Sweat glistened upon Horace’s tanned skin; sandy-brown hair disheveled as he pulled his helmet from his head. Both his smile and emerald eyes glittered with joy as he looked down upon his sparing partner. A son of a noble who had been boasting about his skill with the rapier.
In twelve exchanges, the noble’s son had only managed to land one touch upon Horace.
As his opponent climbed from the dirt, he let out a chain of curses while bashing his training sword against the ground. “You only won because you had better gear.”
That got a chuckle from Horace. “It’s not the gear,” he tried to offer advice. “You need to work on your footing if—”
“My stance was perfect!” It seemed the boy was not willing to take any word against his skills. Even if he truly needed the help. Not uncommon for those born into noble families. Spoiled all their life, always getting what they want even if it was not deserved.
Watching the boy who was only three years his junior throw such a fit made Horace glad his father had never bent the truth to please him. Every mistake he made had been beaten into him until he learned to do better. “Another round?” he offered.
The noble’s son looked to him. “Fine, but we exchange swords.” There was no reason to deny this request. Once the two had traded blades and taken position, the next round began. And as he had before, the noble’s son overextended his lunge. Throwing himself off balance and giving him no room to retreat.
With ease, Horace batted away the intended thrust and countered with his own. Landing dead center of his opponent’s mask.
Frustrated by his loss, the spoiled brat went to strike Horace with a cut. Having waited until he had taken his helmet off.
With no blade to defend himself—both hands still held the mask—Horace needed to react quick. Using his protective headpiece as a makeshift shield, the blow was stopped. And before either could process what had just happened, Horace had tackled the younger boy to the ground. Pinning him by his shoulders. Still wearing a smile. “That was dangerous. Don’t do that again.”
The boy managed to free himself from under Horace. Quickly throwing away all his protective gear. “There’s no way you beat me. No one beats me, especially not some common fool.”
Horace had to stifle a laugh. He wondered how the boy would react if he knew that he was also noble born. Though, he would never reveal his heritage as the last remaining Vickery. He was still unsure who had raided his family’s home, but he could never be sure it hadn’t come from a rival family. He’d seen no one searching for remnants of his family, so he assumed whoever had attacked his family thought them all dead. And until he knew more, he was in no rush to announce he was still alive.
“If we were using real blades,” continued the noble’s son, “I would have ended your life.” He flinched as the training rapier passed by his head only inches from his ear.
“If we weren’t using blunted blades,” Horace’s tone was cold. “You would be dead before you drew your sword.” With a flourish, he withdraw his blade to his side. “But we don’t need to worry about such things. I thank you for the match.”
It was only now that he noticed the crowd that had gathered to watch their combat. He nervously rubbed the nape of his neck as he looked upon the couple dozen people. It had been some time since he had a crowd. He’d never done well with the masses. When fighting Horace had a tendency to focus in on the fight itself. Nothing in the outside world existed. Only him and his opponent in that moment. But once the fight was over and his adrenaline began to die, he was nothing but a flustered mess.
From the crowd approached a woman who looked to be about Horace’s age. Her copper hair was kept braided in a short ponytail; eyes deep as the sea, wearing old leather armor with a sword at her side. From the hardened look on her face, one could assume she was some kind of mercenary. “You know your way around a weapon,” she said. Wearing a face of stone.
“I had a great teacher,” Horace replied. “I appreciate your praise. You certainly know what you’re talking about I’m sure.”
“Saphyr,” she said with an extended hand.
“Horace,” he took her grip, not expecting her to pull him in for a hug. Only to then feel the cold blade of a dagger press against his neck. “Is this supposed to be some kind of lesson?”
“You aren’t afraid?” Her blade withdrew from his flesh as she pushed him away. “I could use someone like you for a job. You ever hunt criminals before?”
Horace crossed his arms over his chest. “Not the best way to go about recruiting people. I might get the impression you can’t be trusted. That this is all a trap to ambush me once we’re out of town.”
Saphyr began to show cracks. A smile, faint as it was, appeared momentarily on her face. “A good head, skill with a sword. Now I truly do want you to tag along. But the choice is yours.”
“What’s the job?” Horace kept his distance, but fell into a more relaxed pose.
“A simple one. A few bandits have been spotted camped not far from here. Take them out, bring back proof. Profit. Easy enough.”
“And how many people do you have with you?”
“Well, so far it’s just me.”
Horace looked her over again. She was certainly no damsel. He was sure that a simple job like this would be something she could handle on her own. So why was it that she wanted him to join with her? Still, he was running low on funds. And he could use a good fight, seeing as everyone in Sanghorn barely knew what they were doing. Even that noble’s kid had failed to show any real talent or promise.
“When do you leave?”
“First light,” Saphyr answered. “You have until then to come up with an answer. I’ll be staying at the Slumbering Nook. Either meet me there or at the eastern gate at sunrise if you choose to join me. I’ll wait a half hour for you to show. No more.”
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She then disappeared into the crowd once more. Leaving Horace to himself with a lot to consider.
It was not long before he came to the decision to join with her on this job. There was no harm in helping someone with a bandit raid. And if it was a trap, it was not like he was defenseless. Even if they outnumbered him by a dozen, he was confident in his ability to fend them off long enough to escape. But he would still wait until the morning came before meeting up with this woman again. Giving himself time to gather what supplies he could with his remaining coin. Not to mention that he would need to tend to his gear.
Wandering through Sanghorn, Horace made his way to the tanner. The bracers he’d been wearing were in need of some repair. Plus, his short sword could use a new wrapping on the handle. In the last week it had begun to fray.
The elderly man who ran the shop—who almost appeared to be made of leather himself—inspected the items. “I can wrap the sword,” he said with curled lips, “but the bracers are too damaged. Best you just replace them. I have a pair I can offer you cheap. With the handle wrapping, it will cost about seven silver pieces.”
Horace opened his purse. With only three eight gold to his name, he was pleased to find such a great deal. He handed over one gold piece and was given three silver in return.
The man handed him the new bracers. The quality was not what Horace would have wanted, but they were functional. He was then told that he could pick his sword up in about an hour’s time: two at most. Which gave him time to hunt down a place to eat.
Not wanting to spend too much on dinner, he settled on going to the tavern on the north side of Sanghorn. Better known as the Lowers, as it was where those with economic struggles lived. It hadn’t taken long to find a tavern as they were plentiful on that side of town. However, most were rather rundown, filthy, and filled with crowds of drunkards he had no patience for that night.
In the end he settled on a smaller establishment known as the Sick Goose. It had less foot traffic than the other taverns, but had managed to stay cleaner than the others at the same time.
As he walked through the threshold, he was greeted by the smells of fresh bread, stew, and some kind of meat roasting over an open flame out for all to see.
A woman in what appeared to be her mid-thirties stood behind the counter. She seemed to be the owner of the place. At first glance she gave an approving nod to Horace and then waved for him to find a seat.
Not long after a barmaid came and took his order. Swiftly returning with a bowl of potato stew, six thick slabs of pork, three rolls of blackened bread with butter, and two pints of ale. At the price of a gold and two silver, he was unable to complain about the blandness to the stew or the burnt bits of bread. The pork and ale, however, were superb and well prepared.
As he finished the first pint halfway through his meal, the barmaid returned to the table with a tankard of water. If he had wanted, Horace could have ordered more ale. But the two pints were more than enough for him that night. Any more and he would have a difficult time waking before sunrise.
By the time he was finished with his meal, the woman from behind the bar took a seat opposite of him. “You look familiar,” she said leaning back. Chewing on mint leaves as she examined him. “You been here before?”
“First time in town,” he answered. Finishing off his fourth glass of water as a fifth was brought his way. “And I don’t think I’ve seen you elsewhere.”
“I know I’ve seen you,” she narrowed her gaze. Gears turning behind her charcoal eyes.
“Maybe I just have one of those faces,” Horace laughed the encounter off. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He reached out to shake her hand. “Your food was well prepared, and the price was quite welcoming.”
“Now I recognize you,” she laughed, spitting the chewed mint to the floor.
Horace felt his skin crawl as though hit by a sudden chill. Did she know who he was? Would that cause issue?”
She continued, “You’re the boy that beat the Brooks boy this afternoon.”
Horace let out a silent sigh. It wasn’t that she knew he was a son of the Vickery family. Worry faded, he nodded, “That’s right. Though I wouldn’t say it was a fair fight. The boy barely knew what he was doing. Let alone how to actually move in combat.”
“I’m sure he ran to his father to complain about losing to some grifter. Knowing that boy, he’ll make up every excuse to save face. Or he’ll give up the sword entirely. Either way, you’re in for some troubled times if he spots you in the crowd again.”
“I’ll be ready.” Horace sipped his water. “I’ll be sure to avoid him. Or maybe I can convince his father to hire me on as his teacher. Then he might actually become skilled enough to act out the way he does.”
Pulling a case of mint from her pocket, the bartender shook her head. “You won’t get far if you tried.” She then leaned over the table. Resting her chin on the back of her hands as she folded them over one another. “But I must ask, where did you learn to fight the way you do? There aren’t many fighters in these parts who can handle a blade as well as you did. You come from the eastern side of the kingdom, don’t you?”
It seemed like an odd question to ask, however, it was true that many of the noble houses—as well as sanctioned tournaments—were nestled in the eastern region of Caembra. Keep Ankaa and the Vickery family had been what many considered the unofficial capital of the eastern region due to their lineage of skilled warriors.
Horace smiled. “You’d be right. Spent my youth traveling around the eastern region.”
“Did you ever get to face off against that Vickery boy?” she once more leaned back in her seat. “I think the stories about that boy are just that. Stories. Hard to believe a teenager could handle himself against knights of the realm.”
It took everything in him not to talk about his accomplishments now that she had brought them up. He had faced many of the king’s knights while participating in tournaments. Even having won a few of the matches he had with them. Though it was mostly due to them holding back, or because of the rulesets not letting them fight to the best of their abilities. Though he was sure he had just outright out-skilled a few of them. Age did play a factor in one’s skill. As the longer one fought, the more experience they would have. Giving them a better chance at knowing how to read their opponent.
But age was not the only factor that went in to determining the victor of a fight. There was dedication, determination, and willpower. Something he had inherited plenty of from his father, Andreas. Even now he was sure to work his body to push beyond the limits he thought he had.
“I never fought him,” Horace finally answered. But I had seen a few of his battles. The boy was skilled, but not all of his victories were won fairly I would say.”
“Is that so?” She chewed for a bit before spitting again. “You ever win any of those contest?”
“A few.” Just because he was unable to claim who he was, didn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to take credit for the victories he had. “All close. I was never certain if I was going to win. Some of them I believe I shouldn’t have won.”
“Rare to see a boy your age so humbled. Must be the difference between regions of the kingdom.” It almost sounded like she had a personal vendetta against all young men. “Well, I should let you get back to your evening.” She walked away before Horace could say another word.
Returning to the tanner, Horace found his blade ready to be retrieved. The fresh leather untouched, ready to be molded by his grip. While there was still daylight he would need to get in a few cutting drills to break it in. His heart raced at the thought of it. If there was one thing he enjoyed over anything else, it was working his imprint upon his weapons. It was also then that he noticed the blade needed to be tended to. A small bit of rust had formed on the pommel, and the edge looked as though it needed to be sharpened.
Would Danish have loved blades as much as I? Or would he have found comfort in books like Vincent. It had been some time since he had last thought of his brothers. Perhaps his conversation with the bartender had made him feel a longing for home.
But thoughts of his family would have to wait. He had a sword to play with.