“Not bad,” he said approvingly. “Not bad at all.”
The prince continued advancing, sweeping low with the wooden practice sword, deflecting a thrust, spinning and attacking at shoulder height. His father gave ground slowly, parrying every blow. His face was expressionless, giving Relam no hints as to how well he was doing.
Determined to break through, he began recklessly combining attacks learned from Tar Agath, always driving forward, but constantly on the lookout for a retaliatory strike. His father continued to retreat, but never did it appear that Relam was on the verge of breaking through.
Relam lunged forward and spun as his father had, bringing his sword around at head height. His father parried easily, smiling grimly.
“Nice try, son. I wondered if you might try that.” He shoved at Relam’s blade, locking the hilts so they were straining against each other. “But I didn’t show you all of my tricks.”
He twisted his practice sword savagely, wrenching Relam’s sword downwards. The prince released his right-handed grip on the hilt and caught the falling sword with his left, executing a clumsy thrust to buy some time. His father evaded it easily, but it gave Relam time to switch back to his right hand.
“Impressive,” his father observed. “Skillfully done.” Then, in a flash of movement he lunged forward, feinted a thrust and spun. As Relam parried the blow, something hard caught around his ankle and his legs were swept out from under him. He fell heavily, his lungs emptying in a rush of air. He groaned and looked up to see his father smiling quizzically.
“Does that count as a victory?”
Relam nodded, wincing. “I’ll give you that one.” He sat up slowly and looked around. “What happened?”
“I took out your legs,” the king replied. “Same move as earlier, but I kept spinning and hooked your left ankle with my right leg while you were distracted with my blade.”
“No fair,” Relam muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. “You cheated.”
“I prefer to say that I out-thought you. Or, perhaps, that my superior experience allowed me to exploit a weakness in your defenses.”
Relam stumbled towards the water barrel, filled a cup to the brim and took a long drink. “And here I thought maybe I had learned something from Master Agath,” he said ruefully.
“Oh, you did,” his father said, grinning. “You fight very well for someone who has not passed the trials. Quite impressive, actually, what you were able to do in those few bouts. Now, how about I spend some time teaching and then we go at it a few more times?”
“Fine with me,” Relam replied, tossing the cup aside. “Anything to avoid embarrassing myself again.”
His father smiled and rested a hand on Relam’s shoulder. “You did not embarrass yourself. In fact, you performed admirably. I believe you might be a better fighter than I was at your age.” Then he grinned, shaking a finger at Relam. “But I am older, wiser-”
“Slower?” Relam asked impudently.
“In your dreams,” the king replied, eyes glinting with mirth. “Come on, let’s practice a few tricks that will help you on the trials next week.”
For the next two hours, Relam’s father put him through all manner of drills, demonstrating how to defeat opponents with deception, speed, and intelligence. First, the opponent had to be distracted by an obvious threat, such as the thrust the king had led off with earlier. Then, a quick follow up attack, putting the enemy off balance. Finally, an attack from an unexpected quarter, such as the leg sweep or a kick. Relam learned dozens of combinations of moves, flowing from stance to stance, always moving with speed and power and balance. He was constantly in awe of his father, who seemed able to attack from three or four directions at once. Sometimes, he would carry out three separate attacks, one with each arm and another with his dominant leg. Once, he ducked a sidearm cut from Relam, dropping to the ground, and kicked off, slashing with his sword and sweeping his feet around at hip and knee height. Relam hurled himself backwards, landing on his back, staring at his father. The king awkwardly got to his feet, favoring his left leg.
“Think I might have pulled something,” he muttered. “That used to be easy when I was younger.”
“That was incredible!” Relam exclaimed, sitting up and grinning. “Even in your supposedly diminished state.”
His father smiled. “Thank you, my son. Now, how about we have one last battle between the pair of us then call it a morning?”
“Deal,” Relam agreed. “But first, a rest and a drink.”
“Of course,” the king agreed.
As they walked to the lean-to, Relam realized he had yet to bring up the matter of Aven. The prince considered waiting a little longer, then crushed the thought ruthlessly. No, he would do it now, during their break. He would not delay any longer, lest he forget entirely or something else come up.
Relam filled two cups from the water barrel, handing the first off to his father. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you,” he began, sipping slowly.
“Oh? Something about the trials?”
“Not exactly,” Relam replied, frowning. “Actually, there’s a lot of things I wish we could talk about. But there’s one in particular that I need to resolve.”
“Ask away,” the king replied, drinking deeply.
“Do you remember Aven?” Relam asked, taking the plunge.
“Aven?” His father frowned, thinking, tapping his teeth with the rim of his cup. “The name is familiar. One of the palace staff, I believe?”
“Yes,” Relam said. “He’s my personal servant.”
“Ah, yes,” Orram said, remembering. “Younger boy, isn’t he? Serving you well?”
