Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy by Ethan Risso
Authors: Ethan Risso
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child.
After the pugilist rounds finished and the winner, a muscle-bound giant from Helygen, given his laurels, it was time for the swordsman competition. A young boy ran out onto the field with a broom and swept up the dirt, turning over the bloody loam until it looked smooth once more.
She glanced back in the high king’s direction to see Connor’s face turn pale as parchment. Without giving notice, he stood from his seat and left the royal box, his hand on his chest. Not giving it further thought, she turned her attentions back to the field.
Far faster than Bronwen expected, the three dozen swordsmen who entered the competition whittled down to four men. The first pair was a Gwelian solider, Caden, outfitted in full Gwelian regalia against a serf from Ealdorman Allt. The serf’s armor was decidedly less impressive—home-hewn leathers with brass tacks. Caden won without incident.
“Now, the final round of the swordsmanship games!” the announcer called from the field. “To be fought by Caden of Gweliwch and Gawain of Gweliwch.”
This match did not seem altogether fair to Bronwen. Whoever won, Gweliwch still claimed the honor of best sword arm in Dweömer.
In a chivalrous manner, they stood fifteen paces apart. For fairness, each was given a five-hand width round shield and a cruciform sword. When readied, they touched cruciform tips in salutation. Their swords clashed before each jumped back and shuffled in the circle, eyes locked on his opponent. Bronwen was impressed. Gawain was dangerously graceful and clearly well-trained, precise in every move. Caden, while a Gwelian-bred soldier, seemed awkward, even fearful. Did he fear injuring his duke’s son?
If fearful, Caden did not lack courage. He rushed forward with a tremulous yell. As his boots kicked up the bloodied dirt clods and gravel, he swung in a chest-level forward arc. Gawain did not even bother to evade the attack. He slammed his round shield toward the blow and deflected Caden’s sword. Before Caden could recover, Gawain let loose with a flurry of blows. Bronwen had never seen anyone as accomplished with a sword as unwieldy as the cruciform.
Caden stumbled, holding his shield in front of him and struggling to regain an offensive stance. He was driven backward, giving ground steadily under Gawain’s thunderous onslaught. He finally lost his footing and tumbled to the side, his sword flying into the air.
Bronwen watched as Caden lie flat on his back, stunned for several moments. He lifted his head and prepared to stand, only to find the tip of Gawain’s sword at his throat.
“Yield!” Gawain cried out.
Caden managed a clumsy nod, and Gawain offered him his right hand. He pulled Caden up with ease and sheathed his sword.
Gawain was unaccustomed to the luxury of sleeping past daybreak. It had been many years since he basked in the warmth of the bed clothes while the sun’s gentle light filtered into his quarters. His training as a warrior began when he was barely strong enough to hold the blunt sword. He woke before dawn and trained until the sun hung low in the sky, just as his forebears had for generations past.
Gweliwch was born of the bloody war waged between the Humes and Gethin in the last age. Once the war had concluded, they carved their outpost in the snow-covered mountains. Rather than traverse the entirety of Dweömer to Cærwyn, only to be forced to return to the north upon the break of another invasion, the warriors were ordered to stay at the outpost by the high king, who granted the military general, Gawain’s grandfather Kedigor, the title of Duke. It was not until High King Alric II took the throne that Gweliwch was established as a formal province and dukedom in its own right.
Under the rule of his father, Gweliwch had garnered much respect for itself as it excelled at trading furs from the colder climates of the north, as well as rare minerals and gems from the eastern mines. The treasures traveled in a fleet of
After the pugilist rounds finished and the winner, a muscle-bound giant from Helygen, given his laurels, it was time for the swordsman competition. A young boy ran out onto the field with a broom and swept up the dirt, turning over the bloody loam until it looked smooth once more.
She glanced back in the high king’s direction to see Connor’s face turn pale as parchment. Without giving notice, he stood from his seat and left the royal box, his hand on his chest. Not giving it further thought, she turned her attentions back to the field.
Far faster than Bronwen expected, the three dozen swordsmen who entered the competition whittled down to four men. The first pair was a Gwelian solider, Caden, outfitted in full Gwelian regalia against a serf from Ealdorman Allt. The serf’s armor was decidedly less impressive—home-hewn leathers with brass tacks. Caden won without incident.
“Now, the final round of the swordsmanship games!” the announcer called from the field. “To be fought by Caden of Gweliwch and Gawain of Gweliwch.”
This match did not seem altogether fair to Bronwen. Whoever won, Gweliwch still claimed the honor of best sword arm in Dweömer.
In a chivalrous manner, they stood fifteen paces apart. For fairness, each was given a five-hand width round shield and a cruciform sword. When readied, they touched cruciform tips in salutation. Their swords clashed before each jumped back and shuffled in the circle, eyes locked on his opponent. Bronwen was impressed. Gawain was dangerously graceful and clearly well-trained, precise in every move. Caden, while a Gwelian-bred soldier, seemed awkward, even fearful. Did he fear injuring his duke’s son?
If fearful, Caden did not lack courage. He rushed forward with a tremulous yell. As his boots kicked up the bloodied dirt clods and gravel, he swung in a chest-level forward arc. Gawain did not even bother to evade the attack. He slammed his round shield toward the blow and deflected Caden’s sword. Before Caden could recover, Gawain let loose with a flurry of blows. Bronwen had never seen anyone as accomplished with a sword as unwieldy as the cruciform.
Caden stumbled, holding his shield in front of him and struggling to regain an offensive stance. He was driven backward, giving ground steadily under Gawain’s thunderous onslaught. He finally lost his footing and tumbled to the side, his sword flying into the air.
Bronwen watched as Caden lie flat on his back, stunned for several moments. He lifted his head and prepared to stand, only to find the tip of Gawain’s sword at his throat.
“Yield!” Gawain cried out.
Caden managed a clumsy nod, and Gawain offered him his right hand. He pulled Caden up with ease and sheathed his sword.
Gawain was unaccustomed to the luxury of sleeping past daybreak. It had been many years since he basked in the warmth of the bed clothes while the sun’s gentle light filtered into his quarters. His training as a warrior began when he was barely strong enough to hold the blunt sword. He woke before dawn and trained until the sun hung low in the sky, just as his forebears had for generations past.
Gweliwch was born of the bloody war waged between the Humes and Gethin in the last age. Once the war had concluded, they carved their outpost in the snow-covered mountains. Rather than traverse the entirety of Dweömer to Cærwyn, only to be forced to return to the north upon the break of another invasion, the warriors were ordered to stay at the outpost by the high king, who granted the military general, Gawain’s grandfather Kedigor, the title of Duke. It was not until High King Alric II took the throne that Gweliwch was established as a formal province and dukedom in its own right.
Under the rule of his father, Gweliwch had garnered much respect for itself as it excelled at trading furs from the colder climates of the north, as well as rare minerals and gems from the eastern mines. The treasures traveled in a fleet of
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