Richard Ford - Herald of the Storm

‘No!’ Kaira barked suddenly, striding forward to grasp the haft of a javelin about to be thrown by one of her students. The girl, maybe thirteen, was a square-jawed acolyte called Reham, gifted to the Temple years before by her pious parents. She had not yet graduated sufficiently through the ranks to be granted her maiden’s name, and Kaira guessed if she carried on like this she never would.

Kaira took the javelin. ‘You’re still throwing the tip forward like a ball. This is a javelin.’ Reham stared back at her sheepishly. ‘You must thrust the haft through the tip, otherwise you might as well throw a stick at your enemy.’ Kaira hefted the weapon to her shoulder. ‘Throw with the javelin, not against it. This weapon is not dependent solely on brawn — technique will always beat strength.’ With that she flung the javelin effortlessly at the target board thirty yards away. It hit dead centre, spearing the wood and echoing around the noisy courtyard.

Reham and the rest of the trainees stared in awe.

‘Wise words you should all heed,’ said Samina, coming to stand beside Kaira. ‘But do not disregard the importance of power in combat. Sometimes there is simply no answer to brute strength.’

Kaira raised an eyebrow at her sister’s intervention. It was not the first time the Coldeye had publicly expressed a differing philosophy of warfare. As was so often the case, her seemingly straightforward statement was a challenge in disguise.

‘You can’t abide just observing and teaching, can you?’ said Kaira under her breath. She knew what was coming.

‘A javelin,’ said Samina, to one of the acolytes. Instantly a weapon was placed in her waiting palm. She tested the balance for a second, took a quick sidestep and let fly. The javelin soared across the courtyard, over the heads of the trainees. It embedded itself in one of the mannequins used for practising the placement of critical blows. The wooden statue wobbled, transfixed by the javelin, then came to rest, like a taunt to Kaira from fifty yards away.

Kaira saw her students standing agog. For the briefest moment she considered taking up another javelin, clearing the courtyard and demonstrating her superior skills, but what had she to prove? Let Samina have her moment. The Coldeye so rarely had opportunities to prove her worth these days. With the armies gone north and the Shieldmaidens left behind as little more than temple guards, it seemed they never would.

‘Carry on,’ Kaira said. Instantly her students went back to their routines.

‘Most impressive.’

Kaira turned to see Daedla standing behind her. The Daughter of Arlor was short, diminutive even, and had a habit of turning up unexpectedly. Her amiable smile masked a keen and calculating nature; Kaira knew to be always on her guard around her. Not that Daedla had ever done her harm but, as a Shieldmaiden of Vorena, Kaira had always been taught to keep her counsel around the Daughters of Arlor. Two different factions of the same religion, they were discouraged from mixing, lest the violent nature of one taint the benevolence of the other.

Samina and Kaira towered over the stooped Daedla, who, despite her only middling years, was hunched like a crone.

‘Your new recruits look a keen batch,’ said Daedla, as they watched the youngsters begin their drill once more. ‘It seems the students get better every year. Where do they keep coming from?’

‘Most are orphans of the plague,’ Kaira explained. ‘Even so young they understand they must prove themselves or face being cast out from the safety of our walls.’

‘That is surely not necessary. Arlor’s Daughters would take care of them,’ said Daedla proudly, but Kaira knew different.

‘More refugees are flocking to Steelhaven every day, and there is only so much the Temple can do. Our armies need supplies to the north: crops, livestock, weapons. There will be few resources for those of us left in the city once the king begins his campaign. With more mouths to feed than ever before it will be a long winter for those who do not prove themselves worthy to remain within our walls.’

‘You make it sound so bleak, sister. We Daughters of Arlor take a very different view.’

Kaira frowned. As compassionate as Daedla’s words were, Kaira knew they were impractical. However good the intentions, pride and benevolence would always, ultimately, be subordinated to survival. The plague had certainly taught that. The Temple of Autumn and its Shieldmaidens had been quarantined during the scourge of the Sweet Canker, to avoid the sickness that would leave the place defenceless. Some of Arlor’s Daughters had been allowed through the gates to minister to the sick, but none had been allowed to return in case they contaminated the Temple. When the plague was over, most of them were dead.

Despite her expressed compassion, Daedla had not been one of those who had gladly sacrificed herself to bring solace to the sick.

‘What brings you to the courtyard, Daedla?’ asked Samina, impatiently. ‘We would not want to see you tainted by our martial display.’

‘Oh, I am long past the fear of taint,’ Daedla replied with her enigmatic smile, which only served to annoy Kaira even more. ‘But the Matron Mother has summoned you.’

‘The Matron Mother?’ Kaira asked. ‘What does she want us for?’

Daedla shrugged. ‘I am simply the messenger.’

Kaira glanced at Samina, who only shot back a confused look. Quickly they made their way from the courtyard to change into their ceremonial regalia. It irked Kaira a little that they were being so hasty; Daedla was probably relishing this eagerness to respond to the Matron Mother’s call, but there was really no alternative. Though Kaira’s superior, the Exarch, was the highest ranking Shieldmaiden, and the sisters obeyed her implicitly, the Matron Mother held ultimate sway within the Temple of Autumn, and a personal summons from her was a great honour … or, on occasions, the ultimate disgrace.

‘What do you think this is about?’ Samina asked whilst placing her breastplate over the tight, silver brigandine beneath and securing the buckles.

‘I have no idea,’ Kaira replied, but the possibilities were rushing though her mind. Some kind of mission? Might they be required to leave the Temple and head to the front — to fight beside the king? Such a prospect excited her. Though defending the Temple and its inhabitants was her main duty, she relished the thought of real combat, instead of endlessly patrolling the walls of their impenetrable bastion.

Having donned their armour they strode though the Temple’s vast corridors towards the inner chapel, carrying their ceremonial helms, with their golden swords at their sides. In uniform they both intentionally mirrored the statue of Vorena. Only Samina’s dark, cropped hair and Kaira’s blonde distinguished them. Seeing their approach in full regalia, the Daughters of Arlor and the Shieldmaidens all moved aside, bowing their heads in respect.

As the two warriors reached the antechamber to the Matron Mother’s sanctum, Daedla was ready for them, two white-veiled handmaids at her side.

‘The Matron Mother awaits,’ said Daedla, beckoning towards the door. As Kaira took a step forward Daedla said, ‘If you please, sisters. Your weapons.’

It was a foolish and annoying protocol, but the Matron Mother frowned upon weapons being carried in her presence, and forbade them within her sanctum. Reluctantly Kaira and Samina unbuckled their sword belts and handed the weapons to the waiting handmaids, and with her sickly smile still plastered to her face Daedla heaved the door open, bowing her head as the Shieldmaidens strode past her and into the sanctum.

The Matron Mother sat at a massive oak desk covered in parchments. She scribbled on a piece of vellum with a long elaborate quill, whose feather danced in time to the scratching sounds. Kaira and Samina stopped before the desk as the vast lead-lined door closed behind them with a resounding thud. Moments passed and Kaira could hear her own heart beating. She stared straight ahead, standing at attention, a sentinel of discipline awaiting the Matron Mother’s notice; but still the old woman continued her incessant scribbling.