Gambit of the Glass Crowns: Vol. I of epic fantasy The Sundered Kingdoms Trilogy by Ethan Risso Page A
Authors: Ethan Risso
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merchant boats from the capital of Gweliwch southward down the Āstellan River to Niseport, the swarthy town of brigands and whores, but also the trading hub of Helygen, at the mouth of the river.
As the son of the Duke, and grandson of the great Kedigor, Gawain was expected to be a prolific swordsman. Unfortunately, he was not particularly fond of swordplay as a child. Despite his lukewarm sentiment, he surpassed all expectations, including his own, and became a master in its arts before he was twenty. His excellence granted unto him the privilege to perfect his technique in a multitude of areas. His original inclination had been for archery.
“Never has there been a hero of old known for his skills with a bow,” Rhodric reminded him. “All carried a sword at their side and would sooner give up their cock than have their sword taken from them.”
Unable to sway his father’s opinion, Gawain relented. He should be thankful he allowed him to first train with a cruciform and not a broadsword. Never could he have borne the weight at such an age.
He remembered the cold, harsh mornings of winter when he would wake before the sun crept over the eastern mountains. Dark gray skies loomed overhead as he slowly walked to the training grounds. Arms burned and muscles cried out in pain as he spent the many hours of the day striking straw effigies with his blade. Only after he could strike with precision did his teacher allow him to partake in duels.
“One cannot simply swing his sword and pray for contact, master Gawain.” Ivor snatched the blade from his hand. “He must know where the blade will strike before he swings.” With a single, short motion, Ivor swung the blade within a breath of Gawain’s cheek.
Eyes wide, Gawain flinched.
Ivor gave him a swift swat on the head. “And the son of the duke does not cower like a maiden when his enemy attacks him!”
“Yes, Ivor.”
Father so respected Ivor for his skills with a blade, it was no shock when he appointed Ivor his second.
Now nearing his twenty-sixth year, Gawain was the most well-known swordsman in Gweliwch. His aptitude for swordsmanship, in addition to his skills as a leader, granted him a large regiment of his father’s men. It had been quite a struggle to garner such respect, however. The blood of his mother’s people kept his features far younger than his age. Gawain stroked his chin—the down on his cheeks had barely grown, the cause of much petty ridicule among his comrades growing up. Of course, they did not know the reason behind it. Where the populace of Gweliwch was concerned, he was a full-blooded Hume and had been raised as such.
It was not until he was in his tenth year that he discovered the truth about his mother. During the plague that affected the southern provinces, he became terrified that he would contract the illness, and he went to his father with his concerns. Rodric assured his son that there was no need to worry, but it was not until Gawain pressed the matter that his father finally told him why.
When Gawain was first born, Rodric was overjoyed with the arrival of a son. However, it was with sheer terror that he looked upon his son’s features. He was born with the unmistakable marks of Meïnir. In a fit of rage, he took his knife and carved the marks from the boy’s temples. It was purely out of good fortune the Meïnir blood that coursed through his veins protected him from the fatality of infection, but despite its regenerative capabilities, it was not strong enough to inhibit the scarring of his flesh.
It was through his apologetic story to his son that Rodric informed Gawain of his Meïnir heritage. He was quick to inform his son of the reasons for his secrecy. While they were significantly more tolerant of the Meïnir in the far south, the people of Gweliwch were not so open to outsiders amongst them. If he were ever to be found out, Rodric was not sure he could protect his son from the wolves. It had been easier to
As the son of the Duke, and grandson of the great Kedigor, Gawain was expected to be a prolific swordsman. Unfortunately, he was not particularly fond of swordplay as a child. Despite his lukewarm sentiment, he surpassed all expectations, including his own, and became a master in its arts before he was twenty. His excellence granted unto him the privilege to perfect his technique in a multitude of areas. His original inclination had been for archery.
“Never has there been a hero of old known for his skills with a bow,” Rhodric reminded him. “All carried a sword at their side and would sooner give up their cock than have their sword taken from them.”
Unable to sway his father’s opinion, Gawain relented. He should be thankful he allowed him to first train with a cruciform and not a broadsword. Never could he have borne the weight at such an age.
He remembered the cold, harsh mornings of winter when he would wake before the sun crept over the eastern mountains. Dark gray skies loomed overhead as he slowly walked to the training grounds. Arms burned and muscles cried out in pain as he spent the many hours of the day striking straw effigies with his blade. Only after he could strike with precision did his teacher allow him to partake in duels.
“One cannot simply swing his sword and pray for contact, master Gawain.” Ivor snatched the blade from his hand. “He must know where the blade will strike before he swings.” With a single, short motion, Ivor swung the blade within a breath of Gawain’s cheek.
Eyes wide, Gawain flinched.
Ivor gave him a swift swat on the head. “And the son of the duke does not cower like a maiden when his enemy attacks him!”
“Yes, Ivor.”
Father so respected Ivor for his skills with a blade, it was no shock when he appointed Ivor his second.
Now nearing his twenty-sixth year, Gawain was the most well-known swordsman in Gweliwch. His aptitude for swordsmanship, in addition to his skills as a leader, granted him a large regiment of his father’s men. It had been quite a struggle to garner such respect, however. The blood of his mother’s people kept his features far younger than his age. Gawain stroked his chin—the down on his cheeks had barely grown, the cause of much petty ridicule among his comrades growing up. Of course, they did not know the reason behind it. Where the populace of Gweliwch was concerned, he was a full-blooded Hume and had been raised as such.
It was not until he was in his tenth year that he discovered the truth about his mother. During the plague that affected the southern provinces, he became terrified that he would contract the illness, and he went to his father with his concerns. Rodric assured his son that there was no need to worry, but it was not until Gawain pressed the matter that his father finally told him why.
When Gawain was first born, Rodric was overjoyed with the arrival of a son. However, it was with sheer terror that he looked upon his son’s features. He was born with the unmistakable marks of Meïnir. In a fit of rage, he took his knife and carved the marks from the boy’s temples. It was purely out of good fortune the Meïnir blood that coursed through his veins protected him from the fatality of infection, but despite its regenerative capabilities, it was not strong enough to inhibit the scarring of his flesh.
It was through his apologetic story to his son that Rodric informed Gawain of his Meïnir heritage. He was quick to inform his son of the reasons for his secrecy. While they were significantly more tolerant of the Meïnir in the far south, the people of Gweliwch were not so open to outsiders amongst them. If he were ever to be found out, Rodric was not sure he could protect his son from the wolves. It had been easier to
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