wrong?” she asked.
There was no answer.
“Anyone?”
One of the new recruits raised his hand, and she nodded at him to speak.
“You won the match,” the recruit insisted. “If your sword had been steel, your first strike would have disabled Henrik’s sword arm. He would have dropped his sword.”
“Mayhap,” she conceded. “But maybe no. Henrik is a tough fighter. He would be bloodied, yes, but he judged the blow glancing, true?”
“Yes, Captain,” Henrik confirmed. “Though I’ll have a bruise to show for my troubles.”
In such a practice match it was up to each participant to determine whether or not he or she had received a disabling wound. Younger fighters would often overestimate their endurance and refuse to concede that they had been injured in a practice match; but she knew Henrik well enough to know that he was an honorable opponent. She had known from the moment she struck that it was a mere slash, and Henrik had agreed with her.
“So, again, what did I do wrong?”
“You were focused on a high strike, and let Henrik get under your guard,” Oluva said, after glancing around and seeing that no one else was willing to say what should have been obvious.
Captain Drakken nodded. “Precisely. I was thinking as a duelist. A short sword lacks range, but it is more maneuverable than a long sword. I’d deliberately left an opening for Henrik to take a high strike hoping to disarm him, but he ignored the trap and went for a gut strike instead.”
And if they had been fighting with steel swords, she would have been mortally wounded. Henrik would not have escaped unscathed, but he would have lived to fight another day.
“Let us try this again,” Drakken said.
She handily won the next bout, and in the third she managed to disarm Henrik using a move she had learned from a Selvarat officer. She demonstrated the move twice in slow time, and then demonstrated how to counter it.
Mopping the sweat from her face with a towel, she watched for a few moments as Lukas lined the guards up in two rows facing each other and had them practice the maneuver they had just seen. Then, with a final word to Lukas, she took her leave.
She had done well, she reflected, holding her own against a fighter who was barely half her age. Her aching ribs and the rising bruise on the back of her thigh proved that Henrik had not held any of his blows out of respect for her rank or age.
The bells chimed the noon hour as Captain Drakken left the courtyard, intending to return to the Guard Hall to wash up and make herself presentable in case the King summoned his council to hear Devlin’s report. As she reached the hall, she saw Solveig of Esker descending the steps.
“Captain Drakken, what good fortune. I was just looking for you,” Solveig said.
“How may I serve?” Captain Drakken asked. In public they maintained the facade that she and Solveig were mere acquaintances, and Captain Drakken was careful to treat Solveig with the formal respect due to one who would someday hold the title of Baroness. Only a trusted few knew that Solveig and Drakken were both among the inner circle of Devlin’s advisors.
Solveig waited until Captain Drakken had caught up to her. “What news of Devlin and his quest?” she asked, in low tones. “I expected him to wait upon the King, but was surprised that not even my own brother saw fit to bring me news.”
So she was not the only one who had grown impatient.
“There is no news yet, though I expect to hear of his arrival shortly. And I am certain Stephen will seek you out as soon as he may.”
Solveig’s eyes widened, and she clutched Drakken’s forearm. “But you are mistaken. Devlin is already in the city. He returned last night.”
Drakken swallowed hard. “Come,” she ordered, leading the way up the stairs into the Guard Hall. She did not speak another word until they had reached the sanctity of her own office and shut the door firmly behind them.
“What do you mean
There was no answer.
“Anyone?”
One of the new recruits raised his hand, and she nodded at him to speak.
“You won the match,” the recruit insisted. “If your sword had been steel, your first strike would have disabled Henrik’s sword arm. He would have dropped his sword.”
“Mayhap,” she conceded. “But maybe no. Henrik is a tough fighter. He would be bloodied, yes, but he judged the blow glancing, true?”
“Yes, Captain,” Henrik confirmed. “Though I’ll have a bruise to show for my troubles.”
In such a practice match it was up to each participant to determine whether or not he or she had received a disabling wound. Younger fighters would often overestimate their endurance and refuse to concede that they had been injured in a practice match; but she knew Henrik well enough to know that he was an honorable opponent. She had known from the moment she struck that it was a mere slash, and Henrik had agreed with her.
“So, again, what did I do wrong?”
“You were focused on a high strike, and let Henrik get under your guard,” Oluva said, after glancing around and seeing that no one else was willing to say what should have been obvious.
Captain Drakken nodded. “Precisely. I was thinking as a duelist. A short sword lacks range, but it is more maneuverable than a long sword. I’d deliberately left an opening for Henrik to take a high strike hoping to disarm him, but he ignored the trap and went for a gut strike instead.”
And if they had been fighting with steel swords, she would have been mortally wounded. Henrik would not have escaped unscathed, but he would have lived to fight another day.
“Let us try this again,” Drakken said.
She handily won the next bout, and in the third she managed to disarm Henrik using a move she had learned from a Selvarat officer. She demonstrated the move twice in slow time, and then demonstrated how to counter it.
Mopping the sweat from her face with a towel, she watched for a few moments as Lukas lined the guards up in two rows facing each other and had them practice the maneuver they had just seen. Then, with a final word to Lukas, she took her leave.
She had done well, she reflected, holding her own against a fighter who was barely half her age. Her aching ribs and the rising bruise on the back of her thigh proved that Henrik had not held any of his blows out of respect for her rank or age.
The bells chimed the noon hour as Captain Drakken left the courtyard, intending to return to the Guard Hall to wash up and make herself presentable in case the King summoned his council to hear Devlin’s report. As she reached the hall, she saw Solveig of Esker descending the steps.
“Captain Drakken, what good fortune. I was just looking for you,” Solveig said.
“How may I serve?” Captain Drakken asked. In public they maintained the facade that she and Solveig were mere acquaintances, and Captain Drakken was careful to treat Solveig with the formal respect due to one who would someday hold the title of Baroness. Only a trusted few knew that Solveig and Drakken were both among the inner circle of Devlin’s advisors.
Solveig waited until Captain Drakken had caught up to her. “What news of Devlin and his quest?” she asked, in low tones. “I expected him to wait upon the King, but was surprised that not even my own brother saw fit to bring me news.”
So she was not the only one who had grown impatient.
“There is no news yet, though I expect to hear of his arrival shortly. And I am certain Stephen will seek you out as soon as he may.”
Solveig’s eyes widened, and she clutched Drakken’s forearm. “But you are mistaken. Devlin is already in the city. He returned last night.”
Drakken swallowed hard. “Come,” she ordered, leading the way up the stairs into the Guard Hall. She did not speak another word until they had reached the sanctity of her own office and shut the door firmly behind them.
“What do you mean
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