“Beautiful work, isn’t it?” said Erius. “The eastern craftsmen stick closer to the old styles. There are weapons in the treasury vaults dating from the Hierophantic Era just like them. I captured these myself; they belonged to generals.”
He sat back and exchanged a wink with Korin. “I’ve one more gift to bestow, though I won’t take credit for thinking of it. Boys?”
Korin, Caliel, and Nikides left the hall and returned with a bulky cloth-wrapped bundle and Tobin’s standard pole. The banner was furled and muffled in white cloth.
Korin gave the bundle to his father’s page and grinned at Tobin. “Lord. Hylus sends his regards, coz.”
Erius rose and addressed the hall. “I’ve been gone a long time, and have a great deal of business to attend to now that I’m home. The first duty I’m pleased to discharge tonight regards my nephew here. Rise, Prince Tobin, and receive from my hand your new coat of arms: the might of Atyion married to the glory of Skala.”
Nikides unfurled the banner and the king opened the bundle and shook out a dagged silk surcoat, both worked with Tobin’s arms.
The arms shield was divided by a vertical impalement of red, which, together with the silver dragon crest at the top, proclaimed his royal blood. The left side showed the oak of Atyion in white on a black ground edged with silver silk. The right side of the shield bore the red dragon of Illior beneath the golden flame of Sakor on azure edged in white, his mother’s colors.
“They’re wonderful!” Tobin exclaimed. He’d almost forgotten the conversation he’d had with Hylus and Nikides. He shot Nikides a grateful look, suspecting he’d had something to do with this.
“It’s a brave device,” Erius told Tobin. “You must have your battle shield repainted and new tunics for your guard.”
Tobin dropped to one knee, holding the surcoat across his chest. “Thank you, Uncle. I am honored.”
The king ruffled his hair. “And now it’s time to pay the piper.”
“Uncle?”
“I’ve heard great things about this squire and you—I’d like to see for myself. Pair off with some of the others. Helms and hauberks, that will do. Squire Kirothius, fetch your master’s armor. Clear the floor, you minstrels, and we’ll have proper warrior’s entertainment.”
“You take on Garol, Ki,” Korin ordered. “Who’ll face Tobin?”
“I will, my prince,” Alben called out before anyone else could answer.
“Bastard!” Ki muttered. Any of the other boys might have gone easy on Tobin, let him make a good first showing for the king. But not jealous, proud Alben.
“Yes, let my son test your nephew!” called one of the nobles down the table This must be the famous Baron Alcenar, thought Tobin. The man was dark and handsome like his son, and looked just as arrogant.
Ki and Garol fought first. Taking their places, they saluted the king, then began to circle each other. The nobles pounded the tables and traded wagers.
The betting was all on Garol at first. He was older than Ki and more heavily muscled. The odds seemed justified at first, as he drove Ki back with a series of powerful opening swings. The two had sparred often enough to know each other’s tricks; Ki would have to win with speed and skill.
Working grimly, he blocked Garol’s blows and slowly began turning him, so as not to get trapped against the tables. It put Tobin in mind of the dancing lessons they’d had with Arengil and Una. Ki might be the one backing up, but he was the leader, making Garol open his guard as he was forced to follow his retreating foe. Tobin grinned, guessing what Ki was up to. Garol’s greatest weakness was impatience.
Sure enough, the older boy quickly tired of the chase and sprung at Ki, nearly knocking him over. Quick as a snake, Ki spun on his heel, ducked under Garol’s arm, and smacked him across the back of the neck with the flat of his blade, knocking him on his face. Everyone heard the hiss of his blade across the mail coif; it would have been a killing blow. Arengil had taught them that move.
The audience bellowed and hooted as gold changed hands. Ki helped Garol up and threw an arm around his shoulders, steadying him. Garol rubbed ruefully at his neck, looking a little dazed.
Then it was Tobin’s turn. He was already nervous, and didn’t like the smirk Alben exchanged with Urmanis as he took his place. As much as he disliked Alben, Tobin knew better than to underestimate him; he was a strong, cunning fighter and could be counted on to do anything to win. Rolling his shoulders and flexing his arms to settle the heavy mail shirt more comfortably, Tobin took his place.
When they’d saluted the king, Alben struck a defensive stance and waited, forcing Tobin to make the first move or appear a fool. It was a calculated strategy, and Tobin narrowly missed getting a belly stroke when Alben sidestepped his first feint. It unbalanced him and Alben pressed the advantage with a quick series of punishing swings. Tobin danced and ducked, but still caught a ringing blow across the top of his helm that nearly knocked him to his knees. He recovered just in time to turn a swing, and the tip of his blade caught Alben in the face, sliding across the coif to nick him on the cheek.
Alben swore and redoubled his assault, but Tobin’s blood was up now, too. He would not be shamed in front of the king, or in his own hall.
“For Atyion!” he cried, and heard the challenge echoed in a deafening chorus at the lower tables. Chained at the far end of the hall, the castle hounds bayed and howled. The cacophony lifted Tobin on wings of fire. His sword felt as light as a dry stick in his hands.
After that, all he knew was the clash of steel and his opponent’s ragged breathing as they battered each other around the floor, toiling like harvest threshers with the sweat burning their eyes and soaking the tunics under their hauberks.
Hoping to lure Alben into a fatal overreach, Tobin stepped back, but caught his heel on something and fell on his back. Alben was on him in an instant. Tobin still had his sword but Alben trapped his wrist under his foot and raised his blade for the killing stroke. Pinned, Tobin saw that Alben’s blade wasn’t turned; if he struck, it would take him edge on, breaking bones or worse.
Just then two hissing, yowling streaks shot from beneath the nearest table and ran between Alben’s legs. Startled, he rocked off-balance just enough for Tobin to wrench his arm free and bring his blade up, leveling it at his opponent’s face, the tip just inches from Alben’s left eye. Alben flailed with his arms, trying not to pitch forward, and Tobin hooked his legs out from under him with one foot. The other boy toppled back and Tobin scrambled up to straddle him. Yanking back Alben’s coif, he pressed the edge of his blade to his throat.
Alben glared up at him, eyes burning with pure malice.
Why do you hate me? Tobin wondered. Then Ki and the other Companions were pulling him to his feet and thumping him on the back. Urmanis and Mago tried to help Alben up, but he shook them off. Making Tobin a mocking salute, he stalked back to the table.
Looking around, Tobin found Ringtail innocently washing his face under the head table.
“Well done!” the king cried. “By the Flame, you’re both as good as Porion claims!” Unfastening the golden brooch from the throat of his tunic, he tossed it to Ki. The startled boy caught it, then pressed it to his heart and fell to one knee. Erius presented Tobin with his gold-hilted dagger.
“Now then, let’s see the rest of you at it. Korin and Caliel, you first, and show me that you haven’t forgotten what I taught you!”
Korin won his match, of course. Tobin was certain he saw Caliel drop his defense at least once, letting Korin score a hit. The rest of the boys fought hard and Lutha earned special praise for winning his bout after Quirion broke his little finger in the first assault. Tobin paired with Nikides, and made certain his friend got in a few good hits before Tobin dispatched him.