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.
Interesting.
When they broke apart and circled again, Shung said, “Therion forest always dark. Briaroaks and snarespruce grow thick.” He adjusted his grip on his furry shield.
“Sounds painful.” Achan lunged forward and struck Shung’s wrist hard and fast.
Shung wore chain mittens, but the force of the blow caused him to drop his buckler. He backpedaled, using his sword two-handed to deflect Achan’s offense. “Only if you forget your handaxes.”
Achan didn’t know what handaxes were, so he focused on where Eagan’s Elk would strike next. Shung’s jerkin roused Achan’s interest. Black suede, fur, and dozens of dangling brown tails. “How many animals did you kill for that vest?”
Shung grunted and stabbed under Achan’s shield, into his hip. “Seven and thirty.”
Achan jumped back, stunned and furious that Shung did as well without his buckler. Achan needed much more practice with this ridiculous shield. He reminded himself that most squires had practiced daily for the past five or six years. Shung, closer to ten. Achan should be thankful to still have all four limbs.