“He’ll be okay,” Gryle said beside her, “he’ll be okay,” and she nodded despite the fact that she got the distinct impression the chamberlain was talking more to himself than her.
She quailed as she saw Aaron’s opponent walk out of an adjacent building. The man wore an intimidating suit of dark green plate armor with a fig tree emblazoned in gold on its front. The visor of his helmet was raised revealing sharp, hawk like features that weren’t unhandsome, and an expression of disdain that said more clearly than any words could what he thought of his unarmored, commoner opponent as he swaggered to a stop in front of the sellsword before finally dropping his visor.
As soon as the announcer gave them leave, the noble waded in, swinging his sword in vicious arcs meant to end the farce early. With each strike, Adina’s heart leap in her throat for fear that Aaron’s wounds would slow him down too much and that one of the wild blows would connect. Instead, each time the knight swung, Aaron’s sword was somehow there in the last second, deflecting the blow and sending it harmlessly to the side or knocking it up high as the sellsword circled around the man, keeping him at a distance. Each time he sent the man’s sword wide, she waited tensely for him to counter as she had so often seen her father’s soldiers do when she was younger.
Instead, Aaron continued to evade the man’s blows by a hair’s breadth, ducking and rolling out of the way at the last second. Attack! She thought wildly, Why isn’t he attacking? Aaron’s movements appeared to be growing more sluggish with each passing moment. All it would take was for one of those blows to land, and he would be finished. The knight swung again, but reversed direction on the blade and sent it back at the sellsword. She gasped in fear, but instead of taking the blunted blade in the face, Aaron ducked with a grace she wouldn’t have thought his weary frame could muster and stepped smoothly under the swiping steel, coming up behind his opponent. She leaned forward, sure that this was it, that he was going to finish it now, but instead of rushing forward, the sellsword backed away as the knight turned ponderously around and started toward him.
“He waits,” a voice that wasn’t Gryle’s said beside her. The chamberlain let out a squeak of shock. Adina turned and was surprised to see the old man from the first bout sitting next to Gryle. The man’s face was leathery from years spent in the sun, and crow’s feet surrounded his eyes and mouth.
“Excuse me, sir?” She asked suspiciously, suddenly painfully aware of the tournament guards that patrolled back and forth in front of the benches in search of trouble. Was it only her imagination, or had that last one been eyeing her too closely? “Were you talking to me?”
He smiled, “To both of you, actually,” he said, nodding to Gryle. He gripped hands with the chamberlain, then took the princess’s and kissed it softly. “You may call me Rashan Caltier. And yourselves?”
“I’m A-Naya,” she stumbled, cursing herself silently, “and this is my servant, Edward.”
Apparently not noticing her slip, the man smiled. “It is nice to meet you, Naya. Edward.”
“N-nice to meet you too, sir,” Gryle stumbled.
“That is your man, is it not?” He asked, gesturing at Aaron who, even now, came within inches of getting struck with an overhead slash that would have knocked him senseless as he stepped to the side.
“Why do you ask?” She asked distractedly, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she watched the bout.
“No particular reason,” the man answered, his own eyes locked on the combat, “please, forgive an old man the pleasantries.”
She turned to study the man for a moment. He sounded sincere, and he didn’t look like a soldier who would work for her brother, but there was no way to be sure. Still, there was no point lying to him. Clearly, he’d already seen her with Aaron. She shot a quick glance at the chamberlain before turning back to the old man, ready to bolt if he made a move for her, “I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m just nervous. He’s almost gotten hit several times now.”
“You’re wrong in that,” the man said, flashing her a smile that seemed to know too much, “your husband has got his opponent’s measure now. It won’t be long.”
Adina felt her stomach lurch uncomfortably. Had she imagined his emphasis on the word husband? She couldn’t tell for certain. “What do you mean he has his measure?”
“Watch,” the man said, gesturing at the two contestants as the sellsword knocked aside another blow of the knight’s sword, “Do you see how he lets the other contestant tire himself? A man in heavy armor can’t keep up a pace like that for long—trust me. Soon, he’ll begin to slow. His strikes will become sloppier, and he’ll begin to neglect to cover himself against a counter. No, your husband has done this before, madam.”
Adina drew in a sharp breath as the knight’s sword passed within an inch of the sellsword’s face, “If he knows what he’s doing then why does he let him get so close?” She demanded angrily.
“It’s better that way. Let the hound smell the blood, let him get so close he can nearly taste it. Let him go mad with the scent of it.” Adina noticed that, indeed, the armored man’s vicious attacks had slowed. His armored feet dragged noticeably, and the acoustics of the arena were such that she could hear his panting, labored breaths even from her spot on the bench. “And once he’s weak,” the man continued, his dull gray eyes locked on the battle, “once he’s overcome with exhaustion and has no fight left, when he least expects it, that is when you strike.”
As if on cue, Aaron dodged to the side of one of the knight’s overhand strikes, but instead of circling out of range as before, he raised his blunted sword with both hands and brought it down in a brutal chop to the man’s extended arm. The knight let out a howl of agony, and his sword fell out of nerveless fingers. He bent over, apparently trying to retrieve his blade despite the fact that his arm must have been smarting terribly, but Aaron surged forward, bringing his sword into the back of the knight’s knees in a vicious sweep.
The man cried out again as his legs gave out beneath him, and he crumpled to the ground in a crash of steel. Aaron took a few steps forward and laid his sword across the back of the fallen man’s head. The knight cringed beneath the blade, and though his helmet was twisted crookedly from the fall and muffled his voice, his pained words were clear enough for everyone to hear, “I yield.”
Aaron nodded and started back toward the armory, ignoring the calls of the announcer who stepped into the center of the circle as his two helpers began the task of getting the armor-laden knight to his feet, “Flynn Daltan, my good people!” The commoners roared louder than they had yet, laughing boldly, and she heard whispered jokes about how a peasant had defeated an armored knight. “And now,” the announcer continued, shouting to be heard over the applause, “we will take a four hour intermission.”
“You were right,” she said, chagrined that the stranger could know so much more about what the sellsword was doing despite the fact that she’d spent nearly the entire last week with him. She turned, and let out a gasp of surprise as she noticed that the old man was no longer there. “Gryle?”
The chubby man made an effort and finally managed to jerk his gaze away from the knight who was only now getting up from the ground with the help of the two struggling men. “Princess?”
“Where did he go?”
Gryle looked around in surprise, “I-I thought that he was just there, Mistress. I never heard him leave.”
“Me neither,” Adina said, goosebumps breaking out on her arms. Why had the man sat next to them? Why had he insisted on speaking so much? Suddenly, she was sure that when he’d been talking about Aaron’s strategy, he hadn’t just been talking about that. In fact, the more she thought over their conversation, the faster her heart began to beat. Was it possible that the man worked for Belgarin, or even Aster, and had been toying with them? But to what purpose? It didn’t make any sense, but the thought did little to thaw the foreboding that had settled into her stomach like a chunk of frozen ice.
CHAPTER<
br />
THIRTY-FIVE
Aaron sighed, exhausted, as he finished strapping his real sword back in place and threw his cloak over it. He fingered the worn leather handles of the blades hanging at his side, reassuring himself of their presence. He’d hated having to leave them, even for the bout, but there’d been no choice. Belgarin’s men couldn’t be far behind, and the last thing he wanted was to get caught with nothing but a blunted blade of poor quality to protect himself and the others with.
He flexed the fingers of his left arm and winced. Co was doing everything she could to keep the pain back, but the arm still felt stiff and weak, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop it from trembling. The two handed blow he’d struck the knight hadn’t helped matters, and his arm was protesting strongly even now, reminding him that he was pushing himself too far, too soon. Naya had been right about that. Still, what choice did he have? None, he thought sourly, and that’s the truth of it.
He made his way past other contestants gathering their gear toward the armory’s exit. As he opened the door, he was confronted with a crowd of people who’d apparently taken the intermission as an invitation to crowd the tournament grounds, congratulating and shaking hands with their favorites. He kept his head down, avoiding their gazes as he worked his way through the jostling people. Several commoners slapped him on the back and congratulated him on his victory, and he nodded, thanking them, as he continued past. He didn’t care for their attention—it was just another way for him to stick out, another way for his head to end up on the business end of a noose or an executioner’s axe—but not responding to the commoners would have made him stick out even more. After all, a man who’d joined the tournament for the money—as all of the commoners had—would be content after his first victory, not sullen, not eyeing everyone around him as if he expected a knife in the back—never mind the fact that he did.
“Not graceful, perhaps,” a voice said beside him, “but effective.”
Aaron turned, and his eyes widened as he took in the man who’d spoken. It had been over ten years since he’d last seen Master Darrell, the man who’d taken him in and taught him the blade when he’d been nothing but a starving runaway in the streets of an unfamiliar city, but he recognized him instantly. True, his old master’s midnight black hair had gone to gray, and there were leathery wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that Aaron didn’t remember, but the man had the same reserved manner, the same cool gray eyes. “Ma—“
“My name,” the short, wiry man interrupted, meeting his eyes with a hard gaze, “is Rashan Caltier. A pleasure to meet you.”
Aaron frowned for a moment, then finally nodded, “The pleasure’s mine,” he said, offering his hand, “You may call me Flynn.”
The man took his hand and smiled. “So,” he said as he clapped Aaron on the back, “does Baresh’s arena suit your tastes, stranger?”
“What are y—“
“An interesting fact,” the man went on as if Aaron had never spoken, “you may have noticed that the announcer needed to only speak in normal volume to be heard all throughout the arena. It is said that Prince Eladen designed the theater that way so that there would be no chance that a man would ever try to yield and not be heard.” He shrugged, “True or not, it cannot be denied that the arena amplifies sound incredibly. Why, I don’t doubt that any man or woman sitting in the stands could hear individual conversations as if the men involved were standing right beside him. Interesting, don’t you agree?”
Aaron nodded slowly, “Very.”
Darrel grinned, “I managed to catch a bit of your fight. It was … interesting.”
Aaron snorted, “I won. It’s enough.”
The swordmaster shrugged, “I suppose you are right. Still, a wise man once said that grace is the mother of combat, and the beauty of battle a thing more spectacular than the smile of a new born babe.”
Aaron grunted, unable to hide his smile, “I never held much with poets or philosophers; fools and boy lovers the lot of them, I think.”
The old man laughed, “History, as well as the future, is written by such fools, my friend. I shudder to think what the man who trained you must have suffered through with such a … shall we say, stubborn, attitude to work with.”
The sellsword nodded as they maneuvered around a group of laughing nobles, “Perhaps it was a trial for him,” he agreed, “but I doubt he minded much. He was a good enough sort, but I got the distinct impression that he was touched in the head.”
“Oh?” Darrell said, a look of surprise on his face, “and here I thought the man must have been granted the wisdom and patience of the gods themselves, not to mention their kindness, to have dealt with such a single-minded pupil as yourself. Truly, he must be a remarkable and talented man. One to be revered, I suspect.”
“I doubt he still lives. The man was ancient when I knew him and that was years ago. By now I imagine he’s feeding the worms or tottering around on a cane, rambling about the invisible gnomes that keep peeing his bed to any unlucky soul that happens by.”
The old man laughed, but then his eyes grew serious. “Either way, he must be commended for his efforts. After all, he did teach you a considerable amount of skill with the sword. It is no easy task to take down a fully armored knight with a blunted weapon. Especially,” he said, leaning in and clapping Aaron on his wounded arm hard enough to make him wince, “when wounded. Why, a man would have to be very desperate or very stupid to enter into such a grand tourney with an arm that was barely of use.”
Aaron frowned back, “Desperate times make desperate men.”
“This is true,” Darrell agreed, “and I’m sure I’m not the only one to have noticed. Why, anyone with eyes to see would be aroused to curiosity. A great way of drawing attention to one’s self if that is the goal. Perhaps, it would help to talk about it.”
He detected the disapproval in his old master’s voice, and it took all he had to restrain himself from telling this man who had been like a father to him for many years, everything that had happened. It wasn’t only the fear of being overheard that stayed him, however, but also the knowledge that to inform Darrell of everything that had happened would only put him in danger, and he deserved better than that for all that he’d done for a starving young boy who’d lost his way.
“I’m sure that all will be clear in time,” he said cryptically raising a hand to Adina and Gryle as they finally extricated themselves from the pressing bodies and started toward the benches.
“Speaking of time,” the gray-haired man said casually, “did you know that Belgarin himself is supposedly visiting Baresh?” Aaron felt himself tense at the prince’s name, but the old man went on as if he didn’t notice, “It’s the talk of all the inns and bars. In fact, they say that the prince was initially supposed to arrive in five days, but that he’s due to arrive early, some say as early as the day after tomorrow.”
Aaron felt his stomach lurch, but he struggled to appear calm as they continued through the crowd, “Oh? Why would Prince Belgarin visit Baresh? I thought that he and Eladen were at war.”
His old master shrugged, “So did I, but the rumors are plentiful enough that they are hard to doubt. Strange, indeed. Especially considering the fact that no one has seen or heard from Eladen in over a week’s time. Perhaps, Belgarin comes to seek peace with the noble Duke Claudius.”
Aaron’s mind was too awhirl with ideas and the impending threat of Belgarin’s early arrival to respond, and before he knew it they had arrived where Gryle and the princess waited. “Are you okay?” Adina asked, and he could see the worry in her and the chamberlain’s gazes.
He nodded, “I’m fine. The man barely knew what end of his sword to hold. He was just here to show off his fancy armor more than anything, I imagine.”
Adina frowned, the man had seemed competent enough, and whether it had been Aaron’s strategy to wear the knight down or not, she was pretty certain that at least a few of those blows had almost connected. “If you say so.”
“I do,” Aaron answered, “trust me, the man was hopeless. If the rest are no better, it’ll be a boring tournament.”
“Truly, my lady,” Darrell said as he walked out from behind Aaron and gave a bow, “the man had no chance.”
Adina stared at the man warily, but Aaron didn’t appear to be bothered by the stranger’s presence. In fact, there was something about the way the two of them seemed completely comfortable with each other that struck her as odd. From her experience, Aaron wasn’t the type of person that made quick friends, and this man, whom she’d taken for a stranger, was already taking up for him. What was that about? “Do you two know each other?” .
The two men glanced at each other in surprise. It was the old man who spoke first, “Well, that would be quite a coincidence, my lady. No, this is my first time meeting,” he paused, looking embarrassed, “I’m sorry, sir. What did you say your name was?”
“Flynn,” the sellsword answered, and Adina was sure she’d seen Aaron smile for a second, “Flynn Daltan.”
The gray-haired man nodded as he gripped Aaron’s hand, “A pleasure to meet you, Flynn.”
“You as well.”
The princess eyed them silently, and their innocent smiles cracked and then disappeared as they avoided meeting her gaze. Something wasn’t right here, she was sure of it. “Wha—“
“Well,” Aaron interrupted, turning to the gray-haired man, “we really must be going. Good luck in the tournament, Rashan. Perhaps we will meet again.”
The stranger nodded, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, “If the gods will it.”
With a grunt, Aaron turned back to the others, “Come on, let’s go.” The princess bit back her questions as she and Gryle hurried after the already departing sellsword.
A Sellsword's Compassion_Book One of the Seven Virtues Page 27