Engines & Demons - The Undestined

Chapter 13ii

Another lump of madriel crap arced through the air towards Maddock, and he barely managed to avoid the noisome projectile.

Another barrage of the foul missiles was launched towards him, and as he crouched and changed direction to avoid them, his feet skidded on the dry earth of the training-arena and flew from under him. He landed heavily on his arse, but it was the malicious glint in Cirric's eye, as he dug his hand shovel back into the cartload of dung for another throw, which stung more than the pain of his landing.

He had still been seething with anger from his meeting with Dak's brat of a friend when he had woken that morning, but he had consoled himself with the thought that at least he had friends among the Field-hands. Boys who would not judge him by where he came from, or who his father was, because they did not care. They liked him for who he was. At least that was what he had thought before he had stepped into the training-arena. He had arrived with his hand cart and shovel, expecting it to be another morning of moving madriel crap about, but he'd had no idea he would be getting more intimately involved with the creatures' waste than was usual.

The Enclosures had been busier than he had seen them previously. Normally it was unusual for a knight to be seen there before the middle of the morning, but despite the earliness of the day, the place had been full of them. Madriel-masters and senior Field-hands were riding in from the great-bailey, leading in what seemed like whole prides of madriel males. They were being taken to the smaller pens, where squires waited with saddles and trappings, and where knights stood about, dressed in their light riding-armour.

As he'd been wheeling his cart around one of the armoury's grenkep wagons, he'd heard a shout from behind him, and five madriel had thundered past, their knights sitting straight backed in their saddles, shouting encouragement to their steeds to spur them out across the great-bailey.

Maddock had looked about to see if he could find anyone who could tell him what was going on, but everyone seemed so busy he thought it best not to disturb them. Instead, he'd wheeled his cart on to the training-arena and had been surprised to find Cirric and four other Field-hands waiting for him inside. Each of them had been standing beside a full hand-cart of dung, small hand-shovels in their fists and looks of eager expectation on their faces.

"Close the gate behind you and stand over there," Cirric had ordered.

"What's going on?" Maddock had asked.

"No questions, boy," one of the Field-hands had replied. His name was Macus and he was a few years older, with a curly mass of pale hair, which made him look amiable enough, but Maddock knew that the boy had a surly streak to him.

He had looked about the hard packed earth of the arena as he wheeled his cart over to where Cirric had pointed, but there was no dung there to be cleared.

"So what's this all about..?"

"Now!" Cirric had shouted, and the missiles had begun to fly.

Maddock had not been expecting the initial barrage, but he was at least fast enough to avoid the worst of it, though some of the stinking shit had caught him on his shoulder as he leapt into cover behind his hand-cart.

The boys, in response, had wheeled to either side to flank him and continue their pelting. He had felt the wet dung pattering the ground around his feet as he scampered away. He'd managed to avoid the worst of their missiles for a while, but now he was sitting on his arse with no cover, and the five boys were reloading their hand-shovels, grinning and shouting encouragement at each other.

"He's down!"

"Have him!"

The new dung flew and he rolled clumsily, feeling something splatter on the back of his leg.