Training
Sir Kay folded his hands behind his back, a posture that looked as professional as his ever-inscrutable expression as he observed the
courtyard below. Really, though, it was so the man next to him couldn’t see the white knuckles on his nervously clenched fists.
His companion was the swordmaster Gilbert Prellis: a stoic, mustached warrior who had been a part of Piddiran Castle for as long as Kay could recall.
“He’s made steady progress with this technique,” Prellis said, gesturing to the courtyard, which was shaded by the tall walls of the upper bailey.
Down below, two figures sparred—one, a tall knight called Roland temporarily lodged at the castle; the other, a ten-year-old boy with dark hair, small for his age but keeping up steadily. The visiting knight’s moves were deliberate and predictable, guiding the child through each form while keeping up a stream of cheerful banter, tips, and encouragement.
“I told Roland to just let him practice drilling in the basics,” Prellis said. “It’s helpful to learn them from someone other than me, y’know, to get another angle on it all. But,” he said with a grin, “I said, if it seems like the lad’s getting complacent, go ahead and throw in a more advanced move, to see how he reacts. Test his instincts, y’know.”
“Of course,” Kay replied, rubbing his thumb between his fingers. He had to consciously unclench his jaw as he watched Roland switch up his parries suddenly, causing the boy to stumble forward as the momentum of his blade met empty air.
“Whoops! Careful there, kid,” the knight’s voice echoed up to where Kay and Prellis stood watching. “What did I do there?”
“You switched,” said Kay’s son, his red ears visible even from up there.
“Exactly. You thought I’d go over here—” he swung his blade to the right, “—but I chose to go up here.” He bought his hand up and angled the sword downward. “Watch my wrist. Don’t anticipate, react. Got it?”
He nodded, wiping the sweat from his face and reentering his ready stance. “Got it.”
“Okay, let’s try that again.”
Sir Kay had been fine when his son learned fencing with wooden practice swords. The training was useful, necessary. But every time he saw a real blade in Kirt’s hand, it made him shudder. However careful they were, he knew that sooner or later something would go wrong. What if he gets hurt? What if they overestimate what he can do?
He turned to Prellis. “How much longer will he be on this track?”
The master swordsman folded his arms, squinting his eyes in thought. “Oh, I’d say we can try something new in the next month or so. Throw a saber in his hand, start getting him used to fighting on horseback, y’know.”
“But—” Sir Kay swallowed, a pressure mounting in his chest. “Are you sure he’s ready for that?”
Prellis eyed him quizically. “I just said so.”
“Yes. Yes, but look at him. He’s doing all right with the standard forms, I suppose… and suns, I wish Roland would stop doing those random moves…”
“With all due respect, sir, how else will he learn?”
As if on cue, the visiting knight chose that moment to lunge forward, catching Kirt off guard. He yelped and danced out of the way, trying—rather creatively, Kay had to admit, even as his heart stopped for a moment—to beat Roland’s blade and go in for his own attack, but the move was clumsy.
“Kirt!” he shouted, helpless from his vantage point.
His son turned for a split second, his brown eyes going wide as he realized his father was watching him spar. In his distraction, he shuffled to the side, careening toward the sharp edge of the knight’s sword. Roland registered this and tried to move out of the way, but it was too late.
There was a “Whoa there!” and an “Ow!” followed by a thud and another, louder “Ow!”
Kirt was on the ground, clutching a scraped knee while a thin line of blood began to appear on his forearm where Roland’s sword had nicked him. The knight immediately knelt next to the boy, who had started to cry—from being startled more than any kind of pain. “Hey, kid, I’m sorry. You all right? Let’s get you washed up.”
The boy nodded and climbed to his feet with the help of Roland’s steady hand. He cast one glance back at his father and turned away immediately, his head bowed, his ears scarlet, as he limped back to the southern tower.
Kay watched him go, gripping the stone wall of the balcony until his breathing eased. That was too close.
With fiery eyes, he rounded on Prellis. “He is not ready. Keep him on this style until he doesn’t make mistakes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want perfection, Prellis.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll check on him again in two months, and I want to see progress.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kay folded his hands behind himself again. “That… that is all. Thank you.” Turning away, he strode back into the castle.
courtyard below. Really, though, it was so the man next to him couldn’t see the white knuckles on his nervously clenched fists.
His companion was the swordmaster Gilbert Prellis: a stoic, mustached warrior who had been a part of Piddiran Castle for as long as Kay could recall.
“He’s made steady progress with this technique,” Prellis said, gesturing to the courtyard, which was shaded by the tall walls of the upper bailey.
Down below, two figures sparred—one, a tall knight called Roland temporarily lodged at the castle; the other, a ten-year-old boy with dark hair, small for his age but keeping up steadily. The visiting knight’s moves were deliberate and predictable, guiding the child through each form while keeping up a stream of cheerful banter, tips, and encouragement.
“I told Roland to just let him practice drilling in the basics,” Prellis said. “It’s helpful to learn them from someone other than me, y’know, to get another angle on it all. But,” he said with a grin, “I said, if it seems like the lad’s getting complacent, go ahead and throw in a more advanced move, to see how he reacts. Test his instincts, y’know.”
“Of course,” Kay replied, rubbing his thumb between his fingers. He had to consciously unclench his jaw as he watched Roland switch up his parries suddenly, causing the boy to stumble forward as the momentum of his blade met empty air.
“Whoops! Careful there, kid,” the knight’s voice echoed up to where Kay and Prellis stood watching. “What did I do there?”
“You switched,” said Kay’s son, his red ears visible even from up there.
“Exactly. You thought I’d go over here—” he swung his blade to the right, “—but I chose to go up here.” He bought his hand up and angled the sword downward. “Watch my wrist. Don’t anticipate, react. Got it?”
He nodded, wiping the sweat from his face and reentering his ready stance. “Got it.”
“Okay, let’s try that again.”
Sir Kay had been fine when his son learned fencing with wooden practice swords. The training was useful, necessary. But every time he saw a real blade in Kirt’s hand, it made him shudder. However careful they were, he knew that sooner or later something would go wrong. What if he gets hurt? What if they overestimate what he can do?
He turned to Prellis. “How much longer will he be on this track?”
The master swordsman folded his arms, squinting his eyes in thought. “Oh, I’d say we can try something new in the next month or so. Throw a saber in his hand, start getting him used to fighting on horseback, y’know.”
“But—” Sir Kay swallowed, a pressure mounting in his chest. “Are you sure he’s ready for that?”
Prellis eyed him quizically. “I just said so.”
“Yes. Yes, but look at him. He’s doing all right with the standard forms, I suppose… and suns, I wish Roland would stop doing those random moves…”
“With all due respect, sir, how else will he learn?”
As if on cue, the visiting knight chose that moment to lunge forward, catching Kirt off guard. He yelped and danced out of the way, trying—rather creatively, Kay had to admit, even as his heart stopped for a moment—to beat Roland’s blade and go in for his own attack, but the move was clumsy.
“Kirt!” he shouted, helpless from his vantage point.
His son turned for a split second, his brown eyes going wide as he realized his father was watching him spar. In his distraction, he shuffled to the side, careening toward the sharp edge of the knight’s sword. Roland registered this and tried to move out of the way, but it was too late.
There was a “Whoa there!” and an “Ow!” followed by a thud and another, louder “Ow!”
Kirt was on the ground, clutching a scraped knee while a thin line of blood began to appear on his forearm where Roland’s sword had nicked him. The knight immediately knelt next to the boy, who had started to cry—from being startled more than any kind of pain. “Hey, kid, I’m sorry. You all right? Let’s get you washed up.”
The boy nodded and climbed to his feet with the help of Roland’s steady hand. He cast one glance back at his father and turned away immediately, his head bowed, his ears scarlet, as he limped back to the southern tower.
Kay watched him go, gripping the stone wall of the balcony until his breathing eased. That was too close.
With fiery eyes, he rounded on Prellis. “He is not ready. Keep him on this style until he doesn’t make mistakes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want perfection, Prellis.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll check on him again in two months, and I want to see progress.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kay folded his hands behind himself again. “That… that is all. Thank you.” Turning away, he strode back into the castle.