It was, in theory, a good idea. Damen and the Veretian soldiers were proponents of different styles, and there were many things that they could learn from one another. Damen certainly liked the idea of returning to steady practice, and if Govart was not organising drills, an informal gathering would substitute.
When he arrived at the armoury tent, he took a moment to survey the field. The Prince’s men were doing sword work, and his eye caught on Jord and Orlant, and then Aimeric. Not many of the Regent’s men were there with them, but one or two were, including Lazar.
There had been no explosion last night, and Orlant and Lazar were within a hundred paces of each other without any sign of bodily harm, but that meant that Orlant had a grievance that had not yet been expressed to his satisfaction, and as Orlant stopped what he was doing and came forward, Damen found himself face to face with a challenge that he should have predicted.
He caught the wooden practice sword instinctively when Orlant tossed it to him.
‘You any good?’
‘Yes,’ said Damen.
He could see from the look in Orlant’s eyes what he intended. People were beginning to take notice, pause in their own practice.
‘This isn’t a good idea,’ said Damen.
‘That’s right. You don’t like fights,’ said Orlant. ‘You prefer going behind people’s backs.’
The sword was a practice weapon, wood from pommel to blade-tip, with leather wound around the hilt to provide a grip. Damen felt the weight of it in his hand.
‘Afraid to spar?’ said Orlant.
‘No,’ said Damen.
‘Then what? Can’t fight?’ said Orlant. ‘You’re only here to fuck the Prince?’
Damen swung. Orlant parried, and they were immediately caught up in the to-and-fro of a hard exchange. Wooden swords were unlikely to deal fatal blows but they could bruise and break bone. Orlant fought with that in mind: his attacks held nothing back. Damen, having launched the first assault, now gave a step of ground.
It was the kind of fighting that was done in battle, fast and hard, not in a duel, where the first few engagements were usually exploratory, cautious and testing, especially when the opponent was unknown. Here sword clashed against sword, and the flurry of blows ceased only for a moment here and there, to be taken up, quickly, again.
Orlant was good. He was among the best of the men on the field, a distinction he shared with Lazar, Jord, and one or two of the other Prince’s men, each of whom Damen recognised from his weeks of captivity. Damen supposed he should feel flattered that Laurent had set his best swordsmen to guard him in the palace.
It was over a month since Damen had last used a sword. It felt like longer since that day—that day in Akielos, when he had been naive enough to ask to see his brother. A month, but he was used to hours of hard daily training, a schedule begun in early childhood, into which a month’s break meant nothing. It was not even long enough for sword calluses to soften.
He had missed fighting. It satisfied something deep within him to ground himself in physicality, to focus on one art, on one person, move and countermove at a speed at which thought became instinct. Yet the Veretian fighting style was different enough that responses could not be purely automatic, and Damen experienced a feeling that was partly release and partly simple enjoyment with a great deal held, carefully, in check.
A minute or two more and Orlant disengaged, and swore. ‘Are you going to fight me or not?’
‘You said we were sparring,’ said Damen, neutrally.
Orlant flung down his sword, took two steps off to one of the watching men, and pulled from its sheath thirty inches of polished steel straightsword, which without preamble he returned to swing with killing speed at Damen’s neck.
There was no time to think. There was no time to guess whether Orlant intended to pull the blow or whether he really meant to cleave Damen in half. The straightsword could not be parried. With Orlant’s weight and momentum behind it, it would slice through a wooden practice sword as easily as it would through butter.
Faster than the sword strike, Damen moved—inside Orlant’s range and still moving, and in the next second Orlant’s back hit the dirt, the wind knocked hard out of his chest, the tip of Damen’s sword at his throat.
Around them, the training area had gone quiet.
Damen stepped back. Orlant, slowly, got to his feet. His sword lay on the ground.
No one spoke. Orlant looked from his discarded sword to Damen and back again, but otherwise didn’t move. Damen felt Jord’s hand clasping his shoulder, and he removed his eyes from Orlant and looked in the direction that Jord indicated briefly with his chin.
Laurent had come into the training area and was standing not far off, by the arms tent, watching them.
‘He was looking for you,’ said Jord.
Damen passed his own sword off and went to him.
He walked over the tufted grass. Laurent made no attempt to meet him halfway, but simply waited. A breeze had sprung up. The flagging on the tent was flapping violently.
‘You were looking for me?’
Laurent didn’t answer, and Damen couldn’t interpret his expression.
‘What is it?’ said Damen.