Despite his grandfather's earlier words, it seemed that dodging was among the last lessons to be learned. Indeed, it added a whole dimension of complexity to the art, how and when one could best dodge a blow, coming in with a simultaneous strike of one’s own. This tactic could immediately put one’s foe on the defensive if not take him down outright. Yet if not performed adroitly, it was the dodger that was potentially off balance and vulnerable to being overwhelmed by an aggressive barrage, a lesson Sorn learned all too well himself.
And so their training had continued in such a pattern relatively uninterrupted for three seasons. His grandfather had been pleased with Sorn's growing skill with the greatsword, though he was far short of mastery as of yet. Their lessons had grown less frequent, however, once Sorn had been given the care of his cousins, thus elevating him to the status of denmother himself.
It was a transition that Sorn had found somewhat overwhelming, and one which sometimes earned him occasional warm smiles from his grandfather, but very little in the way of pity.
"It's not the first time nestlings your age have been thrust into the role of denmothers, and indeed, who best to know the needs of a clutchling than one who so recently was one himself? And don't complain to me of fair, Sorn. Life isn't fair, as you well know! Is life fair to the livestock we prey upon, or all the young dragonettes who have their adolescent freedom, but not half the power you do?
"Focus instead on meeting the challenges thrust upon you in life and taking pride in triumphing over them! The skills you learn now will make you all the more attractive a mate to a female, when the time of proving comes upon you. And the skills of form and arcane lore which you, to your credit, practice diligently every day will make you all the more powerful a foe to any dragon who challenges your perusal of a female, and your victory over other suitors will make you all the more desirable in her eyes as well.
"Indeed, my grandson, should one approaching her time find you appealing, it is dead certain that after your third fight, especially should you show the breadth of skill and talents at your disposal, that she will take you as her mate. And there, my young grandson, you shall suddenly find no greater joy than in pleasing her, and in taking care of the little ones you sire on her, much as you care for your cousins even now.
"Like with the blades we practice, yet perhaps of far more relevance, the skills you learn caring for your cousins now will serve you well in a future time. Tell me, young one, though you are hardly of an age where one would expect it, you are of precocious stock… have you started dreaming strange dreams of flying, chasing dragons deep into the clouds to grab their wings?"
The look of surprised shock on Sorn's face was all the confirmation his grandfather’s knowing gaze needed.
"Ah. Well then. You will need your skills soon enough, lad, soon enough. Now, we have wasted sufficient time. Counter!" his grandfather had roared, charging Sorn anew with his greatsword, barraging him with a series of lightning-fast strikes Sorn was hard pressed to counter, yet which he had, to his grandfather's pride.
25
"Indeed I was taught as a fencer." Sorn acknowledged to the perceptive smith, smiling as reminiscence left his mind's eye, a swirling stream of recollection that washed over him far quicker than words could say, but a handful of seconds having passed. He understood, intuitively, that his abstracted state was, in part, his way of keeping in check the terrible rage battling to be released inside him. A fury best reigned in until the moment of battle was upon them, the enemy made visible. It was an effort not to think of how close Elissa, not to mention her father the king, had come to being killed by treachery, and the thought sent a stab to his heart that made him hiss with pain. Yet he registered the alarmed gaze a now anxious looking Vorbin was giving him and strove to focus on the matter at hand.
"A fencing blade is not what I had in mind, however," Sorn said as he gazed about the armory once more, quickly realizing that here was not where they kept the majority of their armaments.
"If you would be so good as to show me where I may find the weapons I seek, I would be most grateful." His voice was gentle, yet the worried glance the weaponsmith gave Sorn as he quickly led his charge to a destination several rooms off of an adjoining hall told Sorn that something of his intensity was showing through, despite his best efforts.
"This here, my lord, this is the armory where the king's Royal Guardsmen select their stock of arming swords, broadswords, gambesons, mail hauberks, and bucklers."
Sorn looked through it all with an abstract frown. "You have no heavier armaments than this?"
"But of course!" Vorbin said as if shocked at the suggestion of a lack. "Heavy field armor we have, but such is rarely used for urban fighting…" The man's voice broke off apprehensively as he caught Sorn's gaze.
"And you are saying, expecting battle as we may be this very eve, that the king’s own crack troops use nothing heavier than this?"
"Well of course they do, young sir, but most of the Royal Guardsmen keep their plate armor in their barracks, and further, they are of a training and strength to wield such comfortably whereas yourself…"
The man's voice once again died away and he cleared his throat as if to collect himself before continuing.
"Perhaps… perhaps I shall take you to the knights' armory and let you choose as you see fit."
"Perhaps that would be best," Sorn said mildly, and was quickly led into a nearby room where even then a number of men were being hastily strapped into sets of field plate, including some of the Royal Guards whom Sorn recognized but who only glanced at him curiously having only seen him as a crow. There was a second larger group of men being fitted separately from the Royal Guardsmen, easily differentiated by their arrogant gaze, overly fine tunics, and prickly demeanor, though they too seemed to be filled with a grim sense of purpose.
"Here now, smith, have you brought a page to assist us in equipping ourselves?" One of the men haughtily inquired of Vorbin.
"I fear not, good knight. Young Sorn here is here to be equipped much as yourselves, and I shall personally assist him as needed."
More than one of the knights cracked a smile at that, though the guardsmen all looked at Sorn with surprise and measured nods of respect, having at least heard the name attached to the rumors of deeds committed on behalf of the kingdom this night.
"Your joke is in poor taste, sirrah," the original knight said, giving Sorn a look filled with disdain. "That whelp has not the muscle to wield a lance, let alone wear our armor. He would tip over like a straw dummy!"
This was met with rough laughter from the fellow knights also being assisted into their field plate by their pages at that moment. The guardsmen, however, were noticeably silent, their suddenly cool looks causing at least a few of the knights to look askance at Sorn, as if wondering what they were missing.
Vorbin looked embarrassed by the situation, but Sorn only smiled, his eyes having caught the display of a number of well-polished suits of armor, some on stands, a few actually mounted in the hallway.
"Tell me, good smith, is the quality of steel of that suit of armor equal to that of the knight's full plate?"
Sorn pointed to one of the displays containing a suit of dark steel armor. It appeared heavier and thicker than the knights' own lighter field plate, and considerably so at that. Though it was not the most massive suit of armor to be found, it looked near enough in size to fit Sorn's frame. For all that the arms it had originally encased would have been considerably thicker than his own, the shoulder pieces did not appear to be too broad for his frame. This was an important point for Sorn, as he would still have an ideal range of motion when using his blade.
The smith blinked in surprise at Sorn's query, and this time all the knights laughed, as did a few of the guardsmen, certain that this, at least, was a jest.
"Indeed, Lord Sorn. It was crafted by some of the finest smiths of the south, almost a century ago. One of our very own kings did wear the suit in battle, for he was a very powerful man
, though not huge in stature, and was counted among the greatest of his own band of knights. In truth though, lad, he only wore it from horseback, and only for one campaign against Calandor, this being a time before we had made our final peace with our neighbor." Vorbin's voice was placatory as he spoke, as if not wanting to risk antagonizing this volatile looking youth.
"Please understand, good Sorn. In all likelihood, the king never even saw a lick of fighting. It was a siege, after all, and few would risk harm to their king. Yes, it's an impressive suit and sure enough would stop even a rain of siege crossbows from doing more than mar the finish, which was the chief specification the king had for the armor, not wanting to be plunked by any sniper as he cantered about the besieged Calandor's walls. In truth, young sir, only the most exotic crossbows could penetrate even the thinnest plates of steel. Most crossbows are simple affairs, with a short draw, and cannot even penetrate a mail hauberk, for all that it will bruise fiercely, if a padded gambeson isn't worn underneath. I doubt a man here is used to or favors the thought of fighting in steel that heavy or thick."
Sorn smiled. "And to think, it isn't even the largest suit of full plate here."
Vorbin nodded solemnly. "Very true, young sir, but the men who wore those suits of armor were giants and legends in their own day. 'Tis why the suits are displayed, for the sake of their history. And in truth, young sir, not a man wore them, save on horseback."
"Enough with this farce," the original knight said, his mocking humor giving way to a cold sneer. "Get this whelp and his ignorant ways out of our armory, smith, for we have the defense of our fair city to attend to, and no more time for jest."
Sorn's voice was cold and it was with the mind of Elthsiss that he spoke.
"'Tis fortunate that we fight in common cause, sir knight, for were you anything but an ally to our queen I would challenge you, mortal, for your mockery and condescension both, and upon victory I would tear off your skull and feast upon it, along with your quivering heart."
Sorn's eyes glared as his voice broke into a hiss that stilled the room entire. The armory was momentarily shocked into silence, all staring wide-eyed at Sorn.
The knight who had spoken was so startled that he found himself stumbling back, only to clatter amongst startled pages as pieces of his unsecured fieldplate scattered all over. His unintended buffoonery resulted in abrupt roars of laughter, breaking the tension and startlement of but a moment ago. It was, in fact, a relieved laughter, for it allowed all to remember Sorn's words from the soothing context of a jest upon the arrogant knight.
"Why you little whelp, I'll wipe the floor with your ass!" the knight roared, lurched to his feet, roughly shouldering aside his good-humored companion's attempt to hold him back from pummeling what was, after all, just a volatile young lordling, little more than a boy. Nonetheless, roaring and shaking free of his companions, he charged Sorn with fists raised, ignoring the now cold looks from the Royal Guard a half dozen yards away.
Sorn gave vent only to a grim smile, all too happy for this mild release from his mounting fury. He reminded himself that this foolish man was naught but a wayward defender of the king, and with that thought in mind he met the man's charge, ducking the man's roaring fist with a deftness that would do Captain Vrelin himself proud. Before the furious knight’s face could even register his consternation, Sorn responded with a lightning fast fist that lashed out so quickly against the man's chest plate that his look was one of utter incomprehension as he crashed to the ground a second time. Yet unlike the ribald laughter that had greeted the knights first fall, now the room was utterly still, the only noise to be heard being the poor knight gasping for breath as his stunned chest struggled to inflate once again.
Royal Guards and knights alike stood speechless, the normal loud clamoring bustle of the room eerily still for once, everyone's eyes were either riveted upon the countenance of the gasping knight, or the grimly smiling lad who had sent him crashing to the ground with such terrible ease, fist still raised from his strike.
For some moments, the prone man's ragged breathing was the only sound to be heard.
"My god. His hand. It's not even cut."
"His body didn't move an inch from the blow, stopped Perprin's charge like a brick wall..."
Sorn paid them no further heed, turning his gaze instead upon the startled looking smith.
"If you would be so kind as to assist me with the armor, I think I'll grab some garments from the other room for padding."
With that, he left the wide-eyed men in the room to gather what supplies he needed, though with his inhumanly sharp hearing he couldn't help overhearing the men's various whispered comments as he left.
"Kalar said there was something odd about him. Northern mage or some such, he said…"
"I heard he saved Elissa from certain death. Found her before she succumbed to poison, cast some northern spell..."
"It's said he has the king's favor..."
Shortly thereafter Sorn returned, the men now once again busily equipping themselves, the guardsmen giving him respectful nods. The knights no longer gazed at him with contempt, their stares now far more considering.
Perprin, red-faced and angry, did his best to avoid Sorn's gaze as he fumbled around putting his armor back in place, his suddenly distracted squire now gazing raptly at Sorn until Perprin gave him a smart cuff, startling the boy back to assisting his lord.
"Focus, boy! No knight would accept such a vacant-headed fool as you are turning out to be." Perprin's words were no doubt sharper than the boy merited, and Perprin's companions only snorted.
One of the older knights gave Sorn an appraising nod. "Boy's got a fist, he does. For certain, one of our fellow brethren has been training this squire in secret-like, so as to clean up in the tournaments. No doubt he thought he could accrue greater honor bringing his squire here to fight for Caverenoc in her time of need, thus assuring his House's glory in the saga the bards will no doubt one day sing of our great battles to come."
His companions nodded sagely at their fellow's insight, and strangely enough now seemed to look at Sorn as one of their own.
The man then turned to face Sorn, the hard line to his jaw and firmness of his pale blue gaze indicating that this was a man best not to underestimate, for all that his hair was speckled with gray.
"So tell us, lad, all on the level now, seeing as how your lord no doubt wants you to shine for the glory of his House, on behalf of whose banner do you fight?"
Sorn was of half a mind to dismiss the man's queries, then smiled with a sardonic humor all his own. "On behalf of none other than princess Elissa herself. It is for her, as for no other, that I shall aid Caverenoc in the destruction of all her foes."
The knights nodded sagely at this, though a few seemed puzzled.
"Stands to reason," one whispered to another. "It's been ages since the king squired knights of his own, and his majesty need bother with none but the best, in any case."
The man doing the whispering turned toward Sorn, who was at that moment having the heavy black breastplate latched on over not one but two layers of padding with a chain shirt between them, and which the weaponsmith knew better than to comment upon.
"You've got a fist, lad, I'll say that for you. So who's your teacher, young squire, to have trained you so well?"
Sorn turned his intent gaze upon the speaker. Strangely, the man flinched and stepped back, though Sorn was, if anything, smiling.
"My grandfather. And I am no squire, though my three cousins are."
The man wasn't quite sure what to make of this. He just nodded his head in acquiescence. "Blessings upon your House, then."
"Blessings." All the men said as if by reflex.
"Why, thank you," said a genuinely pleased Sorn, highly complimented by their regard for his House, even if in truth they knew not the extent of their compliment.
"And I in turn offer my apologies to Perprin. I spoke from a wrath he did naught to deserve, save for a few foolish comments."
Perprin for his part, just grumbled and looked away, obviously embarrassed to have been felled by one so young.
Vorbin was shaking his head and clucking, however, catching Sorn's attention.
"Well, the torso fits admirably well with your extra padding and all. However, though the arms are of a length, we are going to need several more layers of padding to allow for ideal comfort and fluidity. I'm sorry, my lord, but the original owner's arms were just a lot thicker than yours."
"Then let's do so."
The smith's tone turned conciliatory as he hastened to explain his concern. "You see, my lord, the problem is that your arms and legs will then have some four layers of padding. Excellent, perhaps, if you were to battle in the northern winter, but here in the south, I'm afraid you'll overheat in no time."
Sorn couldn't help laughing at that, though Vorbin was obviously at a loss to see the humor in the situation. "You need not fear for me upon that account, good smith. Just secure the padding and I will be fine, I assure you."
The smith, however, seemed reluctant. "But sir… I recognize the royal favor you have been bequeathed, and certainly you could order such from me, but it profits neither king nor yourself if you are protected from crossbow bolts, only to collapse of heat exhaustion."
The smith seemed hesitant to voice even this much doubt, but Sorn appreciated his good intentions, so simply smiled away his displeasure. "Good smith, you need not fear on my account. Just as many a mage is versed in wards of protection, so I too have access to wards that protect me from nature's elements, such as one against heat, humble cantrip that it is. Certainly it would keep me safe from too much padding, don't you think?"
The room once again fell quiet to be immediately taken up by animated whisperings wherein the phrases ‘squire mage' and ‘arcane knight' seemed to crop up with unusual frequency.
Peril & Profit Page 41
