Alymere had known he was going to lose before they had traded more than a dozen blows. What he had not understood was that this in itself was the true test. Sometimes it was not how one won, but how one lost that revealed most about a man's character.
Alymere gritted his teeth against the pain as another blow rapped off his knuckles and his practice sword went spinning from his hand. It hit the dusty ground and rolled to a stop more than ten feet away. He clenched his fist, shaking his hand as his eyes darted toward the fallen weapon. The momentary distraction earned him a sharp jab with his opponent's sword in the stomach. The blow was hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Unbalanced, Alymere's feet scuffed the dirt as he stumbled back a step, trying desperately to get away from the next huge swing.
Instead of finishing the bout as he had every right to, his opponent inclined his head toward the fallen sword, allowing Alymere to retrieve it.
That stung more than the initial rap across the knuckles.
Alymere swallowed his pride and stooped to pick up the sword. His opponent's next blow nearly took the wooden blade straight back out of his hand again, but he managed to roll his wrist with the impact and cling onto it. His hand was numb from the cracks it had taken in the last few minutes and his knuckles were bloody.
They came together again, wooden swords clashing.
His opponent darted in, delivering three quick blows, the third of which nearly took his head from his shoulders. Alymere felt the displaced air rush over his face as the blade missed by nothing more than a whisker. His mind raced. Baptiste had drilled the need for a cool mind in combat into him over and over; fear, doubt, all served to undermine the fighter, and all were a more fearsome threat than the opponent's sword. A fighter had to keep his mind clear, to become one with the sword in his hand, transforming it into a natural extension of his arm.
He was too aware of the onlookers, too worried about the outcome of this fight. His mind, like his body, was on the back foot, reacting instead of acting. When he needed it most, all of the poise, all of his training abandoned him, the mocking voice of doubt filled his head with thoughts of failure and exile, of losing everything he had let himself hope for.
Raw instinct took over.
And for a few minutes more he matched his opponent blow for blow, but always fractionally too slow to work any sort of advantage. He was tiring quickly. Every new swing, block, thrust and parry drew on his dwindling reserves of strength. He was breathing hard, sweat running down his face and into his eyes. He blinked it away, but it stung nonetheless. His father's mail shirt weighed heavily on his shoulders, slowing him down.
The bystanders had stopped with their shouts of encouragement, or he had stopped hearing them.
"You're predictable," his opponent said matter-of-factly as they broke once again. They circled each other warily. The man, Alymere realised sickly, was barely out of breath. "Your body announces your intention whenever you so much as think about countering. You over-compensate, you lean, putting too much weight on your right foot. It's obvious if you know what to look for. It'll also get you killed." The man's wooden sword darted in, cracking off Alymere's shoulder. The impact forced several of the chain links into his skin. He felt blackness well up, threatening to drown him. He backed up a step, doing his best to shake it off, and brought his own sword to bear, aiming a scything swing at his opponent's skull. The wild swing was easily dealt with. It was never meant to connect. It was only meant to buy him a few precious moments of respite, and in that it succeeded. "You're quick, I'll give you that, but you're crude," the man said. There was no hint of mockery in his voice, but still Alymere flinched at the words. The words stung, but only because they were true. "You don't read my body, you're so intent on the sword, so you are always reacting and on the defensive, instead of watching my body, reading my intentions, predicting and countering accordingly. There's no doubt you've got some skill, but as I said, you're crude, and your mastery of the sword is lacking. In short, there is much yet you need to learn."
Alymere swallowed hard, his pride urging him on. "And you talk too much!" he said, throwing himself forward. He slashed at the air between them wildly, once, twice, three times. The man skipped away from the blunt sword, rocking back on his heel as the third swing whistled past his face.
Alymere had let himself get riled, and in turn had left himself exposed.
The man came on again, smiling this time.
Alymere grunted, expecting a blow to the chest, a jab or a thrust, something to take advantage of his imbalance, but instead, going against everything he could reasonably have anticipated, the man dropped to one knee as though ceding the bout.
Alymere hesitated, and his opponent whipped his sword around to crack off his ankle, bringing stunned tears to his eyes. Alymere threw himself to the ground, scrambling away before the wooden sword could smack down across his shoulders.
Another furious blow swept in, this one coming in high, with the blazing sun behind it. He mistimed the parry and took the full weight of the blow on his forearm.
This time, when the sparring sword went spinning away, his opponent offered no concession. He closed the gap between them quickly, reversing his blade to deliver a stinging rap across the side of the skull that left Alymere's ears ringing and his eyes watering.
"Enough!" someone bellowed from the side-lines. Alymere didn't recognise the voice. He sank to his knees gratefully and lowered his head.
The wooden sword lay in the dirt a few feet beyond his reach. Trying to focus on it, he shook his head. A wave of nausea rose up inside him, and the horizon canted treacherously, the world and his grasp on his place within it rushing away from him. He fell, reaching out blindly to catch himself, felt the welcoming impact, and tasted the dirt on his tongue. He lay still for a moment, trying desperately to gather his wits, then lifted his head.
He saw the man's back as he walked away from him, leaving him lying in the dirt, and felt impotent fury rise up like bile. Without thinking, Alymere leaned forward, scrambling in the dirt until his fist closed around the sparring sword, and surged to his feet, closing the gap between him and his opponent in five unsteady steps. Even as the crowd shouted out its warning he delivered a savage blow across the back of the unsuspecting man's shoulders, driving him down to his knees.
Before he could deliver the coup de grace, Bors came between them, crushing Alymere in a huge bear hug and forcing him to drop the practice sword. Others gathered around the fallen squire who had been his opponent, helping him.
Bors growled, "You will never do that again. Never. Do you understand me?"
Alymere was shaking. He stared down at his bloody knuckles, trying to understand what he had done.
"There are no answers there, lad," Bors said, his tone softening, but only slightly. "The king was watching, and half the knights of Camelot, and what you showed them was that you don't know when you're beaten. That makes you dangerous, lad. Courage is a good thing; spirit is a good thing. Being able to dig deep and fight on even when you're hopelessly outmatched is a good thing. There's no shame in being beaten by a better man. But listen to me now, because I may never say a more important thing to you: there's nothing but shame in striking an unarmed man, and from behind no less."
It was the disappointment in his voice that cut Alymere. It was worse by far than the anger. In defeat, Alymere had revealed more about himself and his nature than a hundred victories might have. He pulled his father's tabard off over his head and screwed it up in his fist. In less than a day he had brought shame to it, to his father, to Baptiste and to everything he held dear. He had let them all down. He lowered his head, unable to look Bors in the eye as he said, "I'm sorry."