Caste was rather disappointed to find Rodel’s assessment of the literature at Fort Mavour was not an exaggeration of its…sparsity. The only things older than the last siege Maul made on Fort Mavour were things that could not burn and in a library, there was little that could not be consumed by flames. In fact, apart from some random and uninteresting texts that had survived simply by not being in the library at the time of the fires, everything in it was new and even then it was plain that the investment into knowledge was not something Sir Donimede or any of his predecessors for several generations considered worthy.

  “Told you.” Rodel remarked as Caste perused the painfully bare shelves with more vacancies than there were books.

  “Would Deacon Alast have any in his chambers?”

  “It’s possible,” Rodel said without conviction, “I’m sorry there isn’t enough knowledge here to interest you.”

  “I can hardly imagine what you do with all your time.” Caste admitted, knowing he would be bored out of his mind within a month.

  “Oh, there are distractions…”

  Caste looked at him and Rodel glanced away, unwilling to meet his gaze. Caste’s eyes narrowed. “Just how did you end up with this post? A failed knighthood quest would not have reflected well upon your record.”

  “That’s only if I had ambitions of becoming bishop,” Rodel shrugged, “which is an office I leave to more intelligent men such as yourself.”

  “Well…” Caste preened.

  “Cleric,” a guard entered the library without knocking and glared at Rodel, “you’re late.”

  “I sent word this morning that I would be unable to attend practice…”

  “Like I care,” the guard snorted, “tell that to sword master Roust yourself.”

  Rodel sighed and looked mournfully at Caste. “I apologise. It seems I am required elsewhere.”

  “Practice?”

  “Come and watch and you might begin to understand why I was chosen for this post.”

  Caste followed, curious to say the least. Rodel led him through the fort to a long, double storey room where guards were being drilled in their fighting skills. Fort Mavour’s crest was a wild animal snarling, possibly a werewolf. When in armour, the guard’s tunics were covered with metal but in this training hall they practiced without armaments so that their dark blue tunics with the embroidered werewolf head could be seen.

  A burly man with no hair but which he made up for with tattoos of, in Caste’s opinion, tasteless and graphic design, turned and eyed Rodel.

  “You’re late, cleric!”

  “Sir, I sent word…”

  “When you can hold your own, then you can talk to me about skipping a practice.” Roust glared at Caste. “What are you looking at?”

  All manner of insults flooded Caste’s mind but he wisely kept his mouth shut. Rodel gave him an apologetic glance.

  “I’ll be here for the better part of an hour. Why not sit up there and watch me get pummelled?”

  Caste saw a set of stairs that led to a viewing balcony which was recessed from the training room, allowing those who wanted to watch the fighting to do so with a better viewpoint. There were pews to sit on and he took a place somewhere near to where Rodel was preparing himself. Caste had been surprised at Rodel’s unconventional attire when he’d dressed that morning. Rather than his traditional Order of the Grail tunic and cappa clausa, Rodel had donned fitted dark brown trousers, a white shirt with a lace up neck and his cappa clausa over the top. He even wore boots that looked more like what a soldier would wear. Caste had let the observations go unsaid and now he wondered if he was about to receive a demonstration as to why Rodel was not dressed in the custom manner of a cleric.

  He removed his cappa clausa and strapped a padded helmet around his head then stood at the end of a long floor mat that was one of several laid across the lengthy training hall. Caste guessed it to be the designated space for Rodel to practice in.

  To his increasing concern, sword master Roust was Rodel’s opponent and picked up padded staffs, tossing Rodel one.

  “Since you’re late, I’ll be making up for lost time.” Roust said darkly. “Defend yourself!”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  To his credit, Rodel did and Caste was deeply impressed at the way he handled himself. Unfortunately, against a superior force, both in skill and in strength, Rodel could only do so for so long before landing on his backside.

  “Up, cleric,” Roust grunted, “defend yourself!”

  Caste cringed as he watched, reminded of the time that Judd had been humiliated and abused by Dalain Thiery. That had been an out of control, vindictive sword master determined to put an eager, albeit na?ve, young man in what Dalain had deemed was his place. Caste reminded himself that this was different. Despite Roust’s coarseness and merciless demeanour, Caste could see some element of logic and training method in the sword master’s abuse.

  But only just.

  “On your feet, cleric, or will you cower when the monsters come?”

  Roust’s remarks glanced off Rodel and Caste wondered if he had become benumbed to the taunts over time or if Rodel was trying so hard not to get knocked on his arse that he couldn’t hear anything at all.

  “…through the training room.”

  Through the grunting and manly noises, the voice that entered their midst was oddly feminine.

  “Guards, attention for a lady!” Roust barked and the fighting in the training room immediately stopped.

  “Sorry for the interruption, gentlemen,” Caste turned and saw Judd entering the viewing platform from an upper doorway, a woman with a warmly hued complexion in an elegant yellow gown with her arm linked through his, “please continue.”

  Caste was so stunned by the presence of, who he could only guess would be, one of Sir Donimede’s daughters, that he forgot to turn his attention back to Rodel when Roust bellowed something about defending himself.

  “…vigorous training by sword master Roust.”

  “I thought Chael was captain of the soldiers?” Judd asked, their words becoming clearer as they approached Caste, heading for the door behind him.

  “Captain Chael manages the soldiers under my father. Sword master Roust is in charge of the fort guards who protect the family.” Willower leaned closer. “There is quite the rivalry between them.”

  “I can only imagine.” Judd chuckled then caught sight of Caste. “Cleric Undern, may I introduce Willower Donimede. Willower, this is my cleric, Caste Undern.”

  “Welcome to Fort Mavour.” Willower curtseyed.

  “Thank you.” Caste blundered.

  “Willower is availing me of all the non-military aspects of the fort.” Judd seemed quite at ease with the daughter of Sir Donimede on his arm.

  “And you’re in the training hall because…”

  “It’s a short cut.”

  Caste frowned. “Hopefully not to the library…” He muttered.

  “Would you care to watch sword master Roust drill the guards?” Willower asked.

  “I would not wish to subject you to the brutality.” Judd insisted.

  “I do not mind if you are with me.” Willower beamed, her pretty face becoming luminous in the presence of gentlemanly attention. Caste felt his jaw drop as they sat nearby, Judd glancing back at him and tapping the underside of his jaw. Caste clamped his jaw shut and turned back to the training hall. Rodel was gazing up at the viewing balcony, his brow furrowed and his concentration, splintered.

  Caste didn’t have the chance to ask what was wrong before Rodel was knocked off his feet, landing on his back, Roust standing over him, glowering at his unworthy opponent.

  “You think your robes and that four star pendant you wear will be any defence against the monsters that constantly swarm this fort? You think they will stop to pay homage to your beloved order?”

  “No…” Rodel muttered, pushing himself upright.

  “No!” Roust knocked him down again and Rodel lay on his back, groaning.

  “Bad form!”

  Roust and Rodel both stopped and turned to look up at the viewing balcony. In fact, Caste’s outburst managed to bring all those within the training hall to a standstill. Judd turned and stared at him, astonished and a little impressed.

  Caste heard the words. He even believed they were truth.

  He just couldn’t fathom that they had erupted from his mouth.

  Roust kept his padded weapon lowered to Rodel but his eyes glared at Caste.

  “Say that again…” He dared in a dark voice.

  Caste willed himself not to squeak as he repeated himself. “Bad form.” Rodel closed his eyes and groaned silently as Caste continued. “Knocking a trainee to the ground before he has a chance to stand up…that goes against the code of the sword master.”

  “And what,” Roust’s weapon pointed at Caste now and though it was padded and several lengths away from his elevated position, Caste wanted to cower and hide, “would a cleric know about the code of a sword master?”

  Caste trembled, knowing he was in deep. “What you know in form, I know in fact. The code of the sword master was written down from the time of antiquity.”

  Roust’s eyes narrowed. “You think words are any defence against the foul beasts of Maul?”

  “I think,” Caste swallowed, “if we lose the integrity that we, as humans, are capable of fostering…we are no better than the monsters themselves.”

  Roust lifted his chin. “I have a duty to make sure that each and every person within the walls of this fort are capable of defending themselves.”

  “And I applaud that,” Caste hastened to insist, “but you can beat the will to live out of a person long before you train them how to survive.”

  Roust glowered at Caste then, with a curl at the side of his mouth, he gave a small chuckle.

  “Well, well…this little cleric has teeth…care to test them?” Roust waved at Rodel. “I’ll wager you and your fellow officer of the Grail cannot land a blow on me…and I’ll even give you my weapon.”

  Caste blanched. “Uh…both of us?”

  Roust chuckled. Caste swallowed then saw Rodel’s shame filled expression. Caste gripped the wooden rail tightly, forcing his legs to move towards the stairs.

  “Um…Caste?” Judd’s voice was filled with concern as Caste made it down the steps to the training floor, his robes weighing heavily on him. Roust held out his padded staff and Caste reached for it, wondering if he could make a run for it.

  “Better change, little cleric.” Roust advised.

  Training in the hall had ceased. No one, not guard or visitor upon the viewing balcony, could recall what they were supposed to be doing. All eyes were on the three of them, two inexperienced and ill trained clerics against a burly sword master with tattoos that made Caste cringe.

  “I am a cleric of the order of the Grail,” Caste said quietly and with frightened rigidity, “I wear my robes with pride.”

  Roust’s laugh was chilling. “Very well then…attack me.”