By Darkness Hid (16 page)

Sir Gavin’s eyes twinkled. “Then sleep lightly, Achan. This belonged to a dear friend. Take good care of it.”

“What’s it worth?”

Sir Gavin blew out a long breath. “Oh, I don’t know. Decent blade like this, minus the hilt, would go for at least thirty pieces of silver, maybe as much as two golds depending on the smith. Add ten to twenty golds for the stones, ivory, and workmanship. Then there’s the value to the family, which…Well, as far as you’re concerned, it’s priceless.”

The blood drained from Achan’s face. The most a paid laborer could hope to earn in a year was about two pieces of gold. He forced himself to ignore the value, though he knew that just wearing it in public would make him a target for every thief in Sitna.

“D-Does it have a n-name?” Achan had to stop thinking about it. No one would steal a sword on the prince’s coming-of-age day. Right?

“Well, of course it has a name, lad. All fine swords do.”

Achan waited, and when Sir Gavin remained silent, he asked, “What is it then?”

“What is it?” Sir Gavin frowned and stroked his beard-braid. “Eagan…Elk.”

“Eagan Elk?” What kind of a sword name was that?

“
Eagan’s
Elk.” Sir Gavin nodded and grinned, as if pleased with himself. He looked Achan up and down again, a far-off look in his eyes. “It suits you.”

Achan felt ridiculous. Who was he trying to fool dressed in finery and carrying a priceless sword? He raised the blade to middle guard. “Is this a longsword or a short sword?” The grip felt shorter than the blunt he’d been using, but the blade looked longer.

“Kind of somewhere in the middle.”

“But I should use it like a longsword, right?”

“Longsword is tomorrow. Today, I’ve entered you in the short sword and shield lists.”

Achan sucked in a sharp breath. “But I’ve never practiced with a shield!”

“Which means you’ll need this.” Sir Gavin fetched a round, badly beaten, wooden shield, edged in peeling brown leather, from the corner of the room. The same spiky fish was painted dead center, but much of the paint had faded and chipped away.

Well
, Achan thought,
I’ll likely die today anyhow. A shield will
make little difference
. “Sir Gavin, I don’t know how to use this.”

The knight sniffed long and slid the shield straps onto Achan’s forearm. “Aye. Probably should have gone over it. Probably should have started with the short sword and shield and saved the longsword for later. Probably should have called for Sir Caleb or done a thousand things differently.”

He waved the thought away. “Well, I did what I thought best. Just…hold the shield between you and your enemy. Keep your blade in middle guard, tucked behind the shield, see.” He moved Achan’s arms into position. “Make your cuts and thrusts around the shield. The shield is a weapon. Parry with it. Thrust it against your opponent’s sword or body. Watch your head and legs. They’ll be primary targets.”

It all sounded good in theory, but without practice Achan may as well try the joust. “How many squires have you trained, sir?”

“You’re my first.”

“What?”

Sir Gavin shrugged and held out a plain steel helmet. “I was busy. Now, off we go. Thank you, Wils.”

Wils bowed and departed. Achan struggled to sheath Eagan’s Elk one-handed. He failed and had to use his shield arm to hold the scabbard still. Once the sword was sheathed, he took the helmet and followed Sir Gavin to the stairs in a daze. The scabbard’s end clunked on the stairs behind him, and he pushed the pommel down to keep that from happening. Enamored with the jewels, he stumbled and decided now was not the time to be staring at anything but the ground in front of his feet.

They marched from the manor. Achan’s clothing weighed him down. He’d been watching squires practice as long as he could remember. They always fought terribly when they first wore armor. They could hardly walk, let alone wield their weapons. Achan gulped.

At the gate to the outer bailey, a knight passed wearing full plate armor and a helmet. Achan staggered about as he shoved his own helmet on his head. The inside was padded with stiff, worn wool. Sir Gavin had dressed him in antiques. The helmet had no visor, just a long slit for the eyes that hindered Achan’s peripheral vision. How was he supposed to fight with his vision impaired?

They walked over the drawbridge. The footsteps and the surrounding voices of the guests and guards sounded oddly muffled inside the helmet.

“I’ve negotiated a cow for you.”

Achan turned his whole head to find a limited view of Sir Gavin’s face.

“She’s sick, likely to die any day. When she goes, they’ll take her coat for leather. But instead of burning the carcass, they’ll give her to us.”

“What do we want with a diseased carcass?” Achan’s voice sounded hollow beneath the steel.

“You have to learn what it feels like to cut a man. You need flesh to practice on, to gauge the power needed to strike someone down in battle. A cow will be perfect.”

Achan was suddenly glad he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

They reached the eastern field where the tents began. Sitna manor was not big enough to house all the tournament guests. Only the highest nobles were staying in the keep. Everyone else had brought along their own tents. Achan would have preferred to stay in a tent to keep him close to the festivities.

Sir Gavin led him to a square pen with long wooden benches along each side, crowded with peasants, slaves, and strays. Nobility preferred the shaded grandstands on the other side of the grounds, where they could sit on pillows and have servants bring them trays of tea and tarts.

A herald paced along one end of the pen watching two squires circle each other, each armed with a short sword and shield. The smaller squire, dressed in black and white, wore no armor. He had grey skin and a puff of bushy black hair. He was quick and darted around the pen like a firefly. His opponent, stronger and slower, wore shabby gold and maroon over chain armor. His shield donned a familiar image of red grapes. Carmine. Achan had seen the neighboring city’s flags before.

The Carmine squire swung his sword hard. Too hard. It thwacked into his opponent’s shield again and again, more like swinging an axe than swordplay. Achan grew tired just watching. The grey squire circled carefully, letting his opponent tire. Carmine stumbled. In a blink, the grey squire rained two crippling blows, knocking the Carmine squire to the ground, and poised his blade above his opponent’s chest.

The herald called the match in Barth’s favor. Achan frowned and studied the grey squire closer. Barth was a city in Darkness.

The Carmine squire pulled off his helmet to reveal a shock of short brown hair, frizzing in all directions. His face appeared flushed with anger, then Achan realized he was only badly sunburned. He lumbered to his feet and climbed out of the pen as Sir Gavin approached it.

Achan’s heart pounded under all five layers of dress as Sir Gavin conversed with the herald. The sun beat down on his helmet, drawing sweat from his brow before he even lifted his sword. Would they let him compete? Would his animal surname cause a scene?

Sir Gavin stepped back, and the herald said, “Master Silvo Hamartano of Jaelport against Master Achan Cham of Sitna.”

A murmur rose in the crowd. Achan stiffened as heads turned toward him. His cheeks flushed under his helmet and he was thankful for the mask. He stepped over the wooden rail of the pen and waited, scanning the crowd for his opponent from the city in Darkness.

An olive-skinned squire wearing green and grey moved through the crowd with the grace of a dancer. He was about Achan’s size. He laid a hand on the rail and vaulted the fence with his legs to one side as simply as if he were yawning. He and Achan were now alone in the pen. The squire wore a hooded coat of chain under his green jerkin and stood with regal posture, his brown lips twisted up to one side. He looked to the herald. “Seriously? I’m to fight a stray?”

Achan stepped back to one side, drew his sword, and held his shield like the squire from Barth had. Were there rules to follow? What if Silvo struck him? Would the herald stop the match? Why hadn’t Sir Gavin explained—

“Begin!” The herald scurried out of the way.

Silvo charged, sword above his head, shield lax in his other hand, apparently believing a stray equaled zero skill.

Achan took the staggering blow to his shield, thankful the old wood didn’t crumble under the force. Achan couldn’t believe his good fortune. The overbearing move had left Silvo wide open for all kinds of trouble. Sir Gavin’s blunt had bruised Achan again and again for doing the same thing.

Achan stepped back and swung Eagan’s Elk around the shield. The blade grated against the arm of Silvo’s chain coat.

Silvo stumbled from the impact. Achan stepped around him and kicked him in the rear. Silvo crashed face first into the dusty red clay.

Laughter rumbled through the crowd. Achan leaped forward and pressed Eagan’s Elk against the back of Silvo’s neck. The crowd laughed harder, some applauded.

Achan fought the smile that wanted to claim his face. Silly, since no one could see under his helmet. He’d only won because of Silvo’s arrogance. The herald declared Achan the winner. Silvo jumped to his feet and fled as gracefully as he’d arrived.

Achan joined Sir Gavin outside the pen. The old knight smiled and winked his brown eye. Achan couldn’t believe it. He’d won a match! He’d had visions of humiliating defeat, not of actually wining. He stood tall beside Sir Gavin, feeling like it might actually be possible to carve a niche for himself in this place.

“What next?” Achan asked.

“We wait until you’re called again. Each event is single elimination. You lose, you’re done.” Sir Gavin patted Achan on the back. “We’ll stay here until you lose.”

They watched a few more matches, and Achan studied how the squires used their shields.

Then the herald’s voice called again. “Master Achan Cham of Sitna against Master Shung Noatak of Berland.”

Achan had to look up at his next opponent. Shung, a beast of a squire at six-foot-plus, was the hairiest man Achan had ever seen. Huge tendrils of black, frizzy braids hung long and loose around his head. Wide curly sideburns traced his jaw to a beardless chin. Even his shield was hairy—covered in coarse, black fur. It was a much smaller, hand-held shield called a buckler.

Shung grinned down on Achan, baring his yellow teeth. “You ready for Shung?”

Achan’s eyes stung, and he realized he was staring at the circle of carved bone that looped through Shung’s ear. “Aye.”

The herald’s voice started the match, but Achan and Shung remained still, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

“How old are you anyway?” Achan asked.

“Two and twenty.”

That explained it. “Shouldn’t you be a knight by now?”

Shung sidestepped. “In Berland, peasants can’t rise above rank of squire.”

Yet another city in Darkness. Achan stepped back and right. “What’s Darkness like?”

Shung cracked his neck. “Dark.” His long legs brought him within striking distance, and he swung his sword with immense power, screaming as he did.

Achan tensed, pushed his shield into the blow, and the force rattled his chain coat. He swung for Shung’s arm as he had with Silvo, but his opponent blocked the strike with the edge of his shield then cut for Achan’s legs with another piecing cry.

Forgetting his shield, Achan barely managed to parry with his sword, but Shung’s force drove his guard back and the blade nicked Achan’s shin.

He danced out of reach and tried to look as if he wasn’t hurt. The cut sent throbs of pain up his leg. Achan grew instantly frustrated. He didn’t know how to use a shield as well as Shung, let alone a sword. What was Sir Gavin thinking?

Shung crept nearer, and Achan put all his force behind his shield and rammed into his opponent. Wood, leather, and fur scraped against each other. Achan swung for Shung’s legs and met plate armor under his trousers.

Oh, well, that was fair. Where was Achan’s leg armor?

Shung’s sword came over the top of Achan’s shield and struck his helmet. Achan ducked back and swung Eagan’s Elk out blindly. It clattered uselessly against Shung’s shield.

Achan circled. “So, is Berland dark like twilight or dark like a moonless night?”

Shung came back with a downward cut from high guard, growling as he did. Achan parried with his shield, and Shung’s blade cleaved into the wood, stuck.

Achan spun to the side, hoping to rip the sword from Shung’s grip, but the sound of splintering wood sent him running as he realized he’d left his back unguarded. In the corner, he turned back to see Shung advancing.

“Dark like black,” Shung said.

For a long while, nothing but the muted crack of swords on shields, and Shung’s yelling, rang in Achan’s ears. He focused, his heart stampeding, his body sweating—partly from fear—but he breathed, he followed through, he moved his feet, and he made a point of glancing into Shung’s beetle-black eyes as much as possible.

And for some reason, he kept up the conversation. “So was that concerning? When Darkness came? Do you remember?”

Achan’s head suddenly filled with pressure, and he gleaned Shung’s desire to strike at his legs. The thought confused his actions, sending his feet hopping about awkwardly.

Shung easily drove him back against the fence. Their shields clunked together again. On a whim, Achan thought of the allown tree. The pressure, and Shung’s strategies, faded from his mind.