Theft Of Swords: The Riyria Revelations (27 page)

“Try again,” Mauvin said.

Hadrian tried a slightly more sophisticated move. This time he swung right and then pivoted left and cut upward toward Mauvin’s thigh. Mauvin moved with keen precision. He anticipated the feint and knocked the blade away once more.

“You fight like a street thug,” Mauvin commented.

“Because that’s what he is,” Royce assured them as he approached from the direction of the keep, “a big, dumb street thug. I once saw an old woman batter him senseless with a butter churn.” He shifted his attention to Hadrian. “
Now
what have you gotten yourself into? Looks like this kid will hand you a beating.”

Mauvin stiffened and glared at Royce. “I would remind you that I’m a count’s son, and as such, you will refer to me as
lord
, or at least
master
, but not
kid
.”

“Better watch out, Royce, or he’ll be after you next,” Hadrian said, moving around the circle, looking for an opening. He tried another attack but that, too, was blocked.

Mauvin moved in now with a rapid step. He caught Hadrian’s sword hilt-to-hilt, placed a leg behind him, and threw Hadrian to the ground.

“You’re too good for me,” Hadrian conceded as Mauvin held out a hand to help him to his feet.

“Try him again,” Royce shouted.

Hadrian gave him an irritated look and then noticed a young woman entering the courtyard. It was Lenare. She wore a long gown of soft gold, which nearly matched her hair. She was as lovely as her mother and walked over to join the group.

“Who is this?” she asked, motioning at Hadrian.

“Hadrian Blackwater,” he said with a bow.

“Well, Mr. Blackwater, it appears my brother has beaten you.”

“It would appear so,” Hadrian acknowledged, still dusting himself off.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of. My brother is a very accomplished swordsman—too accomplished, in fact. He has a nasty tendency to chase away any would-be suitors.”

“They are not worthy of you, Lenare,” Mauvin said.

“Try him again,” Royce repeated. There was a perceptible note of mischief in his voice.

“Shall we?” Mauvin asked politely with a bow.

“Oh, please do,” Lenare bade him, clapping her hands in delight. “Don’t be afraid. He won’t kill you. Father doesn’t like them to actually hurt anyone.”

With an evil smirk directed toward Royce, Hadrian turned to face Mauvin. This time he made no attempt to defend himself. He stood perfectly still, holding his blade low. His gaze was cool and he stared directly into Mauvin’s eyes.

“Put up a guard, you fool,” Mauvin told him. “At least
try
to defend yourself.”

Hadrian raised his sword slowly, more in response to Mauvin’s request than as a move to defend. Mauvin stepped in with a quick flick of his blade designed to set Hadrian off his footing. He then pivoted around behind the larger man and sought to trip him up once more. Hadrian, however, also pivoted and, swinging a leg, caught Mauvin behind the knees, dropping him to the dirt.

Mauvin looked curiously at Hadrian as he helped him to his feet. “Our street thug has some surprises, I see,” Mauvin muttered with a smile.

This time, Mauvin struck at Hadrian in a fast set of sweeping attacks, most of which never caught anything but air as
Hadrian avoided the strokes. Mauvin moved in a flurry, his blade traveling faster than the eye could follow. The steel rang now as Hadrian caught the strokes with his blade, parrying them aside.

“Mauvin, be careful!” Lenare shouted.

The battle rapidly escalated from friendly sparring to serious combat. The strokes moved faster, harder, and closer. The shrill ring of the blades began to echo off the courtyard walls. The grunts and curses became grimmer. The match went on for some time, the two fighting toe to toe. Suddenly Mauvin executed a brilliant maneuver. Feinting left, he swung right, following through the stroke and spinning fully around, exposing his back to Hadrian. Seeing his opponent vulnerable, Hadrian made the obvious riposte, but Mauvin miraculously caught his blade instinctively without seeing it. Pivoting again, Mauvin brought his own sword to Hadrian’s undefended side. Before he could finish the blow, however, Hadrian closed the distance between them and Mauvin’s swing ran behind the larger man’s back. Hadrian trapped the boy’s sword arm under his own and raised his sword to the boy’s throat. There was a gasp from Mauvin’s siblings. Royce simply chuckled with sinister relish. Releasing his grip, Hadrian set Mauvin free.

“How did you do that?” Mauvin asked. “I performed a flawless Vi’shin Flurry against you. It’s one of the most advanced maneuvers of the Tek’chin. No one has ever countered it before.”

Hadrian shrugged. “First time for everything.” He threw the sword back toward Fanen. It pierced the earth between the boy’s feet. Unlike the previous time, it dove in edge first, so the hilt did not swing.

With his eyes on Hadrian and an expression of awe on his
face, Denek turned to Royce and said, “That must have been an awfully wicked old lady and a big butter churn.”

“Alric?”

The prince had wandered into one of the castle storerooms and was sitting on the thick sill of a barrel-vaulted window, looking out at the western hills. The sound of his friend’s voice roused him from deep thoughts, and it was not until then that he realized he was crying.

“Sorry,” Mauvin said, “but Father’s been looking for you. The local nobles have started to arrive, and I think he wants you to talk to them.”

“It’s okay,” Alric said, wiping his cheeks and glancing longingly once more out the window at the setting sun. “I’ve been here longer than I thought. I guess I lost track of the time.”

“It’s easy to do in here.” Mauvin walked around the room and took a bottle of wine out of a crate. “Remember the night we snuck down here and drank three of these?”

Alric nodded. “I was really sick.”

“So was I, and yet we still managed to make the stag hunt the next day.”

“We couldn’t let anyone know we were drinking.”

“I thought I was going to die, and when we got back, it turned out Arista, Lenare, and Fanen had already turned us in the night before.”

“I remember.”

Mauvin studied his friend carefully. “You’ll make a good king, Alric. And I’m sure your father would be proud.”

Alric did not say anything for a moment. He picked up a bottle from the crate and felt its weight in his hand. “I’d better
get back. I have responsibilities now. I can’t hide down here drinking wine like the old days.”

“I suppose we could if you really wanted to.” Mauvin grinned devilishly.

Alric smiled and threw his arms around him. “You’re a good friend. I’m sorry we’ll never get to Percepliquis now.”

“It’s all right; besides, you never know. We might get there someday.”

As they left the storeroom, Alric dusted off his hands dirt that he had picked up from Mauvin’s back during their embrace. “Is Fanen getting so good now that he was able to put you in the dirt?”

“No, it was the thief you brought with you, the big one. Where did you find him? His skill at sword fighting is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s actually rather remarkable.”

“Really? Coming from a Pickering, that’s high praise indeed.”

“I’m afraid the Pickering legend won’t last long at this rate: Father loses to Percy Braga, and now I get thrown in the dirt by a common ruffian. How long will it be before we are being challenged for our land and title by the other nobles without fear?”

“If your father had his sword that day …” Alric paused. “Why didn’t your father have his sword?”

“Misplaced it,” Mauvin said. “He was certain it was in his room, but the next morning, it was gone. A steward found it later the same day laying somewhere strange.”

“Well, sword or no, I can tell you, Mauvin, I think your father is still the best swordsman in the kingdom.”

Royce, Hadrian, and Myron continued to enjoy the hospitality of the Pickerings with a hearty lunch as well as supper
served to them in the warm comfort of Ella’s kitchen. They spent most of the day napping, recovering lost sleep from the previous days. By nightfall, they were beginning to feel like themselves again.

Hadrian had a newfound shadow as Denek followed him wherever he went. After supper, Denek asked Hadrian, Royce, and Myron to come watch the marshaling of the troops from one of his favorite spots. The boy led them to the parapet above the main gate. From there, they could see both the grounds outside the castle and inside the courtyard without being underfoot.

Around early evening people began to arrive. Small groups of knights, barons, squires, soldiers, and village officials trickled in and formed camps outside the castle. Tall poles bearing the banners of various noble houses stood in the courtyard, signaling their presence in accordance with their sworn duty. By moonrise, eight standards and about three hundred men gathered in camps around bonfires. Their tents littered the hillside and extended throughout the orchards.

Vern, along with five other blacksmiths from various villages, worked late, sharing his forge and anvil. They were hammering out last-minute requests. The rest of the courtyard was equally active, with every lamp lit and each shop busy. Leatherworkers adjusted saddle stirrups and helms. Fletchers fashioned bundles of arrows, which they stacked like cord-wood against the stable wall. Woodcutters created large rectangular archer shields. Even the butchers and bakers worked hard, preparing sack meals from smoked meats, breads, onions, and turnips.

“The green one with the hammer on it is Lord Jerl’s banner,” Denek told them. The weather had turned sharply cold again, and his breath created a frosty fog. “I spent a summer at their estate two years ago. It’s right on the edge of the
Longwood Forest, and they love to hunt. They must have two dozen of the realm’s best hounds. It’s where I learned to shoot a bow. I bet you know how to shoot a bow real well, don’t you, Hadrian?”

“I’ve been known to hit the forest from the field on occasion.”

“I bet you could outshoot any of Jerl’s sons. He’s got six, and they all think they are the best marksmen in the province. My father never taught us archery. He said it didn’t make sense because we would never be fighting in ranks. He taught us to concentrate on the sword. Although I don’t know what good it will do me if I’m sent to a monastery. I’ll be stuck doing nothing but reading all day.”

“Actually, there is a great deal more than that to do in an abbey,” Myron explained, pulling the blanket around his shoulders tighter. “In spring, most of your time will be spent gardening, and in autumn, there is the harvest, preserving, and brewing. Even in winter, there is the mending and cleaning. Of course the bulk of your time is spent in prayer, either communal in the chapel or silently in the cloister. Then there is—”

“I think I’d rather be a foot soldier,” Denek sighed with a grimace. “Or maybe I could join you two and become a thief! It must be a wonderfully exciting life running all over the world, accomplishing dangerous missions for king and country.”

“You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” Hadrian muttered softly.

Below them, a single rider quickly approached the front gate.

“Isn’t that the banner of Essendon?” Royce asked, pointing to the falcon flag the rider carried.

“Yeah,” Denek said, surprised. “It’s the king’s standard. He’s a messenger from Medford.”