'Master Kerin,' the nobleman began angrily, 'he's little more than a boy. Whatever his rank, he's certainly not worthy of carrying any Eagle-blade, let alone yours. Just because he bested you with a staff-It's an insult to those of us who've dedicated our lives to earning an Eagle. If my father were to hear of this-'
'If your father were to hear of this,' Kerin interjected quietly, ‘he would remember the oath he swore when he received his Eagle-blade,
and he would also remember that I am the one who commands the Swordmasters. Suzerain Certinse's rank does not give him authority over me, as you well know.'
'So because this boy can best you with a farmer's stick he deserves ne of our highest honours?' The knight's voice was thick with contempt as he moved forward to Kerin. Cosep stepped in between the two.
'That's too far, Certinse. You will apologise now and remember your place.' Swordmaster Cosep reached out to rest a hand on Sir Dirass's shoulder, but the man shrugged him off angrily.
'Apologise? My family is not in the habit of apologising to inferiors. I don't intend to set the precedent.'
'Your family,' retorted Kerin, 'seems to be more in the habit of running away with tails between legs, if recent history is anything to go on.'
Sir Dirass made a grab for his sword, but Cosep saw it coming and slammed his fist into the knight's shoulder. Dirass stumbled back with the point of Cosep's blade at his throat.
'Do you think you're ready for an Eagle then?' Kerin asked the enraged nobleman.
Sir Dirass blinked at the question. With a slow, wary movement, he nodded.
'Do you think the Krann to be unworthy of one?'
Another nod.
Well then; if you can take it off him, the sword is yours. I don't deserve it myself if my judgement is so wrong.'
‘Kerin,' roared Cosep before Sir Dirass could accept the challenge, 'this goes too far!'
Keep out of this. This is my blade, and my decision.' Kerin rounded on his colleague, pointing a warning finger at the Swordmaster who, after staring at Kerin for a moment, threw his hands up in disgust and withdrew.
‘Sir Dirass Certinse,' the Swordmaster said formally, 'if you accept this tesst and fail, you will never receive an Eagle. If you accept, you must
disarm the Krann to take your prize. Make no mistake, this is
a duel; we've had enough blood spilled already today. If you agree, fetch a shield and make ready.'
Kerin took a teardrop-shaped shield from one of the onlookers and walked over to Isak, who was not quite sure what was happening – other than what Kerin had said about the knight's family had upset him enough to make him draw on his unarmed superior. Kerin held out the shield.
'You want me to fight a duel for you?' Isak asked.
'It's not a duel; I think you're fast enough to avoid getting anything more than a nick if you pay attention.'
'With the mood he's in? And anyway, I've not been taught to use a sword like this – this is a nobleman's blade.'
'Dirass knows the rules well enough, he's sparred like this a hundred times. If he goes too far, I'll stop the fight and have him thrown in a cell, no matter who his father is.'
'And who is his father?'
'Suzerain Certinse of Tildek, but technically you outrank the man
now.'
Isak stepped back and frowned. This wasn't his battle, but the faces around him made it clear he had no choice. 'Fine, give me the shield,'
he said.
He took the curved wooden shield Kerin handed him and watched as his opponent slid his on so the point was up by his shoulder. He did the same, gripping the leather handle at the wide end tightly, and twisted his arm back and forward to get the feel of it. Reaching his left arm out as far as he could, he looked over his shoulder to check that the tip could not catch him, no matter how far he stretched out. The edge of the shield was bound in steel, roughly hammered into shape with the tip bent outward so it would be a danger only to his
opponent.
Now Isak tugged Kerin's beautiful blade clear of the sheath. It was perfectly balanced, that much he recognised, but he knew nothing oi duelling. He needed to see how this man moved. The knight had light and quick step that belied his bulky frame. He didn't enjoy height or reach, but he did have years of experience instead.
Something deep inside Isak wanted to charge the knight immedi- ately, but Carel had sliced and battered the young man often enough to curb that instinct. Not all of the scars on Isak's body were punishment from his father; some were down to Carel's incessant drilling-
Isak walked briskly up to Sir Dirass, wasting no time, and swung a clumsy overhand swipe at the knight. It was parried easily, but the knight wasn't going to be fooled into thinking Isak was a complete novice, no matter what he claimed. The Krann's second strike was
a thrust at the nobleman's leg; Sir Dirass struck back with two neat blows, which Isak just stepped back from.
Now the knight moved into his stride, giving Isak no time to get a
feel for the delicate weapon. Sir Dirass cut right and left, fast and
accurate, and turned aside every one of Isak's blows with practiced ease,stepping with the grace of a dancer. He used his shield as skilfully
as his sword. Now he almost clubbed the sword from Isak's hand with his shield, now he delicately flicked his own blade out to catch Isak off-guard, the in-drawn breaths of the onlookers testament to his skill. His eyes were red, blood-shot with rage, but his experience meant his anger added purpose to his movements rather than recklessness.
The knight stabbed forward, the edge of his sword running along the rim of Isak's shield, then stepped to one side and slashed at Isak's hamstring. His shield, held high, caught the downstroke of Isak's weapon as his own failed to reach.
Isak pulled his weapon back, then thrust fiercely, uncontrollably, and to everyone's surprise caught the knight's sword, twisting so for a moment the blades locked. Sir Dirass disengaged with a savage flick, then smashed his shield into Isak's shoulder. Falling backwards, Isak slammed his heels into the dirt and brought his own shield down as fast as he could. It wasn't fast enough to stop the sword flashing up past his groin, but the stroke missed.
A bellow from Kerin prevented a second: 'Certinse! I said disarm, not mortally wound him!'
Isak crouched on the ground, the knuckles of his right hand ground into the packed earth and his shield covering his body. He had managed to get his foot underneath his body in time to stop him falling flat on his back. Now he forced himself upright again.
Sir Dirass looked unashamed. He kept his sword low. His eyes never left Isak's.
‘That was a coward's chance,' growled Isak. 'Does that run in the family too?' A snort from the assembled men and Sir Dirass's furious glare told him the jibe had hit home. His opponent had a weakness. ‘Watch your mouth, white-eye.'
‘Or what? You'll run away? Hide behind your bitch-mother's skirt?' ‘Enough! This is over!' But Kerin's shout went ignored this time. Isak grinned as he felt a familiar growl of anger stir in his belly. The animal inside him was just warming up. This man needed a lesson.
'Come on then. If you want it, come and get it. Or are you just another example of your worthless family?'
With a howl, the knight threw himself forward, hacking savagely with his slender blade, any pretence of form now gone. The white-eye again suppressed the almost overwhelming urge to charge, instead contenting himself with warding off the blows while waiting for the opening he knew would come. The crowd moved to keep up with Isak's steady retreat.
The knight was beginning to tire now, and finally Isak launched his own attack. He might not have been trained to the rapier, but Isak was young, and immensely strong, and extremely fast. Now he used all that roaring power to direct a flurry of blows at Sir Dirass that stopped the knight in his tracks. His thrusts were clumsy, but they were fierce. Carel had been trained on the battlefield, and that was the way he'd taught Isak: momentum was cruciaclass="underline" the advancing infantry, the charging cavalry – theirs was the victory to take.