CHAPTER 9
One lie is enough to undo a man.
Exhaustion hounded Saviar as he stumbled over the threshold to the practice courtyard set in the middle of the castle grounds. It had become familiar over the past few days, yet Saviar still marveled at its size and scope. Constructed for multiple uses: guards, members of the royal family, visiting dignitaries, and the Renshai who guarded the heirs, it seemed well suited to their many styles of combat.
An enormous rack near the door held a variety of weapons, the like of which Saviar had never seen. Swords of myriad types alternated with axes, lances, and spears. Staves and hammers held their places, along with incomprehensible polearms that combined loops, scoops, and points with blades. Shields and helmets, sticks and bones, lumpy wooden-and-iron implements that seemed little better than clubs: everything had a place in the practice courtyard of Bearn. They all had one thing in common to Saviar's mind; only the most desperate warrior would use them. The blade edges were notched, cracked, and blunted, the points worn down to bruising nubbins.
The terrain also ran the gamut, mostly vast open space. In one area, someone had built a crude series of ceilingless rooms, including a spiral staircase, apparently as preparation for indoor battles. Another area, the one Saviar had thus far chosen, had sticks and stones strewn over it in random patterns, along with a tattered pack spewing rotten boots and clothing. The left boot sole had become a convincing nemesis, having already turned his ankle twice.
For a change of pace, Saviar chose an open area, though many of his torke would have admonished him. "Tiredness is not an excuse for laziness," Kyntiri often told them. "When you're sick, shy of sleep, or injured is the best time to push yourself past any limits. Your enemies will not give you quarter for weakness, and the worst of them will target those most-vulnerable moments." Driving the words from his mind, along with the accompanying guilt, Saviar drew his sword, parried an invisible blade, and cut for his nonexistent opponent all in the same smooth motion.
Fatigue seemed to lift from Saviar's body as he launched into a complicated svergelse. He spent hours performing sword maneuvers daily, yet he never tired of them. At times, he did not want to start; but, once he did, he always found that strange, soaring pinnacle of joy that his torke so often lauded. His sword dipped, cut, and wove through the air, the breeze of its motion cooling limbs swiftly bathed in sweat. His sword became an extension of his arm, moving swifter than the eye could follow.
Saviar leaped and parried, thrust and slashed through an army of enemies, his pace never faltering and his mind never budging from his svergelse and imagined foes. He cut through a dozen, then a score, battling them in pairs and trios, midgets and giants, fast and slow. His defense was movement; Renshai relied on nothing else. Battle was life, was death, and everything between them.
The door creaked open. Alert to movement, Saviar knew it at once, pausing in his lethal dance to gauge the intruder. In battle mode, his mind sought clues as to the intention of the other, cautious friend or lethal foe. He had wholly forgotten his location, the inner sanctum of Bearn, where no enemy could enter without first undergoing the scrutiny of an entire force of kingdom guards.
The newcomer was a stranger, an adolescent male with pale, rugged features, blond braids, and alert, blue eyes. He wore an emerald-colored tunic of odd design, cut low in the back, and heavy woolen leggings. Leather, thick-soled sandals hugged his feet, the laces criss crossing up his britches to disappear beneath his skirting. A broadsword that looked too big for him swung at his side, and he clasped a huge, studded shield in his hand.
Saviar caught himself staring. By coloring, the youngster could easily have passed for Renshai if not for his bulk and the shield. Blocking blows with anything but one's own blade was considered cowardice by Renshai. Could this be a Northman?
The newcomer met Saviar's stare with a smile. "Hullo." He spoke the Common Trading tongue with a heavy, musical accent. "My name is Verdondi Eriksson."
Saviar did the only polite thing. "Saviar." He lowered his weapon. "Uh, Ra-khirsson."
"Uhlrrakirsson?" Verdondi's eyes narrowed in clear confusion. "That sounds like a Northern name."
Saviar grinned at the misconception. "My father is Ra-khir, not Uhlrrakir. The "uh" part was just my incompetent stuttering."
Verdondi laughed, then his lids drooped further and his fair brow crinkled. "So, Ra-khir is a… an… Erythanian name?"
Now it was Saviar's turn to laugh. "Not exactly. His father named him Rawlin; his stepfather, Khirwith, called him Khirwithson and tried to lose the original name. As I understand it, my child-papa got it all blended together and the new mess stuck."
"So his stepfather would have had him being Khirwithson Khirwithsson?"
"Apparently." Saviar had never thought about it in detail. In Verdondi's voice, though, the name sounded stupid, which seemed appropriate. Ra-khir rarely spoke of his stepfather; but, when he did, Khirwith came off clownish and dull. "Ra-khir even has a hyphen in the middle."
This time, they laughed together.
Verdondi pulled at his leggings, bunched beneath the leather straps. "So, Saviar Rah-hyphen-khirsson. How about a spar?"
Saviar accepted in a heartbeat. He had often longed to try his hand against a stranger, especially one his own age.
Verdondi unsheathed his sword, laying it gently on the rack. He sifted through the Bearnian weapons, choosing a similar sword and cramming it into his emptied sheath. When Saviar made no similar move, Verdondi eyed his opponent's more slender sword, then picked one of similar size. He headed toward Saviar, offering the hilt. "Here."
Saviar accepted the inferior weapon, staring at the blunted edges, the notches, the broken tip. No Renshai would be caught dead on his pyre with such a pitiful excuse for a sword. "What's this?"
Verdondi stared. "Your practice weapon, of course. You didn't think we were going to spar with live steel, did you? Someone might get hurt."
"Um." Saviar recovered quickly, cheeks hot with embarrassment. He should know better. Though Renshai never stooped to using blunted weapons, the Knights of Erythane considered them a normal and safe part of training. "Of course. I'm sorry. Stupid of me." Reluctantly, he placed his regular sword on the rack and replaced it with the practice blade. "So, where did you want to spar? Field, forest, or indoors?"
Verdondi looked over the practice area, head bobbing. "I've never fought in a castle before. Let's try indoors, if you don't mind."
"Not at all." When Saviar had first arrived in Bearn, he had found himself intrigued by the castle facade training area as well. He headed toward it, Verdondi trailing.
"So what's an Erythanian doing in Bearn anyway?" the Northman asked as they walked. "You don't seem old enough for the army."
Saviar gritted his teeth. Though larger than most Renshai his age, he apparently still appeared somewhat younger. Calistin had already fought in a few battles on the shoreline, but Saviar could not join him until he passed his tests of manhood. "My grandfather's the captain of the Knights of Erythane, and my father's a knight, too."
"Really?"Verdondi sounded so excited, Saviar turned to face him. "Your father and grandfather are knights?"
"Yes." Saviar studied the young Northman. "Do you know of them?"
"The Knights of Erythane? Who doesn't know of the Knights of Erythane?"
Saviar had no answer, so he continued to the simulated castle interior.
"Competent and honorable warriors are appreciated everywhere."
Now in place, Saviar faced his new companion again. He gained a new appreciation for the paternal side of his family. He had become so accustomed to the Renshai belittling the knights' rigid code, to the normalcy of skilled swordwork. Until this trip, he had never realized just how much the populace adored and respected the knights or how far their influence extended. "That's good to know."