He returned to a much more peaceful Sodrin after that. The Exhibition played out into the evening, and while the competitors tired, the crowd only grew more frenzied and raucous. Radimar was pleased with Sodrin’s performance. Of the five bouts he fought, he won three, losing the last to a fighter older and more experienced.
Afterwards, in the billet, Sodrin threw himself onto one of the benches and poured a pitcher of cold water over his head to cool off. Radimar handed him a towel and waited for the inevitable.
Sodrin toweled off before flinging the cloth into a corner. “I can’t believe it! I should have won that last bout!”
Radimar retrieved the towel to drape it over the bench where Sodrin sat. “No, you shouldn’t have. It wasn’t just his skill that won him the bout; it was your arrogance that lost it for you. You never assume you’ll win until you’ve actually won. Have you not listened to anything I’ve taught you regarding the value of humility? You can drown your disappointment in ale and whores tonight, but I want to see you at the royal training lists tomorrow morning first light. Don’t make me come find you. You’ll regret it.”
“You’ll still teach me after this?”
The worry in Sodrin’s voice made Radimar pause. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I lost due to my own stupidity.”
“This is your first Exhibition. You exceeded my expectations. Besides, if we all gave up on each other for stupid mistakes, there would be no hope for any of us.”
Sodrin leaned his head back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. “I’ll never hear the end of it from Father.”
The crowd’s roar over another bout winner sounded like a dragon’s bellow. Radimar peeked outside for a moment before returning to Sodrin “Let your sire’s disappointment remain his. Besides, it stems from a lost bet, so don’t assign it an importance it doesn’t deserve.”
They were both laying out and inspecting Radimar’s armor in the emptying billet when voices on the other side of the wall where Radimar and Sodrin stood grew louder and closer. Used to the empty boasts and vulgar talk often exchanged between fighting men, Radimar closed his ears to their conversation and concentrated on repairing a broken patch of mail in his hauberk.
The shocked outrage on Sodrin’s face caught his attention, and he halted his work to listen. He didn’t recognize the voices, but a few of the names he knew. One was the king’s champion, Simusor Alreed.
“You think old Uhlfrida paid that swordmaster a second fortune to fuck his ugly daughter?”
“If he can teach that girl how to fuck the way he’s taught her brother how to fight, she’ll be the finest lay in all the kingdom, ugly or not.”
Alreed spoke then, his voice flat, emotionless. “I’d fuck her. Uhlfrida wouldn’t have to pay me either. Just turn her around and hump her like a bitch. All you’d see is her arse and the back of her head, not her face.”
Sodrin’s face flushed crimson. He rose silently from the bench, hands clenched into fists at his side. Radimar put a finger to his lips, signaling for his continued quiet. His own rage threatened to choke him, and the urge to round the corner and skewer the three pigs on the other side with his sword almost overwhelmed him. But he held his temper and kept an eye on Sodrin and an ear on the conversation.
The three moved away from their base conjectures regarding Jahna and instead focused on puffing up Alreed’s vanity, assuring him with the most effusive praise that he’d easily win the bout with Radimar and prove himself once again the king’s champion.
Whatever they had come for, they finally gathered up and left, their conversation fading until the billet was quiet, empty save for Radimar and Sodrin. Outside the crowd chanted Alreed’s name, eager to see their favorite face off against one of the famed Ilinfan swordmasters.
Sodrin snatched his favorite sword off the hook where he’d hung the scabbard. “I’m going to kill him.” He yanked the blade free and lunged for the doorway.
Radimar was quicker. He pivoted in front of Sodrin, knocking the sword out of his hand with one hand while driving him back against one of the billet’s support columns. Radimar arm-barred him across the chest, pinning the enraged Sodrin to the beam. “Don’t be a fool! He’s a superior fighter and will wipe the floor with you.”
Sodrin struggled but couldn’t break Radimar’s grip. “He deserves a gutting!”
He did, but Radimar had no intention of allowing Sodrin to commit suicide while defending his sister’s name. “Fourth rule of combat,” he said. “What is it?” The other man only glared at him, literally growling through clenched teeth. Radimar pressed harder. “Fourth rule, Sodrin.”
They stayed like that for several moments until the first surge of Sodrin’s fury cooled. He slumped under Radimar’s hold. “Never attack in anger,” he said in a grudging voice.
Satisfied that the immediate risk had passed, Radimar stepped back, freeing Sodrin who stayed where he was but glared daggers. “We can’t let him get away with talking about Jahna like that.”
Radimar recovered the sword where it lay and returned it to Sodrin. “Clean this and put it back. Then help me with my armor and weapons. The king will announce commencement of the challenge and I need to be ready.”
The initial red fury that had almost blinded him and easily matched, if not outstripped, Sodrin’s was transforming into a cold, black anger, the kind of seething that hollowed a person out if they held it close too long. Radimar had no intention of letting his sit in his gut for more than this night.
Alreed’s words made him want to retch and to kill. He sympathized with Sodrin’s wrath, understood down to his bones why Sodrin wanted instant retribution. Radimar closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the laughter and wonder in Jahna’s eyes as he danced with her in the forgotten garden amid the snow and roses. A pig like Alreed would abuse her, break her and toss her aside like refuse fit only for the midden.
He shuddered and opened his eyes to return to the task of belting and buckling on the armor he’d wear to face the king’s champion. Fourth rule, he told himself. Remember the fourth rule.
His own teachers had taught him that rule long ago, and when he’d broken it, the lesson they meted out to him guaranteed he wouldn’t break it again, but never attacking in anger wasn’t always easy, and this time Alreed had made it especially challenging.
Sodrin helped him adjust one of his pauldrons before handing Radimar the two training swords he indicated he’d use for the bout. Radimar wished they were the true weapons he normally carried—pointed, sharp-edged and lethal.
He tested their balance. Today he’d fight with two swords and no shield. The crowd had come to see a show, and two-handed sword fighting was an extravagant style. Impractical on the battlefield but perfect for a duel, it showcased a swordsman’s skills and engaged the crowd. Radimar planned to use it to teach the king’s champion a lesson.
Pain and outrage sheened Sodrin’s brown eyes, so like his sister’s. “Too bad it’s an exhibition and not true battle. You can’t kill him.”
The grin stretching Radimar’s mouth made Sodrin take a step back. “No, but by the time I’m done with him, he’ll wish I had.”
5