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spotted the distinctive costume of a bard warming up in the corner. He could not help but groan. Bards travelled around the country, bringing news to small villages such as this, as well as to bigger towns and cities, then performed sagas in song or poem form, or both. Martil had no problem with the news but he hated the sagas. Partly because there were plenty that seemed to feature him—but mostly because they were never true. The bards who sang or recited these sagas had never been near a battlefield—and consequently their songs and poems concentrated heavily on heroism and self-sacrifice and never mentioned spilled intestines. He hated them becausehe had once enjoyed them, once believed them, until he joined up and saw the real thing. He sighed. Even before the prospect of being forced to sit and listen to a bunch of sagas, he had wanted to get out. It was on nights such as these, when he watched men greet old friends, and swap stories over a few ales, that he felt the most lonely.
    Once he had had friends. But then they were killed and he became a captain. And once you were a war captain, you did not have friends. You had men who served you, you had rivals, you had enemies aplenty, but you did not have friends.
    The bard warmed up with a saga poem about King Riel, the Norstaline monarch who had been given a sword by the dragons themselves. It was all Martil could do not to spit in disgust. When he had been a new recruit, he had dreamed of following a noble king, of being part of an army that saved his country. Then he had fought his first battle and swiftly became concerned with just staying alive. And when he became a war captain, and sat in on war councils with the King, he came to realise that kings were just like everyone else. He saw the petty jealousies, the fears, the whims indulged. He could smell the King’s bad breath and see how foolish he looked when he drank too much. It was hard to think of a king as a being touched by Aroaril when he threw up after gorging himself, or roared with laughter watching sycophants pretending not to be bothered by the stench of his farts. No, far better to stay away from royalty.
    Martil looked around and decided he wanted to get out of the inn, even if it meant seeing Karia again. He looked behind the bar, where the innkeeper kept an hourglass hanging on the wall, but the man hadbecome engrossed in the bard’s peformance and forgotten to turn it, the sands lying quietly in the base of the glass turner. Still, surely enough time had passed that she would be asleep, he reasoned.
    He left, slinging his sack full of food over one shoulder, and breathing deeply once he was outside. He walked back to the priest’s house, ignoring the few villagers still out and about at this time. Most were either in the inn or at home, eating with their families and playing with their children. He knew what it had been like. Once he had lived like this, before the war came to his country. He did not need to look into the houses to see what they were doing. Nor did he want to. Seeing happy families was too painful.
    He discovered Father Nott sitting quietly, pouring himself a glass of whisky. He had the strange feeling the old man had been waiting nervously for his return.
    ‘My one vice. Some say it’s the secret to my long life and good health,’ the old priest greeted him.
    ‘What do you say?’
    ‘They are fools. Aroaril keeps me here, not a glass of fermented grain. Join me?’
    ‘Is she asleep?’
    Nott chuckled. ‘Do you think I would be sitting here quietly if she wasn’t? After her bath, and two helpings of cherry pie, she fell asleep, protesting that she was not in the least bit tired.’
    Martil relaxed a little and sat down opposite the old priest.
    ‘I’d love one. The combination of average ale and bad sagas in the inn has my stomach churning,’ he said.
    ‘Ah, yes, we have a bard in town tonight. And no doubt you have seen too much war to enjoy foolishtales about it