The Sword in the Sea - Chapter One

King Jabacus and Prince Ravian rode out alone onto the arid, almost treeless plain beyond the White City's northern walls. Even though the times were settled and the rule of law was strong throughout Tarcus, it was unusual for the king and the second in line to the throne to travel without an escort. The Academy however, was only three miles distance from the North Gate and both father and son knew that it would be the last private moment they would have for a long time.

In the distance ahead, the white walls of the military school gleamed in the harsh, early afternoon sun. Clouds of red dust rose from the several points about the surrounding countryside and Ravian could just make out the groups of tiny figures that were the cause – young male Tarcuns practicing the craft of war. Ravian knew that, like him, those boys would have looked forward to the day when they reached fourteen years of age and commenced their two-year term of basic military training. For the young prince however, there was an extra dimension to this new beginning, his father having ordained his destiny – and that of his two brothers – four years' beforehand.

Jabacus had summoned the three princes to the Hunting Room, a favourite reception chamber of the king's, located high in the palace's western wing. The room was comfortable and masculine – its floors covered with beautiful animal skins and its walls hung with tapestries depicting deeds of the hunt. Outside the tall, column-framed windows that ran the length of its southern wall, the rooftops of the thousands of gleaming white houses that gave the city its name swept down towards the distant, deep blue circle of the harbour. Still more dwellings to east and west of the palace clung to the steep-sided, curving arms of land that embraced the bay without quite meeting at its southern extremity. At the narrow entrance there, the white sentinels of the two watchtowers guarded the finest natural anchorage in the world – a haven where all manner and size of vessel scurried in a constant frenzy of mercantile activity.

Jeniel, Ravian and Ramus gave scant regard to this magnificent panorama – it was something that they had grown up with and took for granted. Besides, this was the first time their father had assembled the three waiting princes in such a formal manner and they were anticipating a momentous announcement.

They were not to be disappointed.

Jabacus, king of Tarcus, strode into the chamber alone. He was a powerfully built, energetic man whose productive, enlightened reign had endeared him to his nation. He was also a loving father to his three sons and Ravian felt a strange pang as he and his brothers came to their feet and bowed the king to his throne. Their lives, he realised, were about to move forward in a way that could never be reversed.

Jabacus settled into his seat and waved the boys to their own chairs.

���My Sons,' Jabacus began, 'Jeniel has now reached the age where he must begin his formal training as my successor.'

Ravian stole a glance sideways at his older sibling. Now approaching his fourteenth year, Jeniel already had Jabacus's dark complexion and the beginnings of his broad build. Ravian, fair-haired and slender in the way of his mother's family, had often wished that he were more like the two of them.

'As king, your brother will have something that I never had,' Jabacus continued, 'two loyal and loving brothers to support him.'

The three boys nodded their understanding – their father had been an only child.

'Ravian,' Jabacus said, 'on your brother's accession, you become next in line to the throne until such time as Jeniel has his own children. When you turn fourteen you will go into the Academy like any other Tarcun lad but, from this moment on, you are to focus on becoming the protector of your brother's throne and of this kingdom. After you complete your two years' basic training, you'll spend the usual two-year break receiving further instruction here at the Palace before you go on to your naval training. Ultimately, when the time is right and you have accumulated sufficient experience, you will be given the title of Defender of the Nation – and the overall command of the army and navy.'

'Yes, Father,' Ravian replied, his heart singing.

A full-time military career! The young prince could barely believe his good fortune.

'Ramus,' the king said, turning to the youngest of the brothers, 'you must learn the ways of commerce and diplomacy.'

Ramus made a face. At nine years' age, the freckle-faced prince was already a cheeky and irrepressible handful.

'None of that, Ramus!' the king admonished him sharply. 'I have already instructed your tutors to school you thus. When you turn twelve, you will enter the House of Bomma, your mother's house, where you will learn first-hand the ways of trade that have made Tarcus the great nation that she is today. Our swords and our longships exist only to protect this nation's trading interests and it is vital that you learn to understand and foster the interests of the Nine Houses.'

Ravian and Jeniel exchanged looks.

Poor Ramus – no military training for him!

The king turned back to his first-born son.

'And you, Jeniel, will learn all that these two will and more. As ruler, you will need to know everything that goes on in your kingdom. From the lofty towers of this palace to the sweat of a Belainian furnace – everything will be your concern. Moreover, you will need to know what is happening on every shore of the Sapphire Sea. You will need spies, you will need diplomats and you will need allies. But none of these, Jeniel, will you need more than the love and loyalty of your own brothers.'

Ravian remembered that day now as he rode beside his father.

He had never felt envious of his brother – far from it. The responsibility of kingship seemed far too weighty a thing and, privately, Ravian hoped that Jeniel would be prompt in siring many children. The more princesses and princes between him and the throne the better, he thought.

'Nervous, Son?' Jabacus asked, interrupting his reverie.

Ravian realised that, although he had longed for this day, he felt slightly apprehensive now that it had arrived.

'A little, Father,' he admitted.

The king gave him a searching look.

'I understand,' he said. 'You must feel as though your mother and I are abandoning you for the next two years – but you know why, don't you?'

Ravian nodded. His parents had discussed this with him on a number of occasions.

'Because I need to learn to stand on my own two feet among the common people,' he replied.

Jabacus frowned. Until now, his sons had been sole companions to each other, used to everyone beyond their immediate family being their servants and their subjects.

'Ravian,' he said gently, 'this is the last time that I can remind you that, for the next two years, you must forget that you are of the royal line. The only hierarchy that is going to matter to you while you are at the Academy is the army's – and none of your fellow trainees are going to take it too kindly if you use terms like "common people".'

Ravian's ears reddened.

'Yes, Father,' said, acknowledging the king's advice and embarrassed that he had made the mistake.

His father sighed.

'It's alright, Son,' he said. 'I went through the same thing at your age. It was very difficult for me, being the crown prince. That's why I decided to give your older brother his military training at the palace.'

Ravian was silent – he knew how deeply both his brothers resented being denied their terms at the Academy. Normally, the only able-bodied Tarcun boys who received exemption from basic training did so for specific and exceptional reasons that only the Citizen's Council could approve. The same applied for the traditional recall to naval training after the two-year hiatus although, by then, some of the Nine Houses' eighteen year-olds would already be so involved in their families' business empires that the council would be forced to grant them exemptions.

This system of compulsory military training for all, creating a large citizens' reserve to support the core military establishment, served the island nation's strategic needs well. A military career might not offer the same potential for the accumulation of wealth as that of a merchant, but the tax system of the country funded secure, adequate incomes for its soldiers and sailors and permanent positions in the forces, particularly in the navy, were highly sought after.

Ravian was proud that he would one day command Tarcus' battle fleet of over fifty longships, as well as the nation's full-time land army of some fifteen hundred soldiers and five hundred cavalrymen. This military capability, along with Tarcus's relatively remote position in the centre of the Sapphire Sea, had long presented an effective deterrent to any neighbouring nations covetous of the island kingdom's wealth.

'For you, it will be very different,' the king continued. 'Some of the boys you are about to meet will be your comrades for life. You'll command all of them one day, of course, but to do that with any real authority you must first earn their respect and trust. They are two of the cornerstones of leadership, Ravian – Tarcuns don't like taking orders, but they'll follow a leader they believe in to the ends of the earth and beyond.'

No one was better qualified to give that advice than his father was, Ravian reflected. The king had the Citizen's Council wrapped around his little finger and enjoyed the absolute loyalty of the army and navy.

'Ah,' said Jabacus, as a lone horseman galloped out from the Academy's gates to meet them, 'here comes General Grabbus.'

The fast-closing rider, wearing a crested helmet and armour that flashed in the afternoon sun, sat rigidly upright on his galloping steed. A few paces short of the royal pair, he stood in the stirrups and hauled back on the reins, muscling his mount to a dusty halt in a spectacular exhibition of strength and horsemanship. Grabbus removed his helmet to reveal a lined, sun-darkened face topped by a mane of white hair.

'Welcome, Your Majesty!' he boomed, surprising Ravian by giving the king the military salute – right fist clenched over heart – instead of the bow that was his father's usual due.

'It's good to see you, General,' Jabacus replied, dismounting.

Grabbus followed suite and then, to Ravian's utter astonishment, the two men embraced each other.

'I did my military service alongside this old lion,' Jabacus explained, as Ravian swung down off his own horse. 'I fancy we saved each other's necks a few times during those days, eh Grabbus?'

'Aye, Your Majesty,' Grabbus growled, 'especially when we had to flush out those pirates around the Gertals.'

'Almost as risky as those expeditions through the fleshpots of Ezreen, eh, Old Friend?' the king boomed.

Grabbus looked vaguely uncomfortable at this and Ravian blushed. Jabacus seemed to realise he had gone too far and cleared his throat.

'Yes, well,' the King said. 'I have come to deliver this young man into your charge for the next two years – he understands that there will be no special favours on account of his lineage. Prepare him well to defend his brother and the kingdom.'

'It will be my honour, Your Majesty,' Grabbus growled.

Father and son embraced quickly and awkwardly under the eye of the Academy's commander.

'Goodbye, Son,' Jabacus said in a low voice. 'The love of your mother and I will be with you.'

Ravian was unable to reply. His throat felt tight and his eyes burned. He loved his family dearly and the two years that he had anticipated so keenly suddenly yawned before him like a huge chasm.

With no further words, his father released his son and, taking up the reins of the prince's horse, remounted his own stallion. Without a backward glance, the king kicked his steed into a gallop in the direction of the White City, quickly disappearing from sight behind his own dust cloud.

Ravian would always remember how hurt and abandoned he had felt at his father's brusque departure. Many years later though, when he had children himself, it would occur to him that Jabacus had probably kept his back turned on that day to hide the tears in his own eyes.

'Ravian,' Grabbus' voice broke into his misery, 'report to the main courtyard and ask for Delanion – he's to be your training officer.'

Ravian's head snapped around. Grabbus had forgotten to address him by his title.

Grabbus glared at him.

'You heard His Majesty,' the old soldier said firmly. 'There are no titles here – you are all trainees the same.'

Then the Academy Commander's eyes and voice softened a little.

'And the sooner you understand that, the easier it will be for you,' he said, 'although it can never be that easy for a prince of the realm. I fancy that your father found it very hard at your age.'

Then the hardness returned and, with the fluid grace of a much younger man, Grabbus swung himself up into his saddle.

'Now,' he ordered, towering above the young prince, 'give me your best salute and carry on!'

Ravian did as he was ordered and Grabbus wheeled his horse and galloped back towards the academy gates. The young prince stared after the departing figure for a few moments, then straightened his shoulders and marched forward into commander's lingering dust cloud.

His destiny now lay within the walls of the Academy – he might as well get on with it!

Delanion was the first person Ravian encountered as he marched in through the open gates of the Academy and onto its main courtyard. This was partly because the training officer had been standing at the centre of the baking expanse of cobblestones awaiting his latest recruit's arrival for some time, and partly because, at that time of day, the two young men were the sole occupants of the inner parade ground. The encounter began badly for Ravian who, yet to receive his training in such things, was unaware of the significance of the red shoulder flashes worn by the lean, dour-faced young man who stood awaiting his approach.

'You!' Delanion barked when the prince was still ten paces from him. 'Don't you salute a senior rank?'

Ravian quickly came to attention and saluted the glowering youth who was to be his immediate superior for the next two years.

'Very well!' Delanion snapped. 'Report inside that building to the Stores Master and he will issue you your kit. Report back to me here as soon as you have done that!'

Sensing that it was the appropriate thing to do, Ravian saluted and moved off in the direction of the building Delanion had indicated.

'Stand still!' the training officer bellowed at him.

Ravian came rigidly to attention and Delanion was in front of him in two strides, disdain and dislike etched on his face.

'When you receive an order from a superior,' he snarled, 'you will salute and reply, "Yes Sir!" loudly and clearly. Do you understand?'

'Yes, Sir!' Ravian barked.

'Very well,' Delanion growled. 'Now carry on!'

'Yes, Sir!' Ravian bellowed again, saluting the stiff-backed youth before stepping around him and continuing on his way.

'At the double!' Delanion thundered after him. 'I don't intend to wait any longer out here in this heat than I have to!'

'Yes, Sir!' Ravian roared, correctly surmising the meaning of "at the double" and breaking into a run.

Shortly thereafter, weighed down by an armload of armour, military tunics and a bedroll, Ravian trotted back to the centre of the shimmering courtyard to report to his superior.

'Follow me,' barked Delanion and set off in a fast, long stride – his sword clinking at his side.

Ravian almost had to run to keep up as they headed toward a group of identical, single-storey buildings set against the back wall of the institution. Entering the one in the furthest corner, Delanion led him into a long, open hall down both sides of which ran a line of rough, wooden beds.

'This is your bed here,' the training officer growled. 'Stow your gear underneath it for the moment – your fellow trainees will show you how to do it properly when they get back. There's no point in you joining them now – they'll be halfway through their afternoon evolutions. Wait for them to return and then come with them to the mess hall for dinner. Understand?'

'Yes, Sir!' Ravian replied, snapping to attention but unable to salute because of his armload.

Delanion glared at him silently for a few seconds and Ravian waited helplessly for the next reprimand. Delanion however, seemed to have tired of harassing his new charge for the moment.

'Very well!' he snapped and stalked out of the hall.

Ravian looked around and saw little to add to his first impression. Apart from the beds, the walls and the windows, the hall was almost featureless. A lingering odour of young, unwashed, male bodies assailed his nostrils as he changed into his coarse military tunic, pushed his gear under his bed and sat down to wait.

After two hours, feeling very alone and increasingly anxious about his first meeting with his year mates, he heard the sounds of clanking armour and young voices approaching. As he rose to his feet, about twenty sweaty youths exploded noisily into the hall – only to come to halt in surprised silence when they saw the new arrival. One of their number, a dark-haired boy taller and more powerfully built than the rest, shouldered his fellows aside and advanced towards the prince. Somehow, despite still wearing full armour, he moved with cat-like silence, his glittering green eyes radiating malice.

Later in life, Ravian would reflect on how one could occasionally meet a complete stranger for the first time and instantly, instinctively know a life-long friend, a love about to be…or an eternal enemy.

The tall boy's lower lip curled.

'Look!' he announced loudly, drawing himself up into a swagger. 'We have a new arrival. What's your name, little boy? Does your mummy know you're here?'

'My name is Ravian,' the prince answered.

'Well, well, well,' the other boy said, coming to a halt before him with his hands on his hips. 'Surely not Prince Ravian? Don't tell me we are to be nursemaids to the king's royal puppy?'

Ravian heard couple of sniggers and saw the rest of the boys edging forward behind their leader.

'I've never had a nursemaid,' replied Ravian, 'and I can look after myself.'

'Ha! You hear that boys?' the green-eyed boy said, looking around the young faces behind him. 'The little prince can look after himself.'

There were more sniggers at this. Then the larger youth leaned menacingly forward, clenching his fists as he towering over Ravian.

'You'll need to, Blue Eyes,' he hissed menacingly. 'There's no room here for sissies.'

'Oh, leave him alone, Graticus,' a stocky, fair-haired boy behind him said. 'He's only just got here.'

Graticus spun and lashed out a fist in a sinuous blur of movement. The shorter boy's head snapped back and he tumbled backwards onto the floor with a crash of armour.

Graticus took a pace forward and leaned over the fallen boy.

'I've told you before to hold your tongue, Billus!' he snarled. 'You've got a big mouth for such a short arse!'

'And you!' he ground out, wheeling around to face Ravian. 'If you know what's good for you, you'll stay out of my way!'

With that, he stalked past Ravian's bed to his own place at the end of the hall. The rest of the boys filed silently past, watching the prince to see what his reaction would be.

Ravian bent to help Billus to his feet. The boy's lips were already swelling where they had burst against his teeth and small stream of blood ran down his chin.

'It's alright,' Billus said bravely, shrugging away the prince's helping hand. 'I've had worse in weapons training.'

'You should complain to the Training Officer,' Ravian said in a low voice.

'To Delanion?' Billus queried – and then began to smile before his split lip stopped him with a frown of pain.

'You don't seem to understand, Your Highness,' he said after a moment. 'The Academy has its rules but, in here…well, this hall makes its own laws and Graticus makes most of them.'

By chance, Billus's bed was next to Ravian's and, as they waited for the sound of the dinner gong, he showed the prince how to stow his gear tidily and correctly beneath it. The penalty for not doing so properly, he explained, was ten laps around the outside walls of the Academy in full armour.

At the other end of the hall, surrounded by most of the other boys, Graticus held court over a game of dice. He looked up occasionally to glower in their direction.

'What's the story with Graticus?' Ravian asked.

'He's the oldest son of Granius, master of the House of Palin, Your Highness,' explained Billus. 'Ever since he's been here he's made life a misery for anyone who's dared to stand up to him.'

'Look, Billus,' Ravian said to his companion. 'I don't think calling me "Your Highness" is going to make my life any easier while I'm here – just "Ravian" will do. I must agree though, this Graticus character certainly seems like a bit of a bully.'

'He's more than a bully, Ravian,' Billus replied matter-of-factly. 'He's dangerous.'

That evening, after a simple, nourishing dinner in the mess hall, the young students of war returned straight to their quarters. Almost immediately, Delanion stalked into the hall and ordered the torches extinguished and his charges to bed, even though dusk still glowed faintly outside the windows. This early bedtime made little difference to the other boys, Ravian noticed, as they all seemed to quickly fall asleep. The prince lay awake for sometime in the snore-filled darkness, reliving his encounter with Graticus and wondering what the morning would bring.

The need for such an early night became apparent the next morning, as it was still dark when Delanion, carrying a flaming torch, marched into the hall to wake them.

'All right, you Little Toads!' he bellowed. 'It's time to rise and Greet the Dawn!'

"Greeting the Dawn", Ravian discovered, was the name given to their daily run from the Academy gates out to a prominent rise, crowned with a single tree, some three miles northeast across the plains. This, ominously-named, "Heartbreak Hill" was, in fact, the first of a series of foothills that were the beginning of the land's rise eastwards towards the distant, towering shadow of Mount Perios, the highest point of the island. The journey around the tree and back neatly filled in the time between the rising of the Academy's students and the sun's first appearance over Mount Perios's shoulder.

As the boys from Ravian's hall set out, the other trainees of the establishment joined them and the youths fanned out across the shadowy plain like a stampede of wild horses. Ravian was pleased to find that he was able to keep up with the leading pack although, ahead of him, the broad-shouldered figure of Graticus soon pulled away – the bully easily stretching out to and holding a lead of a hundred paces over the rest of his fellows. Somehow, despite his stout frame and short legs, Billus managed to keep up beside Ravian in the leading group.

'Do you do this every morning?' Ravian gasped, as they wound their way up the hill to their turning point around the lone tree.

'Every morning – rain or shine,' Billus panted.

'Where are Delanion or the rest of the training officers?' Ravian asked. 'Does no one ever cheat?'

'Someone would be bound to tell,' Billus huffed. 'Then everyone would have to do the run all over again. I wouldn't want to be the boy responsible for that.'

On their return to the Academy, they went straight to a hurried breakfast in the mess hall, surrounded by perhaps three hundred other noisy, perspiring boys of around their own age. The last stragglers from the run had barely had time to stagger in and take a couple of mouthfuls before a loud horn blast came from the direction of the gates.

'Assemble!' bellowed Delanion, stalking into the hall with a group of older youths, who Ravian recognised by their insignia as being the other training officers.

'If you haven't had time to eat your breakfast – too bad!' Delanion snarled. 'Some of you slow pokes could stand to lose some weight anyway!'

The boys cleared the tables quickly, helped along by some of the training officers producing short lengths of rope with knotted ends with which they lashed out at tardy behinds. The trainees hurriedly poured out the main gates and onto the plain, assembling into groups as their breath steamed in the crisp morning air. These groups were, Ravian learned, "Divisions" and his own group, the boys in whose company he had just spent his first night, was the "Lizard Division". The youthful prince felt a prick of envy for the young Tarcuns who had been lucky enough to join other, more imposingly named entities such as the "Hawk" or "Lion" divisions.

Each division quickly formed into two rows and, as the training officers ordered them to silence, three figures – two in armour and one in the bright red robes of the priesthood – strode out of the shadows of the gates and into the morning light. Ravian recognised the soldier in the centre of the group as Grabbus and he deduced that the other armoured man was the Chief Training Officer and Second in Command. In a booming voice, Grabbus proceeded to address them with what, it was to turn out, was one of his daily morning servings of advice to the trainees.

This morning's subject was brutally down to earth.

'Self-abuse will only weaken you!' Grabbus thundered. 'Besides, you young men should not have the time or the energy for any such carrying on while you are here. Save your strength for your training and you will always do better. Grasp yourself in the night and you risk inflaming your fellow trainees to an abominable act!'

The sniggering of several boys in the division confirmed the implication of the last sentence and Ravian blushed. What sort of life had he come to?

Having completed his mercifully brief sermon, Grabbus stepped back and motioned the priest forward to lead the assembly in the Morning Prayer to Delikas. This duty also swiftly despatched, Grabbus ordered, 'Carry on, Chief Training Officer', and after returning the salute of his second in command, the commander and priest marched back into the Academy.

The chief training officer then stepped forward and began detailing the day's activities for the various divisions.

'Eagle Division – marching this morning, and archery this afternoon.'

'Wolf Division – construction this morning, and sea knowledge this afternoon.'

'Lizard Division – archery this morning, and sword drill this afternoon.'

Beside him, Ravian heard Billus quietly groan and, as soon as the officer had completed reading the detail and the assembly had been dismissed, he asked him the reason.

'First year trainees always train with lead swords,' Billus explained. 'It's going to be a stinking hot day today and we are going to be spending the afternoon swinging lead!'

The temperature at the archery range, situated at the rear of the Academy, was pleasant enough, thanks to a line of trees on each side of the ground that afforded some shade from the relentlessly rising sun. Snatching covert glances away from Delanion's instruction however, Ravian could see the other divisions carrying out their training amidst clouds of dust further out on the plain and he reflected that Billus was right – it was going to be a long, hot, afternoon.

Delanion had lined his charges up in front of him to demonstrate the use of the bow and arrow. He showed them a typical Tarcun bow constructed of several laminations of wood and bone and explained that, at close range, it had the power to punch an arrow through all but the heaviest armour.

Ravian's eyes strayed towards the stand of bows and the pyramid of arrow-filled quivers behind Delanion and he flexed his fingers in anticipation. In the courtyards of the palace, he and Jeniel had spent many hours competing against each other with their father's hunting bows, and he knew that he had a good eye. When Delanion finally finished his demonstration and issued the boys their bows and quivers however, the prince noticed that the weight of the practice weapons were a lot lighter than he was used to – a concession to the age and strength of the trainees, he suspected.

Delanion assembled the boys into a line thirty paces opposite a row of round, upright targets and, despite the lightness of his bow, Ravian had little doubt he would be able to find the red-painted bull's-eye from such a close range. Delanion ordered his charges to fire five arrows at the target directly in front of each of them and, with calm deliberation, Ravian clustered his missiles within the red centre. Most of the boys at least hit their targets at this distance – although the occasional arrow sailed past to land out in the field behind. Delanion prudently ordered his division to lay their weapons on the ground and then stalked out to the line of targets, inspecting it from end to end without comment. Then, he ordered the boys to retrieve their arrows and withdraw to a distance of fifty paces from the target line.

Once they were in position, Delanion again gave the order to fire and, again, Ravian neatly clustered his shots in the centre of the target.

This time, as Delanion inspected each target, he passed a comment – usually scathing – on the accuracy of each archer. Coming to Ravian's target, he paused and looked around to confirm the identity of the sharpshooter.

'Ravian,' he said, a hint of surprise in his voice. 'Good shooting.'

Again, they retrieved their arrows and, this time, Delanion ordered a withdrawal to seventy paces.

At this range, Ravian had to use all his concentration – but he was rewarded by a grouping of arrows spread no wider than two hand-spans. Looking about, he saw that only one other archer had managed to put all five arrows on his target – and that some of his classmates had failed to hit their marks at all.

As Delanion again stalked the target line, this time in silence, Ravian looked along the row of boys, trying to make out which marksman had also found the target with all five arrows. With a feeling of foreboding, he realised that Graticus must be very close to the point where the accurate shooting had come from.

'Very well!' boomed Delanion. 'Retrieve your arrows!'

Then, 'All of you except Ravian and Graticus, stand to the side of the field! You two – retire to one hundred paces!'

Keeping a careful distance from each other, the two adversaries silently paced out the distance. Only when they turned did they look at each other directly and Ravian was, again, surprised by the reptilian, glittering coldness of his opponent's eyes.

'Fire when ready!' Delanion bellowed from the side of the range.

Ravian watched Graticus closely as he drew back his bow for his first shot, observing the muscular arms and stiff, hunched stance of the other boy. His arrow flew, landing just wide of the centre of the target and raising a cheer from the watching division.

Graticus lowered his bow and looked across at Ravian.

'Beat that!' his expression clearly said.

Ravian wished that his bow was more powerful, the training weapon's soft action not lending itself to shooting at such a long range. He loosed his first arrow and, even though he had compensated for the distance by aiming high, he saw it drop more than he had expected, hitting the target two hand-spans below the bull.

'Weak as water,' he heard Graticus sneer beside him.

At least his aim had been correct for line, Ravian consoled himself as his opponent lined up his second shot.

Graticus's arrow flew across the distance but, perhaps thinking too much about his comment to Ravian, he had aimed too high and his arrow only just caught the top of the target. There were more cheers from the other boys – although Ravian thought he heard a 'boo' mixed in with them.

Having ranged-in his weapon, Ravian then placed his second arrow in the central ring of the bulls-eye, the applause that followed this increasing in volume as, in quick succession, he clustered his three remaining shots within the same red circle.

In the face of this display, Graticus seemed to become flustered, landing his next two arrows wide on his target and, as a final humiliation, missing the mark completely with his last. Some brave souls amongst the division laughed and Graticus flushed angrily.

'Well done, Ravian,' Delanion bellowed. 'We seem to have a new champion archer in our midst.'

Ravian turned to speak to Graticus but the other boy was already walking back to the group, his back rigid with anger.

Sword drill, after a brief lunch in the welcome cool of the mess hall, took place in a dust bowl that seemed designed to trap the full heat of the afternoon sun. Their dress for the exercise was full armour – bronze helmet, chest plate, back plate and greaves – and each boy carried a large, round, shield and a short lead sword.

Delanion drilled the sweating boys in the basics movements of swordsmanship for a full, relentless hour. Ravian – who had never wielded anything but a toy wooden sword – enjoyed the lesson but, like the rest of the boys, found it hard toil under the hot sun. Indeed, by the end of the hour, the prince felt as though his lead weapon had trebled in weight and he was struggling to keep his bronze shield up in the proper guard position. At this point, one of the smaller boys in their group fainted and Delanion took this as a signal to rest his charges. The training officer despatched two trainees to the Academy and they returned with skins of cool water that the boys shared in exhausted silence.

After they had regained some energy – and the boy who had collapsed had been revived and sent back to the sleeping quarters – Delanion addressed them.

'All right you lot,' he announced. 'Now comes the part you've been waiting for! I'm going to pair you off against each other to practice what I've just taught you.'

With that, he proceeded to match the trainees into pairs of roughly equal size, lining them up in two opposing columns. As Delanion reeled off the names of the pairs, Ravian saw the training officer's eyes alight on him with an odd gleam.

'Ravian, you did well against Graticus in the archery this morning,' he said. 'Let's see how you go against each other in swordplay.'

Wearing a wolfish grin, Graticus promptly strode into position opposite the prince and Ravian felt a flash of fear. He had discreetly observed Graticus during the sword drill and it was evident that his much taller and heavier opponent was already an accomplished swordsman. The unfairness of the match was obvious to all and, suddenly, Ravian's trepidation was replaced by a surge of anger and determination.

'So be it,' he thought.

He had no doubt that Graticus would try to make him look like a fool but he was not going to make it easy for the green-eyed bully.

Delanion took up a position at the head of the two lines of opponents.

'Very well!' the training officer bellowed. 'The Division will prepare to engage. Division ready…'

Ravian had his eyes on Delanion, still wondering why the officer had matched him so unfairly. In later years, he would learn to read the small noises made by an adversary as though announced by thunder but on this, his first day with a sword in his hand, he missed the soft warning sounds of attack.

The sharp intake of breath.

The creak of leather bindings.

The whirr of a sword through the hot afternoon air.

'…engage!'

As the order left Delanion's lips, the flat of Graticus's blade crashed against the side of Ravian's helmet, knocking him to the ground and sending his sword and shield flying. The prince lay stunned, fighting off waves of darkness and, for a moment, he was sure that the force of the blow had broken his neck. He was vaguely aware of Graticus towering above him, yelling insults down at him – but he couldn't make out the words. As the world spun about him, he managed to get to his hands and knees – whereupon Graticus seized the opportunity to direct a kick to his backside that sent him sprawling in the dust again.

The next thing he knew, Graticus had withdrawn a couple of paces and Delanion was pulling him to his feet.

'Come on, Lizard Spawn!' the Training Officer snarled at him. 'You can't afford to go to sleep when you are facing a man with a sword in his hand – even a practice sword! Now, let's see you start using some of those skills I've just taught you!'

Still groggy, Ravian gathered up his sword and shield – barely having time to take up his guard before a triumphantly grinning Graticus bore in on him with a barrage of wild, savage blows. All Ravian could do was to protect his head with sword and shield – the strength and savagery of Graticus's assault driving him to down onto one knee.

Even as he defended himself though, the prince's mind had begun to clear and, as it did, his anger returned. Graticus's stance was wide as he stood over Ravian and hammered away at him – more like that of a blacksmith at the forge than that of a swordsman in combat. Unable to spare his own blade from its position defending his head, Ravian lashed upward with his right leg, and his instep connected with Graticus's genitals with significant force. The larger boy gasped, threw aside his sword and shield, and rolled backwards onto the ground with a squeal of agony as Ravian staggered upright.

Red-faced, Delanion stalked up to them and pushed the prince away from his writhing opponent.

'That's enough!' he roared. 'You are here to learn swordplay – not brawl like drunken sailors in a brothel! Ravian! Take your sword and shield for a jog around the tree on Heartbreak Hill! And you, Graticus! How many times have I told you that size and strength are no substitute for a sound defence?!'

Graticus ignored his instructor and continued to groan upon the ground as Ravian set off on the long run.

The prince's armour clanked and chafed with every pace and the weight of his sword and shield threatened to drag him to earth. He knew now that he had made an implacable enemy of Graticus but he consoled himself with the knowledge that there had been no alternative. At least the bully now knew that he would stand up to him.

Somehow, Ravian made it to the crest of the hill and the turning point around the tree. As he tottered back across the hot plain, heart pounding and almost blinded by sweat, he was both surprised and relieved to realise that he was almost back to the drill field. He had just begun to make out the individual faces of the other boys when a black fog suddenly swept around him and he pitched forward into darkness.

He awoke on his bed, the noise of the Lizard Division barracks around him. Billus sat on the edge of the bunk, a bowl of water on his knee and a wet cloth in his hands, and Ravian realised that he had been stripped and that his friend had been bathing him.

'Well,' said Billus, 'you've certainly had a mixed day.'

Ravian tried to say something but only managed a feeble croak. Billus handed him a smaller bowl of water to drink. The water was tepid but clean and it soothed the young prince's throat. His head ached mightily from Graticus's sneak attack and the muscles in the side of his neck felt wrenched and torn.

'I think that you might have given Delanion a fright,' his friend said quietly as Ravian drank. 'He's not the most pleasant piece of work, but I think he saw his military career flash before his eyes when you collapsed out there on the plain.'

'Why does he particularly dislike me?' whispered Ravian.

'He's from a very poor background,' said Billus. 'His father's a rough sort who's clawed his way up from the ranks to officer level – the rumour is that he met Delanion's mother when she was working as a cleaner in the barracks latrines. Delanion sinks his teeth into anyone who he thinks has had a more privileged upbringing than he has – which is just about anybody. You, however, Your Highness, are as close to the top of his menu as anybody could get.'

'What about Graticus?' Ravian asked. 'Delanion doesn't seem to mind him too much.'

'Don't worry,' his friend replied with a wry smile. 'Until you came here, Graticus was Delanion' favourite target. How do you think you got back here? – Graticus had to carry you back. Delanion made him do it with both of you still in full armour and he had to carry both your swords and shields as well.'

Ravian turned his head and looked over towards the end of the dormitory where Graticus was holding his court of dice with his cronies. Their eyes locked briefly before the bigger boy looked away.

'I'd better go and say thank you, then,' said Ravian, painfully sitting up and putting his feet on the floor.

'You are wasting your breath, My Friend,' he heard Billus murmur behind him as he pulled on his tunic and tottered towards Graticus's group.

Graticus ignored his approach but, as the other boys stopped playing and stared up at Ravian, the green eyes finally lifted from the game and met the prince's.

'I understand that you carried me back,' Ravian said. 'I wanted to thank you.'

'You don't need to thank me, Your Highness,' Graticus sneered. 'I was just obeying orders.'

'Well, thank you anyway.'

'Just stay at your end of the dormitory, Baboon Bum, and I'll stay at mine,' Graticus muttered.

Ravian saw it then, and heard it in Graticus's voice. Not fear – but a tiny scrap of respect.

He knew that Graticus would never forgive him for the double humiliation of the day and that the heir to the House of Palin would always be his enemy. Nevertheless, the previously undisputed master of the dormitory had just made a small concession to the prince – an admission that Ravian had his own small piece of territory and would never be one of the bully's gang. The other boys saw it, and heard it too, and the eyes of some of them widened.

'Your choice, Graticus,' Ravian said clearly, as he turned and walked back to his end of the dormitory – to his own tiny kingdom.