Tristan almost felt bad about fighting his trainee. Not quite bad enough to go easy on the boy, but he gave himself credit for considering it. Sam had a tendency to run his mouth and needed to be taught a lesson in humility, Tristan reasoned, and it might as well be by him.
It boiled his blood that he’d been assigned the two biggest outcasts for trainees. A trainee’s progress reflected on his Paladin; Tristan would be humiliated. Braeden was good enough, he supposed, but the boy was, well, what he was. And Sam’s mouth was bigger than his muscle. Maybe if Tristan showed no mercy, Sam would give up and quit.
“Paladin Lyons?”
“What?” he snapped.
“Aren’t we going to fight?” asked Sam.
Tristan frowned at him. “Are you so eager to lose?”
Sam spun his sword in a practiced motion. “That confident you’ll beat me?”
He almost laughed at the boy’s bravado. “Aye. Now drop the practice sword. When you practice with me, I want you to use a real blade.”
Sam’s mouth opened stupidly. “I get to use a real Center sword?”
Tristan rolled his eyes. “I’m not giving you a scimitar; it’s just your standard broadsword. Here.” He shoved a blade handle-first at the boy.
Sam cradled the sword like a woman would an infant child, rocking the blade this way and that so that the sun highlighted the fine workmanship of the steel.
“Are you crying?” asked Tristan, aghast.
Sam narrowed his green eyes, and Tristan swore he saw the glisten of tears. “No!” the boy sputtered.
Tristan pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand; the trainee was giving him a headache. “Alright, Sam, let’s get this over with. First to draw blood wins the match. Try not to embarrass yourself.”
Sam reddened, and his jaw took on a stubborn set. “I will, if you do the same.”
Tristan’s mouth twisted; he had had enough of the trainee’s disrespect. “Don’t talk that way to your betters, boy.”
The boy snorted--actually snorted.
A strangled sound left Tristan’s throat. “I’ll tell you what,” he said finally, after he’d calmed down enough to speak. “You win, and I’ll buy you a bloody scimitar myself. If I beat you in under a minute, you take a vow of silence for the rest of the week.”
The sneer left Sam’s face. “You mean it? I win, and you’ll give me a scimitar?”
“You heard me. Now, I assume you know the proper opening stance?”
Sam turned sideways, feet shoulder-width apart, his front foot slightly angled, sword extended in perfect form. At least the boy could do that much right. Tristan imitated his stance and nodded. “Begin.”
They circled each other warily, one foot crossing behind the other in an elegant grapevine. Sam’s eyes glowed with an unholy fury--the boy really thought he could win, didn’t he? Tristan had no tolerance for fools.
He leaped forward without warning, slashing with his sword. He aimed the tip of his blade at Sam’s thumb--he wanted to disarm the boy, not kill him. Before Tristan’s sword point hit flesh, Sam swung his blade, intercepting the attack with a resounding clang.
Tristan was too good a swordsman to be thrown off balance by the unexpected parry. He moved his sword in a counter-parry, then dropped into a crouch, hacking at the boy’s ankles. A cheap move, some might say, but in his book, etiquette had no place in fighting.
The trainee hopped over the blade with surprising grace and chopped diagonally at Tristan’s head. Three strands of gold floated into the breeze as he somersaulted out of the blade’s trajectory. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his right eye. Tristan blinked through the sting of salt. Shite. The boy might actually be decent.
Tristan vaulted onto his feet, launching directly into a series of quick, short slices. Sam blocked every swing.
Tristan felt the stirrings of excitement in his gut. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he had to work to win a fight. He was far from angry at this development; he was delighted. Sam’s speed and strength belied his smallish size--those scrawny arms of his were deceptive. The trainee was a different boy from the bumbling fool Tristan watched during the Trials.
Tristan allowed the fight to go on, enjoying the rarity of dueling an accomplished fighter. Their swords continued to parry and thrust, the conversation of the weapons carrying across the training yard.
They had gathered an audience now: the other trainees had abandoned their fights and stood idly by, watching them. Tristan frowned; he had let himself get carried away when he should be instructing.
Sam’s next swing was a touch too wide. Tristan seized the opportunity, and when they next crossed swords, the boy faltered. The collar of Sam’s tunic tore open, revealing a thin red line of blood.
“You lost, boy,” said Tristan.
The trainee fell to his knees, sword dropping to his feet. “Aye.” His expression bordered on devastated.
Tristan took pity on him; he had already begun to revise his opinion of the lad. He said, somewhat begrudgingly, “I fear I haven’t earned your silence. Well fought, Sam.” Sam nodded weakly and handed the fallen sword back to him.
Tristan spun around to face the rest of the trainees. “Did I say you could stop? I didn’t think so.” He pointed with his sword. “A thousand thrusts from all of you.”