"We want more story," they bleated.

"Very well," Peter intoned, "For the children, it is Christmas..."

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The early light of dawn filtered through the shutters into the stuffy coolness of the palace chambers. Servants moved from window to window, throwing open the shutters to let in the early morning breeze; cool breath of a new morning dispelling the heavy atmosphere. Down in the garden, below the high rock of domes, towers and minarets, guards halted beside water basins from their turn-again, turn-again march of a hundred steps. They lapped eagerly at the clear, cool water. Wiping their grinning mouths upon their sleeves, they felt the tapping of friends upon their shoulders. Bowing smartly they then took a scrap of coloured cloth from their most welcome replacements and walked back to the barracks, relieved of their duty. A morning's luxurious sleep would follow.

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Further away in the plains surrounding the city, upon a stretch of land divided by a hill in the middle and flanked by a river, whose reeds rustled gently in the breeze, lay a modest army facing a village two miles distant. It was this force that Morish drew up beside, astride a war charger, mane thick with purple dye. Around him were arrayed four hundred men divided evenly into five groups. Two of archers, two of spearmen and closest to him a force of eighty cavalry. He nodded to a trumpeter, who gave a long, shattering blast. Like an army of jewelled insects, the mass of spearmen advanced up the plain towards a long, low hill. The two groups of archers then followed them, bows slung and peaked purple hats of silk rippling in the breeze. A second trumpet cry sounded, and two groups of five horses split from Morish's retinue, to gallop out to the flanks. They would act as scouts, ranging ahead and probing defences.

'Horat would not risk his men upon the plain under threat of arrow,' said Morish to a short, stocky man mounted beside him.

'Doubtless he has fortified the village overnight. He was ever a man of static defence. You may lose a few taking that, sir,' his attendant spoke, pointing upon his last words to a small village bound in by thick walls, that rose into view as they moved steadily up onto the brow of the hill.

'We can use the rocky basin of the old, dry river there as cover... rush them at the entrance to those stables there. Then leapfrog house to house,' Morish intoned, gesturing with his scimitar to each feature.

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It was not long before Morish's spearmen had left the hill and were half-way to the village, a mile distant. His archers halted upon the foot of the hill. Upon a wave of banners from both groups of scouts, Morish gestured to the trumpeter, who gave another loud blast. The spearmen stopped abruptly in perfect order.

'Commence the...' Morish began, but then choked in surprise.

Out of the deep mass of reeds on the riverbank came a thundering charge of cavalry, green banners splendid in the early morning sun. With a perfect synchronisation of movement it formed a wedge and bore down upon the flank of spearmen. The scout group of five horses were swallowed up in the charge, which having scattered the spearmen pounded up the hill, driving the archers apart into two stumbling masses, lost in the dust. The lead man of the charge, Horat himself, tore up the hill straight towards Morish. Behind the stampeding force lay a long curve of spearmen jogging out of the village to consolidate the ground taken in the surprise ambush. Morish squinted and braced himself for the blow as Horat's red, joyous face loomed large before him. A second later Morish was off his horse, doubled up in pain.

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'Call that a padded-tip spear, Horat? What did you use, a hunk of your mother's roast lamb?'

Horat, insulted by this jibe against his mother's beloved cooking, stuck out his tongue and waggled his ears.

Morish's attendant laughed, 'Stop playing the Rabadash, Horat! You should be gracious in victory!'

'And you two should be embarrassed,' Horat replied, 'The ease of which I turned your flank... you're not on top form today, my friends.'

Morish staggered to his feet, clutching his stomach. A livid bruise in the making. He glared at Horat. 'Don't you know that it is a capital offence to strike a superior officer, Horat?'

Horat swung down from his horse in an unnecessarily fancy dismount. His pointed beard gleamed with oil and a handsome scar split his upper lip. 'Which was the object of the exercise, was it not? Cut off the head of the chicken and the body is aimless, running without direction. I followed my prerogatives.'

'Come on now, Morish. How many times have you landed blows to Horat in exercise?' added his attendant.

'Thank you, Arketh... for reminding me. That eases... the pain no-end,' Morish grunted.

Arketh shrugged and turned to Horat. 'If I recall correctly, Horat, we we're supposed to do the attacking, you we're supposed to hold the village. What happened to that static defence, you so loved?'

'Ah, one cannot lounge around in the sun forever, like this fat puppy,' said Horat, pointing to Morish, grinning maniacally. 'The best form of defence is attack, said one of those barbarian's. I have ever been open to foreign influences... as have your purples, Morish!'

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As the vanquished army was helped to it's feet by the hands of laughing, green bannered men, Horat's voice rang out across the valley in a peel of long, joyous hilarity.

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The desk was covered in bundles of reports, missives and letters. Above it hung flickering oil lamps upon a chain of gold, that cast soft, shimmering shadows upon the walls. It was evening and the Tarkaan Sath sat pouring over the minutiae of running a small, yet successful province. His chamber was a modest one in size and rather spartan, but what furniture it contained was of a master craftsmanship. Upon the ochre-red painted walls hung large maps and several poetic paintings of Maricc. The feature that dominated the room however, apart from the large shuttered opening that led onto a balcony overlooking the gardens and the town, was a portrait of his late wife. She was diminutive looking, delicate but with an intelligent beauty about her. And her steady gaze informed all of the Tarkaan's letters and commands with a quiet but fierce will to live up to the opinion that she had of him, in happier times. Knocking him out of his deep concentration, there was a rap upon the chamber door.

'Yes?' asked Sath, not looking up from his jottings.

'It is I, Morish, my lord,' said a voice.

'Come in, Morish. Frankly I have had enough of deciphering our accounts for one day,' cried out Sath.

There was no sound as the panels slid back and as Morish stepped into the room in silk slippers.

'How do they stand, my lord?' asked Morish, drawing to a halt before the desk, arms clasped behind his back. His Tarkaan's willingness to go over the work of his accountants still surprised him, but then that surprise was ever one muted by admiration. A confusion of dedication always within him.

'Better than I would have liked, Morish,' sighed Sath, who then added, 'Sit down, Morish, for glory of Tash.'

'My apologies, master,' Morish mumbled and drew up a chair.

'Don't apologise, Morish. You look like you've been through the wars,' said Sath, shaking his head with concealed amusement.

'In a sense, I have, my lord. Today saw the stepping up of the training program. Our first large scale exercise.'

'That is welcome news. How did it go, Morish?'

'Not very well, my lord. I lost, I am afraid. I was caught unawares by an ambush,' replied the proud man, shaking his head sadly.

The Tarkaan pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. He loved Morish dearly, but was ever frustrated by his loyal officer's inability to see quite how well and completely he conducted his duty to him, nor how great an aid he was. 'I know Morish,' said Sath, smiling gently, 'I have read the report. I have also heard of your continuous reproaches of yourself. Be at peace, my friend. Have you not realised it is your rigorous training and instruction that has born a man capable of beating even yourself in battle? Do you not realise what a great accomplishment that is, to create officers of such quality? You were always regarded one of the greatest of strategists, Morish, how much does it really hurt to find a comrade capable of beating you in the field? How heavy a blow the knowledge of defeat?'

'Quite a painful hurt, my lord. Quite a heavy blow,' smiled Morish weakly, patting his stomach.

Sath smiled broadly. His army had trained well and was advanced to a point beyond his expectations. Such initiative and daring was rare in subordinate officers, and ones as intelligent as Horat, Arkath and Morish were almost unheard of in an army of their size. He made a mental note to award Horat for his innovation, before quickly remembering that Horat would have to be handled carefully as well, lest his victory be at the price of Morish's authority over him. Had not one of the poets said, 'Forget not the father, child. For though you outrun him in the flower of passionate youth, the reach of his rod is wide and the length and breadth of his wisdom so great, you shall never scale the boundaries.'

'Remember, Morish, Horat has won a battle. But the following weeks of training will make as a war, and you are not the man to let a fellow use the same trick twice with success. Let's see how Horat's talents play out tomorrow.'

'Thank you my lord, I will never let you down,' said Morish earnestly, bowing uncomfortably from a seated position.

'Apart from helping me to dismount, I hope. It would be a poor servant who left me to rot in my old age atop a horse,' said Sath in mock seriousness.

Morish was about to laugh and offer and gentle rejoinder, when a herald appeared at the door. He offered a bow, looking a little fearful in his youthful inexperience, evidently not having addressed the Tarkaan before. 'Forgive me, my lord Tarkaan, but an envoy of the Tisroc has arrived. The Tarkheena Zabina and three hundred guard. They are but a mile from the gate,' he rattled breathlessly in a barely broken voice.

'Thank you, my child,' spoke Sath softly. But within him was turmoil. He had expected a few more days grace, but this arrival, entirely lacking in manners coming so soon after its notice, struck him hard. As the herald excused himself Sath kicked his desk and nodded curtly to Morish, who stood smartly, bowed and left the room, closing the sliding panels of his chamber door behind him. Sath flung open the doors of his wardrobe and tried to force his artistic eye into operation. He had no idea what he should wear in front of a member of the Tisroc's family and cursing his lack of knowledge in the matter, pulled upon a rope to signal his chief retainer. The man held the advantage over him in such matters as the wisdom of sartorial conduct.