Chapter 9

Chapter 9

“I was going to stop,” Winton told old Thomas. “You needn’t interfere.”

“Of course, my lord,” Thomas said, stepping out of their way once he’d ascertained that Lucan was lucid.

Lucan on his part was excited more than anything. Perhaps he’d finally be able to surprise his father with something good. He now had some hope for this spar as well. “Let’s continue,” he said, this time having his own motivation to begin the fight.

Winton grinned, stepping forward with his sword extended. “Improved a skill, did you, cousin?” he said. “I suppose you should thank me.”

I’ll thank you in the way you ought to be thanked, Lucan thought, keeping his guard up and circling his opponent slowly.

Winton showed surprising wisdom in staying cautious himself, not giving in to the temptation of pressing the attack again. Lucan could see his attention sharply focused on him, waiting for the smallest twitch of a muscle.

So Lucan gave it to him, he twitched a muscle and moved a sword. His feint was well-received as Winton moved in appropriate form to defend against an imaginary attack.

Lucan stepped in to take advantage, circling the air with his blade to turn his feint into a strike from another direction. Alarmed but not panicked, his opponent retracted his sword and took a step forward of his own, bringing them into close quarters, too close. Lucan’s sword wouldn’t be able to deliver a proper strike, and it gave Winton the ability to move his sword with a turn of his body, taking Lucan’s slash on the strong of his sword.

This close, combatants would have normally tried to draw their daggers and finish the deed before their opponent could do the same, or perhaps use their heavy gauntlets as a makeshift hammer to disorient their enemy.

In this case, both he and his cousin had to do with what was more reasonable. They both took a hand off their hilts, attempting to punch the other. In the end, their hands got entangled in a miniature wrestling match. Seeing no recourse in this, Lucan tried to maneuver his blade into a position appropriate for a slicing cut. But Winton surprised him with a kick to the gut, throwing him backwards, barely keeping himself on his feet.

Lucan raised his guard even as he felt a ball of pain in his gut. The pain receded quickly as his attention stayed on his cousin, who was looking for an opening to exploit. He tested Lucan’s defenses with a string of light strikes which he deflected with some difficulty.

Winton, smelling weakness, took small steps forward as his strikes became heavier and faster. Again, the difference of strength began to show itself as Lucan took the strikes on his blade, feeling the reverberations through his arms. There was no threat of his cousin breaking through a block or pushing away a parry, but it was making him wearier and wearier as their fight continued

“Of course, my lord.”

Winton snorted and sheathed his sword. “It’s my win.” He turned around and started walking back towards the keep’s entrance. Then he stopped suddenly, glancing back. “You know, cousin, it’s customary for the host to keep their guest company. Is that not written in your books?”

Lucan scowled, sheathing his own sword in shame. He’d lost in mock combat, and now he was being thrashed in mock courtesy too. He hurried to catch up to Winton, stepping up beside him and joining him on his walk.

His cousin stopped when they came upon the palisade’s gate. The downward slope from here made the bailey and some of the farmland in the distance visible.

Winton chuckled. “Even if you did become Lords. What would you Lord over? Two peasants and a cow?” He kept his mirth as he looked at Lucan. “Just something to ponder, cousin.”

Lucan grudgingly pondered it as he noticed new words in his vision.

Your Swordsmanship has leveled up.

...

That afternoon, Lucan and his father bid farewell to Lord Zesh and his unpleasant son. The Lord had gratefully refused the offer to spend the night in their keep, blaming urgent duties at home.

As Lucan stood with his father on the road near the Elder Sapling, seeing their relatives off, he found his eyes roaming over the relatively lacking farmlands around him, then his eyes turned to their humble bailey, small and ringed by a simple wooden palisade.

Perhaps he could do better than this. His father had been insistent that he begin assuming his responsibilities.

Fine, he would. But he wouldn’t be content with his lot.