First Rider's Call
Page 44

Some members of the light cavalry were currently using the arena to exercise their horses. Karigan shook her head, unable to imagine herself in the deep navy uniform and wearing a helm with a ridiculous red plume. Even if the Rider call released her, she had no desire to serve with a bunch of aristocrats, who during their escort duty of the remnant delegation spent their evenings in their tents, sipping brandy and being attended to by servants, while the delegation’s survivors—many exhausted and injured—slept fitfully on the bare ground.
No, she could not serve with a group for which she held so little respect.
She walked on, passing stables and more barracks, the parade field, and the quartermaster’s storehouses. All the while, the castle stood tall and imperious to her left. The castle was huge, and its grounds vast, once garrisoning hundreds upon hundreds of troops and other inhabitants. Those days were long ago, in less peaceful times.
Though the grounds were fairly quiet, she did find two men in sword combat practice on a field set aside for such training.
They raised puffs of dirt about their ankles as they scuffed around one of the small, worn practice rings. To Karigan’s surprise, they did not use simple wooden practice swords, but true edged steel blades. She paused to watch, transfixed.
One of the combatants was Arms Master Drent, unmistakable even from this distance. He was a huge hulking man who had something of the look of a groundmite about him, with thick features and hair cropped close to his skull. Mere mention of his name was enough to instill fear in the stoutest of trainees. Even after swordmasters finished training at the academy, they must face Drent if they wished to join the elite ranks of the Weapons. Drent oversaw one of their final cullings.
The arms master fought as fearsomely as he looked, and his size did nothing to slow him down. Blades blurred in a rapid cling clang of blows.
His opponent, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt that allowed free movement, did an admirable job of keeping up with Drent. His back was to her, but she could still admire his grace, and the shirt did nothing to conceal broad shoulders strong enough to block Drent’s blows. His footwork was pretty good, too.
Then Drent feinted, and drove his blade so swiftly and at such an angle that the trainee’s sword flew right out of his hand.
“Must I go back to basics with you?” Drent shouted. “How many times must I go over it?”
Karigan grimaced at Drent’s tone. It was severe enough to make anyone want to slink away into a dark corner and hide, yet his trainee didn’t even flinch, not even during the demeaning upbraiding that followed.
“Fastion,” Drent called, “I need your assistance for a moment.”
Karigan was surprised to see the Weapon emerge from the shadow of a nearby maple. Weapons excelled at hiding in shadows. The trainee must be a swordmaster he was mentoring.
Fastion and Drent exchanged some words she couldn’t quite make out, then Drent turned in Karigan’s direction.
“You there, come over here.”
It was like being struck by lightening, having Drent’s attention on her like that. She wanted to shrivel into her boots. When the trainee turned to look, too, she nearly fainted. The man whose physical form she’d been admiring was none other than King Zachary.
“I—”
“Come here now.”
One did not dare disobey a direct order from Drent of all people, unless they wanted a verbal flaying. Karigan’s legs trembled as she approached the practice ring and bowed to the king.
“Fastion’s job is to guard the king,” Drent explained, “and as he rightly pointed out, he can’t put his full attention to that duty if he’s practicing with the king. Therefore,” and Drent’s little eyes stabbed into her, “you shall help illustrate what is being done wrong, and how to correct it.”
Karigan glanced helplessly at Fastion, but the usually stone-faced Weapon gave her a tight smile and a wink—a wink!—before melding back into the shadow of the maple tree. She groaned inwardly.
The king passed her his longsword, his eyes glittering. The sword was hefty, much more so than what she was accustomed to. She adjusted her hold higher up on the grip to make it balance better, but she knew, even though her arm had mended well since the battle at the clearing, it would tire quickly.
“Now here’s what I want you to do,” Drent told Karigan. He wrapped his massive hand around her wrist and directed it in the movement of the feint and angle he had used against the king. Karigan licked her lips in concentration, trying to memorize the feel and motion of the technique.
“Got it?” Drent asked.
“Yes, sir, I think so.”
“You don’t think. Yes or no?”
Karigan just wanted to crawl away. “Yes.”
“Let’s try it then. You will attack me using that technique, but we’ll go slowly so the boy can see his mistake.”
Karigan was surprised by Drent’s disrespect, but it didn’t seem to faze the king. She did as instructed and went through the sequence of moves, Drent all the while explaining why the king’s block failed.
“You met the angle all wrong. Your sword was too high. Now let’s see what it looks like done correctly.”
Karigan and Drent went through the entire sequence, again slowly, but this time the arms master demonstrating the correct block.
“Got it?” he asked the king.
“Indeed,” the king said with a wry smile.
“Good. Then you show me. Girl, you will—”