The door burst open, and Sir Gavin spoke, out of breath. “Pompous man. Can’t be bothered, not even for a—” He stopped and looked Achan up and down, jaw hanging open as if he had remembered something important. He shook it off. “Good, you’re ready. I’ve entered you in the first round lists. If we don’t hurry, you’ll miss your chance.”
Achan held up the sword, eyes wide. “This belongs to you?”
Sir Gavin thumped Achan on the back. “Belongs to you now.”
“But, sir! I can’t possibly accept something so fine. I’ll be killed for it in my sleep.”
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.