“Lovely,” Relam muttered. “I hate surprises.”
“You’ll have to put up with this one,” his father said with an air of finality. “Now,” he added, pushing his chair back. “How about some practice bouts? See how ready you really are for the trials.”
“Ready when you are,” Relam said eagerly, rising. In his haste, he forgot he was wearing his sword. The scabbard had slipped between the arm and seat of the chair, and as Relam stood it caught, tripping him up. The young prince flailed, off balance, and tipped the chair over with a crash. He struggled with the scabbard for a moment longer, finally freeing it, then straightened nonchalantly, looking back at his parents. They were both barely controlling smiles.
“Not a great start,” his father observed drily. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Be careful,” Relam’s mother called from where she still sat at the table. Relam waved in acknowledgement, then followed his father out the door.
The young prince had to hurry to keep up with the king. Orram was taking long eager strides, slowing for nothing. His boots rang on the stone floors, the noise echoing up and down the mostly empty corridors.
“You’re in a hurry,” Relam panted as he drew level with his father.
“No time to waste,” he replied brusquely, turning left and nearly flattening Relam in the process. “Let’s see, another right coming up . . . and here we are!”
They emerged onto the training field Aven and Relam had used the previous day. Everything was just as they had left it, the equipment stacked neatly in the lean-to, a single, solitary target at the far end of the field.
“What’s that target for?” his father asked, frowning.
Relam froze midstride and stumbled. Of course! There was no reason for him to have a target out for sword practice. Why hadn’t he put it away the previous day? And what excuse could he use to deflect suspicion?
“Ahh . . . . . knife throwing,” Relam said finally, wincing slightly. The excuse sounded foolish leaving his mouth.
“Knife throwing? I didn’t know you knew how,” his father said curiously.
“Master Agath showed me. I’m not very good yet,” he added as an afterthought, in case his father asked for a demonstration. He’d have to remember to mention this to Tar Agath, just in case his father asked.
“Hrmph. Never mind. Are you ready?” the king drew his sword and stood at the ready.
“Against each other? With sharpened blades?” Relam asked. “Hardly seems safe.”
“How else?”
“We usually use practice swords,” Relam replied, glancing at the lean-to. “That keeps us from accidentally lopping each other’s limbs off.”
“What is the world coming to?” the king muttered, sheathing his sword. “Very well, we’ll try it your way.”
Relam breathed out a sigh of relief and ducked into the low shelter, scooping up two practice swords. He tossed one to his father, then set his real sword to one side. There was no reason to have the extra weight hanging from his hip.
“Balance is a little off,” his father muttered as he swung his own wooden sword experimentally.
“It won’t be perfect,” Relam admitted. “But it’s a pretty fair approximation of the real thing.”
“I like my sword better,” Orram sighed as he set his usual blade next to Relam’s. The two swords gleamed dully in the gray morning light.
“Ready?” Relam asked quietly, adopting a ready stance.
His father spun the practice sword experimentally. “Ready.”
Relam stood motionless, waiting, watching for the first movement from his father. The king stood a few meters away, staring back impassively, practice sword at the ready.
The young prince began circling nervously. His father matched him step for step, advancing slightly as well so that the circle they traced grew smaller and smaller.
The circle shrunk until they were two meters apart. Relam gripped the hilt of his practice sword tighter, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Then, like lightning, the attack came.
The king stepped forward and thrust at Relam. Even as the young prince reacted, the blade had withdrawn. Orram spun quickly and struck again, from the opposite direction. Relam parried awkwardly, and a loud THOCK! echoed through the courtyard as the wooden blades collided. Relam winced as shockwaves ran up his arms, and quickly backed away, stunned by the speed and power of the attack.
His father came after him, leading with an overhead cut this time, then switching to a devastating backhand in a blur of wood. Relam parried again, but nearly lost his grip on his drill sword. He realized that playing defense was not a winning strategy against his father.
Instead of backing away, Relam stepped forward, hoping to slip past his father’s sword. He feinted an overhead cut and tried for a thrust. But his father avoided both easily. His free hand snaked out and caught Relam’s wrist, pushing it and the wooden sword away. Then, his own blade came up to rest on Relam’s collarbone, ending the bout.
“Not bad,” the king allowed, smiling slightly. “But it seems I still have it.”
“Not bad? I got slaughtered!” Relam replied, backing away and flexing his fingers around the hilt of his drill sword. “You nearly had me on the first blow.”
“You’d be surprised how many fights can be won in a couple of quick moves,” the king replied. “That particular trick won me many fights when I was a cadet. There are several variations too, depending on how your opponent reacts.”
“Could be useful,” Relam observed. “Care to teach me?”
“Not yet,” his father replied, smiling. “Let’s see what you’re capable of first. Go to!”
Relam sprang back as his father’s practice sword darted out, then swept his own sword around and batted it to one side. Rather than try and bring the sword back to its original position, the king went with
