sat on the floor, in a full split, one leg straight ahead and one behind, while Ty held his position, his body bowing Henry’s blade. ‘This is really uncomfortable,’ Hal said just loud enough that those nearby could hear.
‘Embarrassing, really,’ said Ty.
The Master signalled for the two judges to join him and said, ‘Contestants, return to your positions.’
Ty held out his left hand and Henry took it, letting his op ponent pull him to his feet. ‘That looked painful,’ said Ty as he removed his helmet.
Removing his own helmet, Henry brushed his dark brown hair aside and winced. ‘You have no idea.’
As Henry reached him, Swordmaster Phillip said, ‘I’ve never seen a move like that before. What was it?’
‘Desperation,’ said Henry. Taking the offered towel, he dried his face. ‘He really is better than I am, you know that?’
‘Yes,’ said Phillip softly, ‘but not by much. And not enough for you not to contest. He may win, but so may you.’
‘What’s taking the judges so long?’
‘My guess is they’re arguing about right of way. Tyrone was still extended, so you had no right of way, even though he ran right up on your sword-point. I’d rule it a non-touch and make you do it over again.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ said Henry with a wince. ‘I think I’m going to need to see a healer if I ever want to have children.’
‘Probably just a muscle. Rest for a while and it will heal.’
‘I can feel my left leg is not what it should be, Swordmaster. It feels weaker than it ought to and if I push off, even a little, it hurts like demon fire.’
Phillip stepped back. ‘Try to lunge.’
Henry attempted a lunge just to Phillip’s right and lost his balance. Phillip caught him before he could collapse to the floor. He patted the young man on the shoulder affectionately, then said in a loud voice, ‘Masters of the Court!’
The three masters who had been taking council in the hall turned as one and the seniormost said, ‘What is it?’
‘We must withdraw.’
There was an audible groan of disappointment through the hall from the spectators as the Master of Ceremonies said, ‘Why do you withdraw?’
‘My young master is injured and unable to continue.’
Ty and his father crossed the floor. As they neared the judges, Ty said, ‘I can wait if young Lord Henry needs time to recover. An hour if needed, or perhaps tomorrow?’
Henry was limping visibly now. He shook his head. ‘No, good sir. I cannot continue and,’ he said with a wince, ‘I suspect I will not be at my best for a while.’ He smiled at his opponent. ‘Well won, young Hawkins.’ Lowering his voice he added, ‘You probably would have won in any event. You really are the best I have met.’
‘Fairly said,’ returned Ty, ‘and no one has ever pressed me as hard as you.’ He looked at the three judges, who nodded.
The Master of Ceremonies proclaimed, ‘As young Lord conDoin cannot continue we judge this match concluded. Hail the Champion of the Masters’ Court, Tyrone Hawkins!’
The crowd was obviously disappointed at the lack of a resolution by combat, but after a hesitant start, they cheered loudly. Even if the final touch was absent, the tourney had provided days of entertainment and the champion was without a doubt an exceptional swordsman.
When the applause died down, Ty said quietly, ‘This will come as a great relief to the King’s Master of Ceremonies, for to postpone the great gala would put the man into an apoplexy.’
Henry glanced over at the royal box where the King and his family had been watching the finals and saw a visible expression of relief on the Master of Ceremonies’ face as he moved to stand before the King.
‘Time to get your prize,’ Tal Hawkins told his son. To Henry he said, ‘Please, you must let me send a healer friend: he can get you right in a day or two. Those groin injuries are more than annoying; I know. If not treated quickly, they can linger for months,
‘Embarrassing, really,’ said Ty.
The Master signalled for the two judges to join him and said, ‘Contestants, return to your positions.’
Ty held out his left hand and Henry took it, letting his op ponent pull him to his feet. ‘That looked painful,’ said Ty as he removed his helmet.
Removing his own helmet, Henry brushed his dark brown hair aside and winced. ‘You have no idea.’
As Henry reached him, Swordmaster Phillip said, ‘I’ve never seen a move like that before. What was it?’
‘Desperation,’ said Henry. Taking the offered towel, he dried his face. ‘He really is better than I am, you know that?’
‘Yes,’ said Phillip softly, ‘but not by much. And not enough for you not to contest. He may win, but so may you.’
‘What’s taking the judges so long?’
‘My guess is they’re arguing about right of way. Tyrone was still extended, so you had no right of way, even though he ran right up on your sword-point. I’d rule it a non-touch and make you do it over again.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ said Henry with a wince. ‘I think I’m going to need to see a healer if I ever want to have children.’
‘Probably just a muscle. Rest for a while and it will heal.’
‘I can feel my left leg is not what it should be, Swordmaster. It feels weaker than it ought to and if I push off, even a little, it hurts like demon fire.’
Phillip stepped back. ‘Try to lunge.’
Henry attempted a lunge just to Phillip’s right and lost his balance. Phillip caught him before he could collapse to the floor. He patted the young man on the shoulder affectionately, then said in a loud voice, ‘Masters of the Court!’
The three masters who had been taking council in the hall turned as one and the seniormost said, ‘What is it?’
‘We must withdraw.’
There was an audible groan of disappointment through the hall from the spectators as the Master of Ceremonies said, ‘Why do you withdraw?’
‘My young master is injured and unable to continue.’
Ty and his father crossed the floor. As they neared the judges, Ty said, ‘I can wait if young Lord Henry needs time to recover. An hour if needed, or perhaps tomorrow?’
Henry was limping visibly now. He shook his head. ‘No, good sir. I cannot continue and,’ he said with a wince, ‘I suspect I will not be at my best for a while.’ He smiled at his opponent. ‘Well won, young Hawkins.’ Lowering his voice he added, ‘You probably would have won in any event. You really are the best I have met.’
‘Fairly said,’ returned Ty, ‘and no one has ever pressed me as hard as you.’ He looked at the three judges, who nodded.
The Master of Ceremonies proclaimed, ‘As young Lord conDoin cannot continue we judge this match concluded. Hail the Champion of the Masters’ Court, Tyrone Hawkins!’
The crowd was obviously disappointed at the lack of a resolution by combat, but after a hesitant start, they cheered loudly. Even if the final touch was absent, the tourney had provided days of entertainment and the champion was without a doubt an exceptional swordsman.
When the applause died down, Ty said quietly, ‘This will come as a great relief to the King’s Master of Ceremonies, for to postpone the great gala would put the man into an apoplexy.’
Henry glanced over at the royal box where the King and his family had been watching the finals and saw a visible expression of relief on the Master of Ceremonies’ face as he moved to stand before the King.
‘Time to get your prize,’ Tal Hawkins told his son. To Henry he said, ‘Please, you must let me send a healer friend: he can get you right in a day or two. Those groin injuries are more than annoying; I know. If not treated quickly, they can linger for months,
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