Doom of the Darksword - Margaret Weis [52]
Joram hesitated, studying the Prince with his dark eyes, searching for the man’s motive behind this show of interest.
Undoubtedly he wants to learn more about the sword, Joram thought. Perhaps even take if from me. What a charmer he is — almost as good as Simkin. I was duped by him last night. I won’t be today. I’ll go along with this, if I can truly learn something. If not, I’ll leave. And if he tries to take the sword, I’ll kill him.
Anticipating the chili air, Joram reached for his cloak, but the Prince stepped on it with his foot. “No, no, my friend,” Garald said, “you’ll be warm enough soon. Very warm indeed.”
An hour later, laying flat on his back on the frozen ground, the breath knocked from his body and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, Joram thought no more of his cloak.
The steel blade of the Prince’s sword slammed into the ground near him, so close that he flinched.
“Right through the throat,” Garald remarked. “And you never saw it coming….”
“It wasn’t a fair fight,” Joram muttered. Accepting the Prince’s hand, he heaved himself to his feet, swallowing a groan. “You tripped me!”
“My dear young man,” said Garald impatiently, “when you draw that sword in earnest, it is — or should be — a matter of life and death. Your life and your opponent’s death. Honor is a very fine thing, but the dead have little use for it.”
“A pretty speech, coming from you,” mumbled Joram, massaging his aching jaw and spitting out blood.
“I can afford honor,” Garald said with a shrug. “I am a skilled swordsman. I have trained in the art for years. You, on the other hand, cannot. There is no way, in the short time we have together, that I can teach you even a part of the intricate techniques of sword fighting. What I can teach you is how to survive against a skilled opponent long enough to permit you to call upon the sword’s … um … powers to defeat him.
“Now” — more briskly — “you try it. Look, your attention was concentrated on the sword in my hands. Thus I was able to bring my foot around, catch you behind the heel, drag you off balance, and clout you in the face with the hilt like this —” Garald demonstrated, stopping just short of Joram’s bruised cheek. “Now you try it. Good! Good!” the Prince cried, tumbling down. “You’re quick and strong. Use that to your advantage.” He rose to his feet, taking no note of the mud on his fine clothes.
Stepping into a fighting stance, he raised his sword and grinned at Joram.
“Shall we have a go at it again?”
Hours passed. The sun rose in the sky and, though the day was far from warm, both men soon stripped off their shirts. Their labored breathing misted the air about them; the ground soon looked as though a small army had fought over it. The forest rang with the sound of blade against blade. Finally, when both were so exhausted they could do nothing but lean upon their weapons and gasp for breath, the Prince called a halt.
Sinking down on a boulder warmed by the sun, he motioned for Joram to sit beside him. The young man did so, panting and wiping his face. Blood seeped from numerous cuts and scratches on his arms and legs. His jaw was swollen and aching, several teeth had been knocked loose, and he was so tired that even breathing seemed an effort. But it was a good kind of tiredness. He’d held his own against the Prince in their last few passes and had, once, even knocked the sword from Garald’s hand.
“Water,” the Prince muttered, glancing about. A waterskin lay near their shirts — far across the clearing. With a weary gesture, Garald motioned for the waterskin to come to them. It obeyed, but the Prince was so tired that he had little energy to expend in magic. Consequently, the waterskin dragged itself across the ground, rather than flying swiftly through the air.
“It looks like I feel!” Garald