Veradis flexed his shoulders, trying to readjust his chainmail shirt.  His skin was chafed raw even through the linen tunic underneath, made worse by the rhythm of his horse as he rode a dozen paces behind Nathair.

Should have worn it more often, he thought, but he had felt uncomfortable.  Only a handful of warriors had owned chainmail shirts in Ripa: his brother Krelis of course, as well as his father.  Also Alben, the fortress' weapons-master, and two or three of the local barons' sons.  The few times he had worn it in public he had felt different, set apart, and he'd had more than enough of that feeling already, without adding to it.  So the chainmail shirt had remained boxed in his room for the most part.

Nevertheless, he treasured it.  Mostly because Krelis had given it to him after his Long Night, the final seal on his warrior trial, when he had passed from boy to man, but also because of the truth in what his brother had told him.  Leather may turn a weak or glancing blow, but this will turn a strong one.  Treat it like a good friend.  And he had, taking it out every night from a wooden chest, oiling it, scouring it, then folding and putting it away again.

Aquilus had granted Nathair's request, allowing him to lead the warband sent to interrupt Lykos' meeting, the self-proclaimed king of the corsairs.  So Veradis had only slept two nights in Jerolin before climbing back into his saddle again.

He glanced over his shoulder.  He was riding near the head of a short column, three abreast, around four score of them, though only half of that number were Nathair's own recruits in his fledgling warband.  The others were picked from Aquilus' eagle-guard, insisted upon by Fidele, Nathair's mother.

Either side of him rode Nathair's followers: Rauca on his left, the third son of a local baron, likeable, easy natured and quick in the weapons court; on the other side Bos, son of one of Aquilus' eagle-guard.  He was thick necked, broad shouldered, with arms like knotted oak.

They had made good time travelling south of Jerolin, passing through leagues of undulating meadow splashed with patches of open woodland, and now, three nights out, Veradis spied the mountains that roughly marked the halfway point of their journey, rearing out of the land like the curved spine of a withered, crippled old man.

'Veradis,' Nathair called from up ahead.

Veradis touched his heels to his stallion's ribs and drew alongside Nathair.

'We have not yet had the conversation that I promised you,' Nathair said, glancing at Veradis with an easy smile.

'You have been busy, my lord,' Veradis said.

'Ah ah, none of that "my lord" talk.  Remember what I told you?'

'Apologies, my lo -' Veradis began, then closed his mouth.

Nathair chuckled.  'I am glad to have you in my warband.  There are not many of us yet, but it shall grow.'

'Aye.'

'And you, I hear, are the most skilled swordsman ever to come out of Ripa.  A most welcome member to my warband.'

Veradis snorted.  'Who...?'

'Your brother.  I spoke with him briefly, before he left.  He spoke very highly of you, and of your skills.'

'Oh,' Veradis breathed, a smile touching his mouth.

'Your father must be very proud.' Nathair said.

'Huh,' Veradis grunted.  He opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say.  'Aye,' he eventually mumbled.

'Krelis.  He is well liked.  Has it been difficult, growing up in his shadow?'

Veradis frowned, but said nothing.

'Forgive me if I pry,' Nathair said, 'only, it is a subject of interest to me.'