HARRY BOLTMORE

Sparks flew, dancing in the dazzling brightness of the sun. Steel was on steel at every turn, and Harry found himself wheeling backwards as Drustan’s sword, the arming sword he had scoffed at, came crashing down on his longsword. Crescent moon, Ser Gale Mormont had called the one he held, the sword of a knight that has never lost a battle while wielding it, he had said. Harry bit his lower lips as another outswing came crashing down on his shield. He did not feel like a knight now, and this sword might sooner see its first defeat. It was so heavy.

There were cheers all around, but neither was for him. No one had to tell him, he was the one scrambling about on his feet, shielding and blocking blows all in hopes that none would fall on him. How pathetic he must look at this moment, to the king he wanted to stand beside as a knight, to the crowd that watched from above… and to his mother.

A sweat fell from a strand of his rough and tangled hair and into his right eye, causing him to close it for a split moment, but that was all Drustan needed to land the first strike of the fight. It came from his left, a low swing of Drustan’s sword, and Harry quickly dropped his elbow to shield the blade that came snarling towards his midsection, but that was all a decoy, and it made it impossible for him to neither block nor dodge nor do anything else about the shield that came to thump him viciously across the side of his face, sending him with a soar through the air and rolling onto the dust like a pig diving into a mud house it had prior been pried away from.

Harry did not plan to stay on the sand too long, he quickly jumped into a crouch, coughing as he did. The sand had gotten into his mouth and so did its dust with his nose, and a slight brook of blood had begun to trickle down from his forehead. He had never felt so humiliated before. How would the king see him? Could he ever hope to stand by the king with such a sorry state he was in? Never mind that, could he even hope to defeat one of the knights if he could not even fight Drustan, mere Drustan, without a single scratch? Pathetic… he spat at himself the same time he spat a bloody saliva to the ground.

“Wish Pyp and Walder were here, don’t you?” Drustan walked closer briskly, taunting him. The stupid faced boy had all the time in the world, no doubt, after all, it was he standing. Harry turned his face up at Drustan only to behold the annoying grin he always wore whenever he and his minions came to bully him. The faint moustache spiralling into existence above his lips made it even worse. “Said you could take all three of us, didn’t you? You can’t even take only me.” Drustan pointed his sword at Harry and made a gesture with it for him to rise, and a cheer erupted from the crowd, he had won their favour with it, they saw it as some sort of honour Drustan bestowed upon the weak crouching boy, but Harry heard what he said, and he did it out of anything but honour. “Get up, maggot, so I can fuck you in the ass like the little poaching bitch you are.”

Harry’s nose wrung up in irritation, more of it at himself than what Drustan had said. He sprang up to his feet and took a step backwards, away from the point of Drustan’s sword, the crowd roaring in a deafening response as he did. He had to win, he could never fathom himself losing to Drustan, not to Drustan. Not ever. The roars silenced quickly, as though they had never been there once, and replaced itself with gasps as he flung his shield away to the ground, taking a two-handed grip to his longsword, his right below the crossguard and his left just above the crescent moon pommel. This sword cannot lose, not today… he reassured himself.

Drustan looked at the shield Harry had thrown away then turned back to look at him, the smile that had been coming to his face before, retreating with haste like a lapping deer hunted by a hungry lion. He sucked air through his teeth angrily. “Again. You’re doing it again. You!” He plunged at Harry, the way he had been doing from the start, with a one-handed grip on his sword focused solely on attack, and his shield for his defence. There was a roar from the throng as they saw Drustan advance, and then there was an overhead swing from Drustan himself, his shield firmly placed across his chest while his sword tore through air as it fought its way athwart towards Harry’s neck.

Harry watched with dark-golden eyes brightened by the sun’s touch, taking his time since he could move better now than when he had been with the shield; he could feel it, he was lighter now. He turned the shimmering fine steel downwards aslant over his left shoulder to stop Drustan’s sword from feeling his neck, then he let his pommel hand lose, crescent moon to the eyes of all, and trapped Drustan’s sword-arm from underneath in his grip, before driving a kick through the boy-bully’s shield and sending him reeling backwards on the sand. The cheers came for him now, he knew, they were loud.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Drustan was not pleased, he never was with Harry. The only thing that could please him was to humiliate Harry at this very moment, but somehow the boy had tossed his shield aside and now he was a better fighter. Drustan spat and dropped his own shield too. “Sword to sword, no shields,” he yelled, confidently. Harry said not a word in reply.

But someone from the gallery did. “A night with me boy, if you win,” the person had shouted, a woman, her voice making its way through the cheers to find their ears, they did not know who she was speaking to, but both of them knew better than to glance up to check.

Maybe when he won he would know, Harry thought.

They ran at themselves and began to clash steel with steel, one shorter than the other but none a less deadly foe.

A little over five times Harry had been able to avoid one of Drustan’s dangerous blows, but the ones he could not dodge fell on his breastplate instead. He would get himself an earful from little Wymar after the bout ended that was for sure.

He jumped back away from Drustan trying to give himself some space and a breather, and that was when he noticed he had been cut. There was a narrow gash about his triceps, and the blood which poured down from it had ruined his grey tunic and was still ruining it further. It was now hard for him to grip his sword as tight as he had been doing before without pain. The time was short, he had to end this fight now. He needed to switch from his defensive swordplay and go on the offensive, but he wondered how he could do that without chopping off an arm or a leg of Drustan’s. It was a tourney, not a fight to the death, and even though the boy was his bully, he could not see himself ending his life here.

Harry took his stance again, but this time, gripping the hilt of his blade more softly, he did not need the blood rushing out anymore faster than it already was. It also seemed as though Drustan had needed that breather as well, and as he took his time taking it, not wanting to charge first, Harry noticed his way to win. He had been watching for a while, and he had noticed it, but he never put it to mind until now. Drustan’s sword grip was faulty. His palms were clutched on each other just beneath the crossguard of his sword, he had only managed to use it well so far because he had fought with a shield and it was a short sword.

But not any longer. Harry had seen it now and he was going to take advantage. He would pry the sword off of Drustan’s hands, with such a lacklustre grip it should be easy to do, and make him yield, that way he would not have to chop anything off. He took the first lunge now, Harry, with hopes of putting this fight to bed, he rushed straight at Drustan, who steadied himself ready.

He thrust his sword forward at Drustan, sword point aiming at his chest, but it was duly parried by the boy-bully, only it was what Harry sought after. Harry let his grip free from the hilt of his sword, leaving it to crash, and at the same time left a grimace of dumbfoundedness on Drustan’s face as he left-handedly cupped the back of the lopsided boy’s head in an inverse, and fiercely shoved a thigh up against his stomach where his breastplate had no leeway to help. Drustan gasped painfully, devoid of air, but he did not let go of his sword, and that sent Harry scurrying quickly behind him with a low slide, and silently scooping up a handful of sand in his palms, concealing it as he hurried over to the other side where his longsword had fallen and picking it up again.

Drustan had fallen on one knee, but now he jumped back to his feet, anger mingled with a soft pain evident all over his face as he hurried at Harry, sword in hand and one foot carefully placed before the other in a fit of rage and dash.

He took a left swing of his sword as soon as he found Harry, but Harry was deft on his feets, jumping a foot backwards and side stepping out of its way with a narrow backbend as the slash came to pass near his neck, and then, the sand he had scooped up, he emptied all over Drustan’s face, leaving the boy utterly blind.

Harry kicked Drustan on the back of his knee, sending the blind boy down, and after he turned the pommel of his sword out, making use of it’s crescent moon to hit Drustan’s wrist and falling the arming sword the boy-bully had once held, in a queer manner, to the ground, before he kicked it away, pointing his longsword at him just below his chin as he did.

Drustan’s eyes opened now after it was all done, but he could not move. It was a win for Harry, but it seemed the crowd did not know it yet as much as he did with all the silence they left in the wake of the battle. Harry Boltmore smirked with a scoff, and it might have been the first time Drustan had succeeded to get a reaction out of him. “You’re lucky it’s a tourney, or I’d be fucking you in the ass right now.” Then the roar came. Now they knew he had won.