The two paired off. Magnus and Theron took seats in the dirt and watched as Mauvin and Hadrian first walked through the basic moves and then demonstrated each at actual combat speed. Hadrian would explain each maneuver and comment on the action afterward.
“See there? Mauvin thought I was going to slice inward toward his thigh and dropped his guard briefly. He did that because I told him to by suggesting with a dip of my shoulder that this was my intention, so before I even started my stroke, I knew what Mauvin was going to do, because I was the one dictating it. In essence I knew what he would do before he did and in a battle that’s very handy.”
“Enough of the lessons,” Mauvin said, clearly irritated at being the illustration of a fencing mistake. “Let’s show him a real demonstration.”
“Looking for a rematch?” Hadrian asked.
“Curious if it was luck.”
Hadrian smiled and muttered, “Pickerings.”
He took off his shirt and, wiping his face and hands, threw it on the grass and raised his sword to ready position. Mauvin lunged and immediately the two began to fight. The swords sang as they cut the air so fast their movements blurred. Hadrian and Mauvin danced around on the balls of their feet, shuffling in the dirt so briskly that a small cloud rose to knee height.
“By Mar!” the old farmer exclaimed.
Then abruptly they stopped, both panting from the exertion.
Mauvin glared at Hadrian with a look that was both amazed and irritated. “You’re playing with me.”
“I thought that was the point. You don’t really want me to kill you?”
“Well no, but—well, like he said—by Mar! I’ve never seen anyone fight like you do; you’re amazing.”
“I thought you both were pretty amazing,” Theron remarked. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“I have to agree,” Magnus chimed in. The dwarf was on his feet, nodding his head.
Hadrian walked over to the well and poured half a bucket over himself, then shook the water from his hair.
“Seriously, Hadrian,” Mauvin asked, “where did you learn it?”
“From a man named Danbury Blackwater.”
“Blackwater? Isn’t that your name?”
Hadrian nodded and a melancholy look stole over his face. “He was my father.”
“Was?”
“He died.”
“Was he a warrior? A general?”
“Blacksmith.”
“Blacksmith?” Mauvin asked in disbelief.
“In a village not much bigger than this. You know, the guy who makes horseshoes, rakes, pots.”
“Are you telling me a village blacksmith knew the secret disciplines of the Teshlors? I recognized the Tek’chin moves, the ones my father taught me. The rest I can only assume were from the other lost disciplines of the Teshlors.”
Mauvin drew blank stares from everyone.
“The Teshlors?” He looked around—more stares. He rolled his eyes and sighed. “Heathens, I’m surrounded by ignorant heathens. The Teshlors were the greatest knights ever to have lived. They were the personal bodyguards of the emperor. It’s said they were taught the Five Disciplines of Combat from Novron himself. Only one of which is the Tek’chin, and the knowledge of the Tek’chin alone is what has made a legend out of the Pickering dynasty. Your father clearly knew the Tek’chin, and apparently other Teshlor disciplines that I thought had been lost for nearly a thousand years, and you’re telling me he was a blacksmith? He was probably the greatest warrior of his time. And you don’t know what your father did before you were born?”
“I assume the same thing he did afterward.”
“Then how did he know how to fight?”
Hadrian considered this. “I just assumed he picked it up serving in the local army. Several of the men in the village served His Lordship as men-at-arms. I assumed he saw combat. He used to talk like he had.”
“Did you ever ask him?”
The thunder of hooves interrupted them as three men on horseback entered the village from the direction of the margrave’s castle. The riders were all in black and red with the symbol of a broken crown on their chests. At their head rode a tall thin man with long black hair and a short trimmed beard.
“Excellent swordsmanship,” the lead man said. He rode right up to Hadrian and reined in his animal roughly. The black stallion was draped in a scarlet and black caparison complete with braided tassels, a scarlet headpiece with a foot-tall black plume spouting from his head. The horse snorted and stomped. “I was wondering why the son of Count Pickering wasn’t partaking in the combat today, but I see now you found a worthier partner to spar against. Who would this delightful warrior be and why haven’t I seen you at the castle?”
“I’m not here to compete for the crown,” Hadrian said simply, slipping on his shirt.
“No? Pity, you certainly appear to be worthy of a chance. What’s your name?”
“Hadrian.”
“Ah, good to meet you, Sir Hadrian.”
“Just Hadrian.”
“I see. Do you live here, just Hadrian?”
“No.”