Borniya pulled my arms tighter, pushing my stomach against Hallin’s blade. Aydor glared at me, and I wondered if behind his blue eyes his mind was frantically trying to work out how much he could say without betraying me. Or maybe he was considering betraying me and whether it was worth his mother’s wrath. That he called me “country boy” made me hopeful he wasn’t about to denounce me as an assassin.
“I did not arrange any beating, cripple,” he hissed, “but my man lets me know what extra work he takes on, and I asked him to give you a reminder of me. Just a kiss, mind.” So, all this hate was simply because I had made fun of him when I had been in the dungeon. What a poor king he would make. Aydor leaned in very close and it was all I could do not to recoil from his breath. He spoke so quietly I had to strain to hear, though his lips were practically touching my ear. “I warned him you were more dangerous than you seemed. That’s two I owe you, assassin, Dollis and Kyril. It was you, wasn’t it?”
I moved my head so I could whisper into his ear. “You will never know,” I said. Then I let my lips brush against his ear and he jumped back like a scalded lizard, knocking Hallin away. If we had not been interrupted at that moment I am sure Aydor would have attacked me with a naked blade. Instead Nywulf distracted us, his voice loud enough to make my ears ring.
“Do as I say, boy!”
Borniya let go of me and the squires around me scattered, all sure Nywulf had been speaking to them.
But he was not.
Rufra lay on the ground in front of the squiremaster, his wooden swords in Nywulf’s hands and the trainer’s ball of a head was red with fury. Behind him Tomas watched, a wide grin on his face. “All of you,” Nywulf shouted, “stop standing around like thankful at a giving. Form line. Do it now! You too!” He pointed at Rufra. “Now!” His voice filled the squireyard, and we reacted like animals to his anger, scurrying into our lines. Rufra stood next to me and stared at the ground, his anger showing in every taut muscle of his body.
“Rufra,” I hissed, but he would not look at me. His chest rose and fell as he took deep breaths. A tear fell from the end of his nose.
“Last night,” said Nywulf, his voice had returned to a conversational level, “Girton ap Gwynr was attacked when leaving First of Festival.” He paced up and down the line of squires, pausing at the blond twins, Barin and Boros, whose faces were shiny with sweat though they had done nothing to earn it. “I would like to remind you, all of you, that Festival can be dangerous and brigands always follow it.” He took another step so he was in front of Tomas. He had to look up at the boy. “I do not want any more of my squires getting hurt,” he growled. Tomas met Nywulf’s stare as if the boy was equal with the warrior. “Do you understand me?” he said to Tomas and then added, louder, “All of you?”
“Yes, Squiremaster,” we mumbled. Tomas did not speak.
“Louder,” he said. He did not break eye contact with Tomas.
“Yes, Squiremaster,” we shouted.
Still Tomas did not speak. Nywulf gave him a grim smile.
“Good,” he said. He walked away and then turned back to us when he was ten paces away from the line. “Today we will spar. However—” he gave us the cold smile of a venomous lizard about to strike “—it has come to my attention that some of us believe they deserve better than the squireyard. Is that true, Tomas?”
Tomas looked up into the sky but did not answer. As we waited for Tomas to reply, the silence in the squireyard felt like a weight on my shoulders.
“I asked, Tomas,” continued Nywulf, and he sounded friendly though I cannot imagine anyone was fooled, “if you believe yourself past my training? If you think you are more skilled than anyone else?” Tomas continued to stare at the sky where the pale disc of the moon was still visible. “Or, Tomas ap Dhyrrin, are you afraid to answer my question?”
“I am better than any other here.” The words escaped from his mouth like angry dogs breaking their leash. A ripple of offence went up and down the line of squires.
“Better,” said Nywulf with a smile and shake of his head. “It is my job, blessed boys, to train you. And an important lesson for any warrior to learn is that there is always someone better than you are. That is why you need men you trust around you.”
“No one here can best me with a blade,” said Tomas quietly.
Nywulf stared at him.
“Care to prove that, Tomas?” he said. “Care to prove you are better than everyone here, even me?”
“Real blades,” said Tomas, a smile growing on his handsome face at the shocked reaction his words drew from the squires. “And after I beat you, Squiremaster, if you survive, then you will stand down and we will find another squiremaster.” He glanced at Rufra when he spoke. “A real one.”
“Very well,” said Nywulf. “And if I win?” He met the eye of every boy there, looking from one end of the line of squires to the other, pausing at Aydor before he let his gaze run back. “If I win, no more cliques and no one is punished outside the yard for what happens within it. And you will all give me your oaths on that, do you understand?”
“Yes, Squiremaster,” we said.
“Again,” shouted the trainer.
“Yes, Squiremaster!” we shouted, though I noticed Aydor did not join in.
Tomas went to the gear he left by the gate and drew his longsword and stabsword then made his way to the sparring circle. Nywulf followed him but he wore no armour and still carried only the wooden practice swords he had taken from Rufra. We followed him and stood around the edges of the circle. My blood fizzed with a mixture of excitement and worry and I felt like I needed to run or piss.
“I will enjoy this,” whispered Rufra to me. There was a bruise on his cheek.
“Did Nywulf hit you?”
“Only once. Tomas is about to suffer much worse.”
Tomas and Nywulf stood opposite one another in the circle, a ring drawn in white on the sparsely grassed ground.
“I said real blades,” said Tomas.
“And you have them,” replied Nywulf.
“Very well,” said Tomas with a grin. He did not fall into the familiar “At Ready” position which traditionally started a fight; he attacked without warning by bringing his longsword over followed by his stabsword in a movement called the Wheel, a showy move of little value in a real fight. Nywulf simply moved out of the way, and as the weight of Tomas’s swords carried him past, the squiremaster swatted him on the backside with his stabsword. Tomas spun on the spot, his eyes bright with anger, and brought his blades up into a defensive cross, but Nywulf did not attack; instead he walked around Tomas.
“Come at me then, boy,” he said.
Tomas did, three thrusting attacks with the stabsword he held in his left hand followed by a slash of his longsword at head height then one at hip height. Nywulf simply backed away, occasionally swaying left and right to avoid the blades. There was no hurry in the squiremaster’s movements; they were all very deliberate. He knew exactly how far Tomas’s swords would reach and where he needed to be to avoid them. When Tomas paused, Nywulf stepped forward and delivered a blow to Tomas’s leg that landed with an audible smacking sound and made the squire fall to one knee.