‘Gar doesn’t think it’s funny,’ Farrell said. ‘He seemed to take it seriously, and he strikes me as a serious man. Never seen him smile, even.’
‘Just because he’s serious, doesn’t mean he’s right,’ Corban said with a frown.
‘What’s he on about, then?’ Dath asked.
‘He’s just made a mistake, that’s all.’ Corban shrugged. ‘You’re best off paying him no mind.’
‘There must be more to it than that,’ Farrell persisted. ‘Look at how he fights, his sword, those warriors back at Dun Carreg like him – the one guarding Nathair that he fought, and the others.’
Corban shifted uncomfortably. Those are thoughts I’ve had myself. Gar is no fool, and until recently not someone I’d consider mad. ‘Anyone can make a mistake,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave it at that.’
The other two gave him sidelong glances, but they said no more about it.
‘One thing that you can’t just leave lying about is your stinking bag of wolven pelts,’ Dath said, wrinkling his nose and pointing at a large sack.
‘I know. I need to ask Halion’s help in finding a good tanner.’
‘What do you want them for?’ Dath asked him.
‘Just an idea. I’ll say no more about it yet.’
Corban blocked Gar’s practice sword, flicked it away, used the momentum to form his own lunge, saw Gar shift to block his blow. He pivoted on his feet, spinning, ducking Gar’s weapon as it whistled over his head and swung at Gar’s ankles.
Gar jumped over his practice blade, struck at Corban’s head, but Corban was rolling forwards, using the force of his failed swing to carry him out of the way. He came up onto his feet, sword gripped two-handed over his head, and launched a fast combination at Gar – two chops to the head, one lunge to the heart, another short chop to the ribs, a swing and lunge at thigh and groin. All of them were blocked. He felt sweat trickling down his forehead, sensed shadows around him, still and watching, his eyes flickering to them for a heartbeat. And then somehow Gar was inside his guard, the practice blade at his throat.
‘You lost focus,’ Gar said as Corban stepped away. ‘Until then. Good.’
Good. That was the fastest I’ve ever moved, the longest I’ve kept you from killing me. Corban smiled ruefully and wiped the sweat from his face. He glanced about, saw warriors all around the practice court watching them. That had been happening a lot since they’d arrived at Dun Taras. Rath was there, with some of his giant-killers, including the girl, Coralen. She wasn’t looking at him or Gar, though. Nearby were Dath and Farrell, standing with Marrock and Camlin. The woodsman was strapping a buckler to Marrock’s injured arm.
‘Stop looking at girls and raise your sword,’ Gar snapped at him.
‘I wasn’t,’ Corban objected, then had no more time or breath to complain.
When they had finished sparring, Gar put Corban through the sword dance. Corban loved the routine of it; it was a time when his mind became still and calm, and he could forget for a short while the turmoil and upheaval that defined almost every other waking moment.
When he was finished and about to put his practice sword back in the basket he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see Coralen standing there.
‘Don’t put it back,’ she said and stepped back into a space on the grass. She raised her own practice sword and waited. In her other hand she had a wooden replica of a knife. She fights like Conall, then.
‘What?’ said Corban.
‘Don’t keep her waiting, she’ll only beat you worse,’ someone yelled, to a burst of laughter. Corban thought it was Baird, Rath’s warrior with the scar.
‘Come on, then,’ Coralen said, spinning her blade in a slow arc.
Frowning, Corban stepped back onto the grass and lifted his wooden sword. Stooping falcon, the standard first position. In a blink Coralen was lunging forwards, her blade coming from unusual angles, moving faster than Corban had expected. Her wooden knife left a red welt across one arm. She uses it like a wolven uses claws. That set an idea growing. One that I must talk to Farrell about. Another blow slipped through his guard.