaty cooks were toiling away, creating revolting meals for people who only ate the food because there was no other source of sustenance available. Clearly, Tristan was striving to illustrate the process of picking up the supply sacks and lugging them into the kitchens.

Owen was about to offer a weary assent, because everyone had to work in the army, after all, when, once again, the other more hostile and more muscular soldier intervened, "Don't be ridiculous. He's too important to lower himself by helpin' us. Try to act like Mithros gave ye the sense he gave a duck, Tristan."

"In the army, everybody does what needs to be done, Quinton," retorted Tristan. Before Tristan could snap back, he pressed Owen, "So, what do ye say, squire?"

"I'll help you," Owen confirmed, shoving Margary's letter into his pocket and rising.

"Are ye sure ye can do it?" demanded Quinton, his voice scathing. "Most pampered nobles wouldn't be able to pick up such heavy stuff if their lives depended upon it."

"You're a great one to talk," remarked Owen tightly, halting in the middle of stooping to grab a sack, straightening his spine, and locking his gray eyes on the man's snapping green ones. Dimly, Owen noted how similar the shade of the other's eyes was to Neal's, but Neal's eyes weren't so hard, or, at least, they weren't when he gazed at Owen. "Yet I haven't seen you do anything."

"Are ye implyin' that I don't know how to pick up a supply sack?" snarled Quinton, his eyes narrowing menacingly.

"I'm saying that you should prove that you can do something before you talk like that," answered Owen through a clenched jaw.

"Now, don't ye be actin' as if ye have a clue what ye are talkin' about," Quinton growled. At this juncture, Tristan threw a restraining arm on his wrist to hush him, but he twisted away, plowing on, "Ye will only embarrass yerself. After all, it's obvious that ye have always relied on yer mama to do everything for ye."

The blood that had been pounding ever more resoundingly in Owen's eardrums reached a mighty crescendo. How dare this rough, unlettered man mention his mother? How dare he refer to her when she had been murdered by bandits and so hadn't been able to do anything for her son in years? Nobody discussed Owen's mother in that manner and got away with it.

"At least I know who my mother is," he fired back.

Apparently, he wasn't the only one who was sensitive to insults about his mother, for, barely a second later, a massive palm slapped into his right cheek. For a fraction of a second, he could do no more than gasp in astonishment. Quinton was brawnier than a warhorse, and his blow had hurt more than a kick from Jolly's hooves would have. Fortunately, at that time, adrenaline seized control of his body as he slipped into battle mode. Now, he was just doing whatever it entailed to defend himself. In practical terms, this translated into ducking the second smack that Quinton aimed at his head and hurling his own punch at his foe's mouth.

His fist connected solidly with its target. Reflexively, he yanked his hand back to assail his opponent again, but found his wrist imprisoned in an ironclad grip in mid-motion. Gritting his teeth, he turned his wrist swiftly to the left, where his enemy's thumb alone, rather than four fingers, clutched him, which was an area of weakness for most beings.

Then, heeding the directions of the Shang warriors who had instructed him, he tugged downward. The maneuver was successful, since he managed to extricate himself from his adversary's grasp.

As he dodged the punches lobbed at him and strove to ensure that the ones he couldn't evade landed on insensitive and uncritical regions of his body, he launched his own barrage of punches upon Quinton. The maw of battle consumed him whole, and he was so focused on victory that he didn't realize that a crowd was forming outside the mess hall to gawk at the brawl that was enfolding.

In fact, he only returned to reality with a bump when a frigid voice barked, "Cease this nonsense at once!"

Even with the blood roaring almost deafeningly in his ears, Owen recognized the speaker. After all, only one being issued commands with such cold confidence that they would be complied with immediately, and that person was Lord Wyldon of Cavall.

Instantly, Owen froze, not even bothering to lower his fists. Glancing at his knightmaster, whose face was pale with fury, it dawned on him for the first time what a spectacle he and Quinton had been, and he steeled himself to hear the full brunt of Wyldon's wrath.

For a moment that contained centuries, Lord Wyldon's stern eyes scrutinized him and Quinton, as everyone who had assembled to watch the fight stared at the damage each of the participants had wrought on each other.

Examining himself for the first time along with everybody else, Owen spotted that he had scratches and bruises lining his arms. His left knee was throbbing where it had been walloped. What felt like an egg was forming on his forehead. It was difficult for him to breathe, too, as his ribs felt like they had been broken in seven locations. As such notions occurred to him abruptly, he discovered that a metallic taste was flooding his mouth. Tentatively, he extended a hand upward and touched his face. Under his nose, it made contact with a stream of blood.

The cuts that he had not realized until now that marred his knuckles protested shrilly in his mind as he fumbled around inside his pocket. As he withdrew a handkerchief and swiped the warm blood off his face, he studied the harm he had inflicted upon his foe. Satisfaction lanced through him like lightning in a midsummer thunderstorm when he saw that a scarlet river was flowing from Quinton's fat lower lip and rainbows encircled each of the man's eyes.

Seeing what he had done, adrenaline spiked through him once again, and he was no longer afraid of what punishment Lord Wyldon would dole out. Whatever it was, it would be a price worth paying, because he had drawn blood from an arrogant imbecile.

"You two are a disgrace to warriors everywhere." When Wyldon proclaimed as much, Owen cringed and decided that he couldn't deal with whatever he was sentenced to, after all. "Unlike the Scanrans, you were both taught military discipline, so don't humiliate your country by letting them best you in it. Regardless of how you feel about each other, you will cooperate, because you are both serving something larger than yourselves here. Service comes first when you are under my command. You are on the same side, so use your common sense and don't make the Scanrans' job easier by beating each other up for them. You may despise one another, but in a combat situation, I expect you to be willing to lay your lives down for each other if necessary. Now, to show you two how to work together no matter how much you loathe each other's guts and to punish you for this unruly demonstration, you will stand guard together on the second watch every night for a week."

"But, my lord, I have the first watch this week," protested Quinton with far less belligerence than he had employed when he had addressed Owen, although the glower he directed at Owen compensated for this. "That's what I was assigned."

"Assignments can be changed," Wyldon declared, unperturbed. "That's what clerks are for. I will inform them of the alteration in your schedule, and they will switch your watch with someone else's."

"Very well, my lord," mumbled Quinton.

"Now that we've settled that, I suggest that you both get something to eat before your watch." Here, Wyldon focused solely on Owen and added, "As for you, Jesslaw, when you are finished with your watch, report to my office. I wish to discuss this matter in greater detail with you, and I shall still be awake."

"Yes, sir," Owen agreed to this with even less enthusiasm than Quinton had shown. Inwardly, he complained that it wasn't fair that he was going to receive a second lecture from Lord Wyldon about this fight when his enemy was only getting one. This was definitely a case of less being better than more.

Besides, it was inhumane to scold someone after they had been on guard duty for four hours. It was vicious to chide someone at two in the morning in general when precious few people had any semblance of wit about them. Maybe that's what his knightmaster wanted, though. Perhaps he wanted Owen to be hollow, so that he would be an empty vessel that could be filled with instruction.

As this idea entered his head, Owen scowled. He suspected that no one could ever comprehend Wyldon's teaching methods, unless they became as crazy as his knightmaster was. Anyway, that wasn't his concern now. It was time for him to worry about feeding himself so that he wouldn't be plagued by a growling stomach as well as eyes that desired nothing more than to close for the night while he was on guard duty.

As he joined the mass of soldiers heading into the mess hall for supper, he thought that he had gotten his excitement, and he almost would have preferred a boring day like the ones Margary suffered through at the convent.