“A new rule,” he continued. “The Companion a fair target is.” He was counting on any ambushers being armed with swords rather than any other exotic weapons—it would be easy enough to incapacitate Companions by thrusting the shafts of spears among their legs in a melee—a broken leg would send a Companion down as easily as a horse. But it was still possible, more than possible, for a Companion to be killed by a sword thrust. He would have to teach them to avoid the possibility.

And as for the stroke that had killed the King and his Companion, and killed Rolan’s predecessor—well, that would be coming in later lessons.

“Yes,” he repeated, with a little more force. “The Companion a legal target is.” That startled them, though the Companions all nodded or snorted and pawed the ground to indicate willingness. Well, they knew, and knew why; this only surprised their Chosen. It startled and shocked them, as if he had suggested that they should practice assassination techniques on infants. Still, they were all intelligent, and in a moment, they nodded too. And this probably confirmed their suspicions; that he was fitting them for dangerous missions, missions in which their Companions would most definitely be targets, the targets of people who were out to kill them, not incapacitate them.

Well, he was. If he needed them, it would be facing people who would probably strike at their Companions first. The Prince might be willfully ignorant when it came to the Companions, but his comrades weren’t. And they would know what the Tedrels had known; kill the Companion, and the Herald is lost as well.

“And Companions—you are to target opposing riders,” he continued, and he thought he caught a wicked glint in one or two blue eyes. “Pull them down, out of the saddle; knock them over. Chase them to the boundaries.” The Companions would be quicker to adapt than their Chosen; at least at first. The Companions of this lot were all full adults, more experienced than their riders.

“So—” He held up his stick; the “traditional” beginning to a Hurlee game was for all players to raise their sticks and crack them together. Belatedly, the rest of them cracked theirs against his. “Harrow—throw in the ball and referee. Signal no fouls, only danger or hurt. We play.”

Harrow had a whistle, but under these rules, he wasn’t to blow it except to start game play unless someone was injured. These were real no-holds-barred conditions, with the Hurlee stick becoming a weapon—club, spear, staff, whatever suited. As the two teams lined up against each other, staring at each other, waiting, it occurred to him to be amused at himself. Whoever would have thought that his impulse to give a set of overexcited youngsters something to burn off some energy with would have turned into this?

Harrow’s whistle cut through the cold air, and the “game” began.