Page 57 of Prince of Shadow and Ash

His men accompanied him to the sword-fighting arena. Perceval and Caleb were still bickering about something, while Estevan occasionally interjected, stoking the flames. Harold and Jerrick seemed to be placing bets on whether Perceval would punch Caleb.

“I need to concentrate!” Regulus snapped as they approached the fence surrounding the arena. Waiting competitors and their attendants crowded about. “What in creation are you two fighting about now?”

“Perce thinks he’s high and mighty because he got kicked out of university,” Caleb said.

“Captain, you think they’ll let me and Cal borrow the sword-fighting arena for a minute?” Perceval crossed his arms. The man had about the most intimidating scowl Regulus had ever seen, but Caleb just snickered.

Dresden smacked the back of Perceval’s head. “Hey, you’re distracting Reg.”

“My, my, your men have the decorum of peasant children.” Carrick leaned back against the fence, looking at Regulus and his men with clear disdain. “But then, that’s presumably what they are. Just like their false lord.”

Perceval moved forward. Regulus blocked him with his arm. His blood boiled, but he wouldn’t give Carrick the satisfaction of a reaction.

Carrick looked across the arena at the crowds filing into the wood stadium seating. He jutted his chin toward the spectators. “Oh, excellent. Adelaide is here.”

Regulus looked where Carrick had indicated as Adelaide took a seat in a box near the center of the arena with the Drummonds.

“She will have an excellent view when you’re flat on your back with me standing over you.” Carrick smiled viciously.

Keep calm.Regulus took a deep breath and smiled back. “Or perhaps the other way around.” He held out his hand.Never let them see they’re getting to you.“Good luck, Sir Carrick.”

Carrick’s top lip curled. But then he took Regulus’ hand and squeezed harder than necessary as he smiled again. Regulus summoned every ounce of self-control to not just break his hand.

“May the best man win, mercenary.” Carrick dropped Regulus’ hand and sauntered over to the herald overseeing the event.

“See?” Perceval jabbed his finger in the air. “This. This is why I don’t compete. I’d cut that”—he said a few choice words describing Carrick—“head clean off.”

“And this is why you’re the least genteel,” Caleb said.

“Contestants to the field!” the herald called. “All contestants competing in the sword, please enter the arena!”

“I’d recommend not cutting his head off,” Dresden said solemnly.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.” Regulus kept his tone light and jocular, but he knew Dresden was right. The way Carrick got under his skin... He would have to be careful.

The herald welcomed the contestants and spectators and explained the event. Pairs had been pre-chosen for the first round. Winners would compete in new pairs in the next round, and so on until only two knights remained. One loser picked by Baron Carrick, who sat in a large box centered in the middle of the arena, would compete in the second round to ensure an even number of competitors. There would be five rounds total. Five rounds, five opponents between him and victory.

The herald announced the pairs. Regulus would go eleventh, fighting against Sir Morris MacCombe. Regulus had met Baron MacComb’s eldest before. A polite man in his early thirties with a reputation for chivalry and some skill with a sword. The combatants bowed to the spectators and filed out of the arena, except the first two combatants—Lord Thorne, one of Baron MacComb’s vassals, and Carrick. Regulus found it suspicious that Carrick dueled first, but it provided a good opportunity to study him, should they end up facing each other. He hoped they would.

Lord Thorne was a short, stocky man with a steely gaze, muscles that protruded from his thick neck, a stubbly gray beard, and long gray hair tied back at the nape of his neck. He had fought in the Trade Wars and had a reputation for smashing in skulls with a war-hammer. It would be interesting to see how he fared with a sword.

The men shook hands then put on their helms. Flaxen horsehair formed a plume on Carrick’s.Let’s see if your skill matches your flair, Carrick.The men drew their swords and circled each other. Regulus leaned on the fence, eyes narrowed.

Thorne attacked with the force of a charging wild boar—all strength and speed, but little finesse. Rather than attempt to block the blow, Carrick sidestepped and parried Thorne’s sword from the side. Begrudgingly, Regulus nodded. The force of a blow like that could shatter an arm if taken directly. Despite the force of his swing, Thorne adjusted, attacking from the side before Carrick had a chance to counter. Carrick blocked, moving back to absorb the impact of the blow. Thorne stepped forward, pressing his advantage.

Carrick gave way, backing up here, sidestepping there. Parrying rather than blocking whenever possible. He was letting Thorne wear himself down.

Thorne had a distinct advantage over Carrick in mass and muscle. But Carrick made the smallest movements possible, conserving his energy. Thorne brought a weaker strike from the left, and Regulus had seen enough fights to know Carrick was about to make his move. Carrick stepped into the strike, holding the flat of his blade up to block. With a resounding clang, Thorne’s sword pushed Carrick’s to the side. Carrick stumbled, and several people gasped. But Regulus noted the careful placement of Carrick’s feet as he stumbled, how he adjusted his grip on his sword. A feint. Emboldened, Thorne raised his sword, preparing for a mighty downward swing. Carrick prepared to block the blow. Thorne swung.

Carrick spun to the side and Thorne’s sword tore through empty air and slammed into the ground, sending up chunks of dirt. Carrick moved to the offensive, driving Thorne back. Caught unprepared, Thorne had difficulty getting his stance corrected. He moved backward off-balance, his energy lagging. Carrick, on the other hand, unleashed his speed and strength.

The crowd cheered as Carrick landed repeat blows on Thorne’s breastplate. Thorne tried to counter, to turn back to the offensive. Carrick let him, just for a moment, then parried, knocking Thorne’s sword aside. He kicked the back of Thorne’s knee, and the older man stumbled forward. A blow to his back, and Thorne fell to his knees. Carrick swung, bringing his sword to a stop just before Thorne’s neck. Thorne dropped his sword. The crowd applauded and hollered. Carrick would continue to the second round.

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