‘I don’t want to hurt you, sir. This sword is sharp,’ Fletcher warned him, unbuckling it and holding it out for him to see. It was the first time he had really held his weapon in his hand. The sword was far heavier than he had expected.
‘Aye, I may be old, but with age comes experience. This staff here is twice as dangerous a weapon in my one hand than that khopesh is in both of yours.’
Fletcher doubted it. The man was as skinny as a rake and about as tall too. He gave a half-hearted swipe at him, aiming so that he wouldn’t hit anything. The man made no move to defend himself, allowing the sword to graze harmlessly in front of his chest.
‘All right, boy, enough playing,’ Sir Caulder snapped.
The staff came thrumming through the air at Fletcher’s head and dealt him a stinging blow. Fletcher cried out and slapped his hand over his ear, feeling the blood as it ran in a hot trickle down his neck.
‘Come on, that sword wouldn’t even pierce this chain mail,’ the old man said with glee, prancing in front of Fletcher like a billy goat.
‘I wasn’t ready for that,’ Fletcher snarled, then stabbed at Sir Caulder’s stomach, two-handed. The staff came down like a hammer, knocking his sword so hard that it stabbed into the sand. Fletcher was rewarded with another swat to his cheek, leaving a wide welt.
‘That’s not going to look pretty in the morning,’ Sir Caulder cackled, jabbing at Fletcher’s stomach and causing him to stumble back.
‘You see, Jeffrey, they carry around their swords as if they’re just for show. Let me tell you, when an orc charges at you from the bushes, don’t think a musket ball is going to stop it. It’ll be using your rib as a toothpick before it even realises it’s been shot,’ Sir Caulder ranted, punctuating each word with a prod of his staff.
Fletcher’s patience had run out. He swung his khopesh in a wide arc, catching the staff in the curve and pushing it to the side. Then he charged in under Sir Caulder’s guard, shoulder barging the man to the ground, landing on top of him.
Before a shout of triumph could leave his lips, Sir Caulder’s knees scissored around his neck, choking off the words. His peg leg knocked against the back of Fletcher’s head. Fletcher dropped his sword and tried to pry open Sir Caulder’s thighs, but they were like twin bars of steel. The man tightened his hold, until Fletcher’s vision bruised. Then the world faded to black.
21
When consciousness returned, Fletcher could hear the sound of Ignatius hissing. He opened his eyes to find Jeffrey and Sir Caulder watching him from across the arena. Sir Caulder was swearing foully and there was the stench of burning in the air.
‘Goddamned demons, they should all be shot. It’s good, solid fighting that will kill orcs, not these abominations,’ he grumbled, fingering a blackened patch of cloth in the breast of his surcoat. Ignatius must have flamed at him when Fletcher fainted.
Fletcher rubbed his bruised throat ruefully and sat up. What was it with people trying to strangle him? Even Ignatius liked to wrap himself around his neck.
‘There’s something you’re forgetting,’ Fletcher croaked. ‘The orc shamans have twice the number of these abominations, as you call them. Do you think good solid fighting will beat them too? Why do you even teach here if you hate them so much?’
Sir Caulder and Jeffrey crossed the arena towards him, pausing every few steps in case Ignatius attacked again. Fletcher calmed Ignatius with soothing thoughts and then picked up the khopesh, buckling it back on to his belt.
‘I’m sorry, laddie. I was just blowing steam. The surcoat was my old uniform. It’s all I have left of the old days,’ Sir Caulder said, kicking at the sand with his stump.
‘Well, it is my fault too. I should have told Ignatius that this was a play fight, though I think we stretched the definition of the word play this time round. I’m sorry about your uniform. Can I replace it?’ Fletcher asked.
‘No. I fought under the Raleighs,’ Sir Caulder said, as if that explained everything.
‘The Raleighs?’ Fletcher asked. ‘Are they a noble family?’
‘Aye, that they were. Not any more though,’ Sir Caulder muttered. Fletcher could see pain in the man’s eyes, but his curiosity got the better of him.
‘Why? Did they fall out of favour with the King?’ Fletcher had never heard of that happening before, though Pelt was so far removed from the machinations of Hominum’s upper class it could be a regular occurrence for all he knew.
‘No, nothing like that, you idiot! I served under Lord Edmund Raleigh, a long time before the war. He was one of the nobles who owned estates on the southern frontier, so our lands were being constantly raided by orc marauders. In those days the military was too focussed on keeping the dwarves in check to send us any help, so as part of Raleigh’s bodyguard we had to deal with it on our own. Lord Raleigh was a good man and a close friend to the King, so don’t you go thinking he wasn’t!’ Sir Caulder ranted.