Kerin snorted. 'That there are – seventy-six of the vicious bastards at the last count.'
'You don't like white-eyes?'
'Hah! Boy, to me you're just a soldier – and right now, you're not even that. The best way to piss me off is to be touchy about what you are. You want to know why I call them vicious bastards? It's because they are. I could count on my fingers those white-eyes in the Guard who've spoken more words to me than you just have. General Lahk is the only one that's properly civilised, saving yourself perhaps, and the general broke another white-eye's neck with his bare hands a few years back.' There was a hint of a smile of Kerin's face as he spoke, the confidence of a man in his element. Isak §uspected even the white-eyes of the Guard, bastards or not, would follow the Swordmaster's orders without question.
‘ I’m keeping the others away from you because they'll want to get into it first chance there is. Like their pecking order, do our white-yes, and none of you can control your temper. If it starts, someone will die; that's why they'll be flogged if they even walk past you. Now, enough talk. Can you fight?' Isak nodded, biting back his frustration. Kerin seemed to be suggest Isak didn't even have much in common with other white-eyes -even amongst his own, would he still be an outsider?
'Good. Give him a staff, Swordmaster Cosep,' Kerin ordered a stout officer in Bahl's livery. The eagle on his chest was gold rather than the usual white, and Isak guessed that was the mark of a Swordmaster, the most skilled of all Parian soldiers. Kerin acted as if he were the highest-ranked among them; he must be high enough that he had no need of markings or livery.
Isak had not even managed to gauge the weight of the staff when a loud crack broke the air and a burst of pain flared in the side of his head. He stumbled forward, almost dropping his staff in the process. Cosep stepped smartly back as Isak staggered and winced. His vision went black for an instant, then he saw Cosep smiling, the Swordmas-ter's eyes angled to Kerin rather than Isak. Instinctively, Isak threw himself to the right as Kerin's staff flashed towards him again – this time it would have done more damage than just a clip round the ear. 'Come on, boy, at least try to defend yourself,' the Swordmaster called, sounding bored.
Isak took a step back to collect his wits, but Kerin was on him again, swinging a sloppy stroke at Isak's head, perhaps hoping to tease a reaction out of him. Instead, he almost lost his staff as Isak lashed out angrily at the oncoming weapon and smashed it away. That gave him the moment he needed and now he was on the attack. He struck out, again and again, and as Kerin stepped smoothly over a long swipe at his shins, he grinned at Isak's unexpected speed.
Now Isak held the staff like an axe, hands apart until he slid them together for a stroke, aware that his height and reach gave him the advantage. Kerin was chancing the odd blow, but was too sensible to go toe-to-toe with a white-eye. Isak felt the man watching his every step and movement, drinking in the details while watching for a flaw
to exploit.
For a man approaching fifty summers, Kerin moved with the speed of one of his pupils, diverting one strike over his head with apparent ease, then turning in behind a straight thrust with a delicate pirouette and jabbing backwards at Isak. Years of experience meant Kerin im- mediately dived away when he felt his blow meet nothing but air, but the pleased astonishment was plain on his face as he rolled and jumped up, staff ready to defend himself.
No blow came. Isak had stayed back, his staff loose in his hands and a smirk on his lips.
'You underestimate me, old man.'
'Hah, maybe you do have a sense of humour after all,' Kerin laughed. 'Let's see, shall we?'
Kerin darted forward, launching three quick strikes before retreatinga step. Isak obliged by moving up to attack, suddenly under assault from both sides as a staff from the crowd flicked out and slammed into the back of his knee. Isak gave a yelp as his leg buckled and stabbed down with his staff to avoid falling completely. Lunging forward as if he had a spear in his hands, Kerin caught Isak hard on the shoulder and knocked him backwards on to the muddy ground. Isak collapsed flat on his back, to the sound of chortling from the onlookers. He found himself blinking up at the grey clouds above.
The packed earth was cold and damp against his back and for a moment he felt like he was back in the street, surrounded by his father's cronies. As Isak collected his wits, a cold fury gripped him. He pulled himself up and found the staff lying at his side. Without thinking, he snatched it up and swung round savagely, taking his unknown assailant off his feet. There was a sickening snap as the ash staff connected, and then Isak tackled Kerin with short, controlled blows. The Swordmaster fell back, step by step, parrying each thrust. Then a stinging blow jarred the staff from his fingers.
Knowing he was beaten, Kerin ducked his head to take the final blow on his shoulder. He fell heavily and a shout went up from the watching men. They stepped forward protectively. Isak drew his staff back and readied himself to strike the first man who stepped within range. Seeing the look of murder on Isak's face, the men went for their swords.
'Stop! Get back.' Even from the ground, Kerin's voice commanded complete obedience among his men. 'You too, Krann, put up your weapon now.'
Isak spun around, staff raised, but faltered when he saw Kerin Kneeling on the ground, a trickle of blood running from his eyebrow.
The Swordmaster's staff lay forgotten on the floor as he clutched his shoulder.
‘All of you, put up your weapons.' Kerin dragged himself to his feet, wincing, and looked for Swordmaster Cosep and the third man,
another Swordmaster, who rolled on to his side and swore though gritted teeth, hands clamped around his right leg.
‘Damn. You two – get him to the surgeons.' The men nodded and bent
down to pick up the unfortunate Swordmaster. Putting an arm
around each of their necks, they gently slid their hands under the man's back and thighs, lifting him with as much care as they could. Isak watched them go and his anger fled. He let his quarterstaff fall
to the floor.
'I should have seen that coming. Well, I think we can assume you've been trained in weapons. Can you use a sword?' Kerin asked.
Isak nodded. 'I was taught by a sergeant of the Guard, he made me learn the forms – said I'd have to one day anyway.'
'And he was right. You were going to come and take the trials?' He gave a grim laugh that ended in a wince. 'Well, I think it's clear you would have passed. Now, Lord Bahl said to give you a sword until you get your own. A man of your rank should always wear one.' Kerin paused, as if considering something, then walked over to a bundle lying unminded on the ground. He retrieved it and unwrapped from a cloak the finest sword Isak had ever seen. It was a slender blade, an inch wide, with an ornate golden guard. The leather scabbard was a rich scarlet, bound with gold thread and lined with red-dyed raw
wool.
'Here, take this for the moment. It's rather more fitting to your
station than a cavalry blade from the armoury.'
Isak took the sword, drawing it halfway from the scabbard to inspect the blade. It looked old and worn, but it was still in fine condition. The metal was black-iron, ensorcelled steel that was both lighter and stronger that any other metal. The symbol of an eagle had been engraved near the hilt, outstretched in flight as on Bahl's personal
crest.
'Thank-' Isak's reply was cut short as one of the men watching gave a strangled cry of outrage. The Krann turned to look at him, a man of about thirty summers, obviously wealthy, with a scarlet sash draped over his shoulder and across his body; Isak saw that echoed in the dress of three or four others there. 'You have something to say, Sir Dirass?'