At this further assault, Arwain had weakened a little, but still he held. ‘I've every faith in you and your men, Ryllans,’ he said, airily. ‘I'm sure that we'll be able to work out arrangements that will satisfy your concerns.'
Ryllans had bowed and then made his frontal attack. Fixing his lord with a polite but unflinching gaze, he said, ‘All defences can be overcome, given time, knowledge and resolution, sir. This you know from your studies. And anyone seeking your life will have these resources and also the benefit of surprise. Surround you as we may, there will always be that one moment of inattention. That opening in the shield wall for a stray arrow.’ His voice had dropped. ‘And, sir, we each of us have our price. Something, somewhere. Those who stand closest to you, armed, will be your enemies’ first choice as weapons. It was ever thus. You know this too from your studies, I'm sure.'
The clarity of vision in this remark had truly shocked and frightened Arwain, such was the reputation of the Mantynnai for loyalty and such was the faith placed in them by his father. He wavered visibly and Ryllans moved in and quietly finished him off. ‘And then there is the protection of your intended, sir. The Lady Yanys…'
Ryllans’ instruction had, however, been as far from Arwain's basic training as he could possibly have imagined. Indeed, it proved to be a continuing revelation and Arwain found a new quality developing within himself that seemed to affect almost his every action.
Not that many of the things he learned seemed, at first glance, to be very different from what he already knew. The slight changes that the Mantynnai showed him however, made them vastly different, at once easier to execute and more powerful in their effect.
'Where did you learn these things from?’ he asked once in the early days. ‘From some secret warrior sect?'
Ryllans had laughed outright. ‘No, no. What we know is far too simple to be kept secret. That's why it's so difficult for people to see it.'
'I don't understand,’ Arwain had replied, oscillating between plaintiveness and irritation.
'Just practice,’ was all that Ryllans would offer him. ‘And think. And feel.'
What won Arwain over eventually, however, was the spirit of learning and humble inquiry that permeated his new training, so utterly different was it from the brutal savagery inherent in much of his previous experience.
Now, Arwain relished his practice sessions with the Mantynnai, finding them both relaxing and stimulating if, occasionally, shattering. He sensed too that he was also being surreptitiously forged and strengthened to become part of the team that was his bodyguard.
'Better the shell, than the shrimp within,’ Ryllans had said once, casually, but with some amusement.
Arwain was greeted by the men as he approached. They were laughing at the double entrance he had had to make. Here he was not their lord, he was one of them … or nearly so. For though they were seemingly no more than men, relaxed and humorous, they were also Mantynnai. A dark bonding stillness lay at their heart.
'Having to practice door opening now?’ came one voice, with a despairing, motherly sigh.
'Don't worry, it's harder than it looks, but you'll pick it up eventually,’ came another.
Arwain turned to Ryllans in mock appeal against this welcome.
'Just practice,’ was the dismissive reply. ‘Hadryn, as we discussed, help the lord with his close-quarter work, one against many. He's still showing too much inclination to lose his awareness when he's dealt with one.’ Hadryn was a tall, black-bearded man, loose-limbed and powerful. He nodded. ‘For the moment, unarmed,’ Ryllans continued.
He turned back to Arwain. ‘Work hard on this.’ He tapped his head with his finger. ‘You turn your mind away too easily and it'll get your throat cut. You still think in terms of victory and defeat, and while you do that you will always be defeated.'
Arwain had seen this form of training and even participated in it to some extent as an attacker, but it was a form that was liable to be more frightening for the attackers than the single ‘victim’ and he had ended with an acute sense of his own inadequacy.
As Ryllans walked away towards another group of guards, he clapped his hands loudly. Arwain's assailants moved purposefully towards him.
For an instant, all Arwain's training seemed to leave him, but he retained sufficient wit to realize that someone might be behind him, and he turned round quickly as he retreated.
Then one of the attackers charged at him suddenly, levelling a powerful blow at his head. Arwain knew that the blow would be reduced in force if he faltered and failed to take action, but that did little to reassure the response of his body to the onslaught, and he ducked wildly, just remembering to step to one side as he did.
Then came another and another. Most he avoided successfully, though gracelessly. Others he managed to avoid and deflect, but eventually, fortuitously finding himself on balance, he stepped deeply into one, swept the striking arm downward and threw the attacker towards two of the others who were just approaching. It prompted an ironic round of applause, then, as he paused to watch his assailant roll back up on to his feet, a powerful pair of arms encircled him and two of his attackers gleefully moved forward to seize his legs.
Ryllans, practicing swordwork nearby, favoured him with a knowingly raised eyebrow as he was dumped ignominiously on the hard stone flagging. It was a customary end to such exercises. Or was it?
Arwain rolled suddenly into the nearest pair of legs, causing their owner to lose balance, then he struggled to his feet as quickly as he could, turning to face his attackers as he did so.
A white smile parted Hadryn's black beard.
Then there was some explanation, some debate, a few brief demonstrations, and the exercise was repeated-several times.
Gradually the sweating figures made a mist of their own in the sealed courtyard as Arwain struggled to be calm and yet alert amid the plethora of attackers.
He knew that he was making progress but, as he practiced, he knew too that he could never be as these men were. They absorbed his wilder punches with such ease, either by solid and painful blocks or by gentle deflections that took his balance utterly. And when thrown they simply rolled back up on to their feet as if they had been training on soft spring turf. True, he could do that himself, but two small bones at the bottom of his back told him he did not do it so well, and usually told him for several days afterwards.
Then there was an unexpected voice close behind him.
'Lord.'
He spun round, seized the speaker by the throat with one powerful hand, and thrust him against the wall, only to let him go immediately amid some laughter from his companions.
The man was one of the Duke's messengers.
'Tut tut,’ someone whispered in his ear ironically. ‘Assault on a Ducal messenger. That's a summary flogging if the Liktors get to hear of it, I fear. Shall I call one?'
Arwain dismissed his tormentor with a push.
'I'm sorry,’ he said to the messenger, helping him vainly to straighten his rumpled collar. ‘I'm afraid you picked an inopportune moment to approach me. What is it you want?'
The messenger cleared his throat in a slightly injured manner, though directing his reproach at the smirking guards rather than his Duke's son.
'Your father wishes to see you, lord, immediately,’ he said.
Arwain could not forbear a brief scowl of impatience. But his father's word was not to be disputed.
He held out his hands in a plea. ‘Immediately?’ he asked. The messenger, still struggling with his collar, looked at the sweat-stained figure in front of him, momentarily bewildered. Lords did not ask advice of messengers.