“Thought Enya would be here,” Tilly sulked as he began looking over one of the many racks that rounded the large spacious room.

  There were racks of padded robes, helmets with mesh face covers, and padded gloves. Just as many racks had wooden swords of various sizes, staffs, and differently shaped shields. Others were wooden polearms with blocks at the ends carved to look like spiked halberds, great axes, and war hammers.

  Draka was drawn to the racks of actual weapons that had been dulled or filed down to be practiced with. His hand rested on the hilt of his own, still belted at his side, as if to reassure it that he would only play with the others a little bit. But his other hand found a similarly weighted one on the rack that had grooves from being rehammered. A clear welding mark had reattached the blade just above half-way down. The edges were notched from battles where it found its match.

  “She won’t want to miss this,” Portis was near the padded robes, wrapping his belt around his sword to set it on the bench nearby. “And she never misses a good spar.”

  Draka gave them questioning looks.

  “Oh, right,” Portis chuckled. “I keep forgetting you’re not one of ours. Paladin Enya of the Khans. Don’t ask me to try to pronounce her full name. She’s not Parisais or Francoise.” He tipped his head to the side as if he suddenly had a thought, his eyes fluttering. “Not Allemandois either. Where is she from, again?”

  “You’ve never heard of it,” a woman as tall as Gerard stepped into the room with heaviness akin to wearing thick armor.

  She, like Draka, wore only a loose shirt tucked into belted trousers. Only her sword belt was attached to leg straps that held a short sword on her thick thighs. The blade she had sheathed on her hip wasn’t a long sword. It was a falchion with a blade nearly as wide as the Islamites east of Damascus used at the hilt, curving to a point that peeked from the bottom of the leather scabbard.

  Draka waved to her and continued inspecting the sword he had grabbed from the rack. Its handle had finger marks worn into it. Even the cross guard looked centuries old. Older, maybe.

  She walked over to him with a haughty, “So this is the Paladin of the Seven Pointed Star?” She stopped when he turned to her. Well, looked up to her.

  Her thin hooded eyes were black pearls taking him in. Wide cheeks and a nose that had been broken at least twice hovered within a head of hair blacker than Maud’s that was braided tightly on one side to hang over the other shoulder in braids so tight that they almost looked like dreads. Overly thick lips pinched.

  He wasn’t certain, but her cross-armed grunt at him sounded disappointed. “Thought you’d be bigger.”

  Draka looked down at himself and over his arms, then shrugged.

  Enya smiled. “Welcome, brother,” she held out her hand and they grasped wrists. After a single jerk, she turned her back to him and began wrapping her long braids on her way to Portis. “He’s prettier, so I guess that makes up for it. Did I miss anything?”

  “Only the introductions,” Tilly tossed a helmet to Draka. “We don’t want to waste the Almighty’s patience with training injuries.”

  Draka caught it with a nod. He tucked the sword under his arm to pull it on. It had cushions that padded his ears and skull. The mesh was easier to see through than the slits of his own helm, so that was good. If only he had one of these when he was first learning to fight in Heblem. Would have saved him many a day spent in the infirmary.

  Enya finished tying her hair with a ribbon at the padded robe stand. She was the one who tossed a robe to Draka. He missed with a tumble of the sword from under his arm.

  She rolled her eyes back to Portis, who was already fastening his robe. “You sure he’s the right one?”

  “Pretty sure,” Portis looked doubtful. “The lobster introduced us a few days ago in the vault.”

  “Oh, then it must be true,” there was a lot of sarcasm in her tones.

  Draka wanted to spit from being so embarrassed. Really, Draka, you dropped the sword? Would’ve been better if you had said no to them instead.

  “It’s okay. I know you weren’t ready,” Tilly whispered to him from the other side of the sword rack. “Happens to me a lot.”

  “Don’t forget the padded pants,” she twisted and threw a pair for Draka to catch.

  Draka walked toward the pants rack as it flew past his head. He didn’t flinch…where they could see. In a way, he almost entirely preferred the mesh face cover. Wonder if there’s a way to make it be as protective as his iron one?

  Portis sniggered. With the way he stopped suddenly from Enya turning to him, she must have given him a dirty look.

  Draka leaned across her side, making her take a step not to be pushed off balance, and lifted the pair he grabbed for her to see with an exaggerated nod of thanks.

  This time, Portis didn’t even try to muffle his laugh.

  “You’re so prickly with newcomers,” Portis eyed her. “He’s our Grande Prince, you know.”

  “No, he’s the Grande Prince of whatever you call this depressing place. Not our anything but…” Enya stood back and squared herself with Draka to pull on her helmet after fastening her robe. Draka stumbled to get his leg in the padded pants, nearly falling into the rack of gloves beside him. “…but our brother-in-arms. I think.”

  Draka wondered how closely she was watching him. He finished fastening his robe and trousers. A quick snatching of a pair of gloves and he went to retrieve the sword.

  “Blade and shield? Or just blade?” Tilly, who had somehow already gotten fully equipped for a match, pointed with gloved fingers. His voice now sounded metallic.

  “How about the zweihander?” Enya asked, her voice also metallic through the mesh.

  Draka cocked his head at her so she didn’t have to see the surprised and questioning look on his face. Claymore, some might call them. He’d heard them called Montantes. Usually, they’re just called two-handed swords. But zweihander? No, he had spent the last two decades trying not to call it that even if it was always easier for him. That was his tribal people’s name for it.

  “What, too pretty to lift heavy weight?” Enya dismissed him with a wave. “We’ll start slow. Help him find his wings. Sword and shield.”

  Oh, I like her. Draka was grinning ear to ear.

  He went for the kite shield, just before Tilly selected another of the same, and Enya grabbed the tower shield. The round shield was Portis’s preference, apparently. All four of them began circling the edge of the sparring area, adjusting their grips and stances as they went, until finally stopping and taking their preferred stances. Enya didn’t go into a stance at all. She just stood impatiently with her arms dangling at her sides as if there were nothing better to do.

  “All four of us or what?” She looked at Tilly and Portis. “How do you want to do this?”

  “Paladin Prince,” Tilly waved his sword at him and stepped into the middle. “Let’s show them how this is done.”

  Draka obliged. Portis looked relieved. Enya huffed in disappointment.

  “At least give him a challenge!” She called.

  Tilly chuckled as he followed Draka’s pacing with a perfect defensive posture. “Don’t mind her. You’ll do fine.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Draka was glad he didn’t see his eyeroll. They exchanged swings, parries, and a few clashes of shields. Nothing particularly fancy. Draka watched his footing. He was nimble. Not quick. Though the padding was barely half the weight of full plate armor, he moved as if it wasn’t. And his control of his strikes and maneuvers were spotless.

  Then Tilly tapped his helmet with the pointed part of his shield when Draka moved for a basic thrust. Draka’s head rocked within the padding. He nearly lost control of his knees. He stumbled away from Tilly’s advance enough to regain his own footing. And that was it.

  Tilly went for a thrust and Draka let it go between his hip and his shield. With a single twist, Tilly was on the ground and Draka’s blade was resting on his jugular.

  “Okay,” Tilly tapped Draka’s arm to be let up. “Note to self: don’t tap the Grande Prince’s head.”

  Draka helped him to his feet and shook his hand with an approving nod. He was pleasantly impressed by his form. He turned to Portis and Enya, moving the point of his sword from one to the other as if to ask who was next.

  Enya stopped Portis with the flat of her blade and stepped in. “You’re quick. But,” she squared with Draka, “Are you quick enough?”

  She moved the tower shield as if it were a buckler. Her parries were strong enough that Draka had to concentrate on keeping his balance. She was strong. She was fast. She was agile, nearly acrobatic with how she would merely lift a leg or twist slightly, all quick and simple movements, to dodge his advances. He knew better than to act as if this weren’t a tournament after Tilly tapped him, so he was trying her on every side, searching for weak points, rather than going through the motions of form and balance. They wanted him to prove to them he was worth the reputation he had garnered.

  He tried her flanks; solid synchronization of maneuver and counterstrikes. He tried low, he tried high. She was a fortress that could throw him to the wall if he didn’t parry her blows with deflections instead of full stop. And her sword wasn’t her only weapon. She used her shield as if it were an extension of her fist and elbow, pounding at him with every step. But she only used one edge of her blade…

  Draka feinted an attack on her sword arm and, when she moved to riposte, he leapt high and came down a little harder than he meant to with his shield on her. The full force and weight of his body came down on her with the shield as its deliverer. She hit the ground and slid nearly to the wall in a lump.

  “Good job, Till,” Portis snapped, “You made him kill her.”

  Draka threw the shield and sword to the side and rushed to her. She held out a hand, stopping him mid-step.

  “I’m alright,” Enya clambered back onto her feet. “I deserved that. You got me good.” She pulled her helmet off and held out a hand with a smile. “I’ll remember that one.”

  Draka shook her hand with a grinning nod. He was glad he didn’t hurt her.

  “That’s how you do it, huh? I like that,” She grabbed her sprawled gear and stepped to the edge of the sparring area to put it all back on. “I’ll have to watch myself around this one. Portis, your turn.”

  “Right,” he stepped in and went into his stance, a more offensive posture than the others. “Okay, on three. One…two…three…”

  Draka watched, bracing for the first strike. Instead, Portis threw his shield and fell on his side, huffing as if they had already fought.

  “Did you see that?” He climbed to one knee, catching his breath and pointing at Draka, “I’ve never seen anything like that before. That was—wow! Just, wow. You guys saw that, right? Man,” he continued huffing as he limped to where he had tossed the shield. “That was amazing.”

  “Really, Porty?” Enya said. “Ugh, children.”

  “Oh, come on. I think we all know that I don’t stand a chance by myself. He took you and you down. I’m alright without having my head rattled, thank you.”

  Enya lifted her face shield so Draka could see the twinkle in her eyes. “Want to take all three of us at once? See how long you last?” The hope, the playful excitement in her wide expressions were hard to resist.

  “All three of us?” Tilly looked at her. “Against him?” He looked at Draka. Then he turned to Portis, “You going to run like a little mouse again?”

  “Hey, when you know, you know,” Portis shrugged him off, rolling his shoulder and slapping his arms to loosen them. “Fine. I won’t cut and run. You sure, Paladin Prince?”

  Draka shrugged and went to the center of the room. They looked to one another and took up their posturing and positions surrounding him.

  Draka didn’t posture. He only shifted to keep them all as much in his vision as he could. But he was squaring with Enya. She was the obvious best of the group. Unless Portis is. Draka decided he would be the one he let behind him. If Portis is good, he’ll move at his back slightly after they make their moves. Group tactics are important in a fight more than your ability to fight on your own. Coordinated attacks could overcome even the most skilled foes, if done right. No one can truly fight alone.

  But this was definitely something Draka knew he would enjoy.

  They moved in succession. He was wrong about Portis. Portis came at his back first, which he parried in a spin that nearly had him caught by Tilly’s strike. Then he was knocked off balance by Enya’s shield slam. He caught that with a duck and bounce of the kite shield on its side. That allowed him to catch Portis’s chin with the pointed end and sweep Enya’s feet in the same movement. He knew he wouldn’t catch her with how nimble she was. He actually wanted Tilly and caught him in the chest as the finish to his swing; turning it into a hard thrust that would have pierced through plate if it had been a real fight.

  Tilly dropped, staggering to catch his breath. Draka had pounded his diaphragm.

  Portis was off balance. Enya was shifting stances as if her life depended on it. He had advantage, finally. And he pressed it with finesse, leaping and dodging.

  He used every part of his shield and sword while they stumbled over each other to keep him back. His sword pommel punched at their faces, the cross guard hooked their blades and counterweighted their thrusts by twisting it just right, and the blade itself had become both a deflector and the wind that danced their flourishes away.

  They regained their postures and began working as a team again, coordinating their attacks against him the way he wanted them to. And just as he wanted, he was barely able to keep up with their successive advances. One, two, one, two, and flank, thrust, slam, thrust, faint, switch. Draka barely got in a good hit on the side of Enya’s helmet with the pommel before falling backward over the table at the end of the room.

  He began laughing the moment he landed on his back. That was fun! He got to his feet and threw the helmet off to show them how much he enjoyed that. They did the same, cheering, and ruffling hair. Their faces beading sweat, their breaths still struggling to steady, they came together. Foreheads to foreheads, huddled as one.

  “I’ve never…!” Enya roared between guffaws.

  “The way you…!” Portis was still trying to take full breaths.

  “And when the…!” Tilly shouted.

  “I knew you were good,” Enya said once they finally calmed enough to truly let their lungs expand, “He’s been testing us from the moment he came in here. All that fiddling and tripping about. You’re one clever trickster. Now, I believe that story about the Sultan’s daughter!”

  Draka braced on his knees in a huddle. He shook his head and waved his hand at her to hopefully stop that one.

  “No, no, you’re clever and fast enough to trick a fish into drinking air,” Enya pointed as she began removing all the gear.

  “Where is he? I heard he was here! You, where is the Grande Prince?” All four of them mourned in unison at the sound of Cardinal Olivier stomping down the halls.

  “It’s like he just hears fun and comes to suck it from existence,” Enya growled, turning her back to where they all knew he would come in from.

  “There you are,” Cardinal Olivier rounded the doorway in a flutter of red robes and a paper he waved over his head. “You really must think you’re above it all.”

  Draka rolled his eyes and leaned backward on his elbows over the table behind him. Continue, he motioned to the Cardinal.

  Cardinal Olivier pointed at him with the same hand that held the crumpled paper in it, “I received word from Father Hagen in Talkro. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but if you think that you’ve won in this, you’re thoroughly mistaken! The outrage!”

  “Woa, hold on there,” Portis wiped sweat from his forehead. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about this!” Cardinal Olivier threw the wadded paper at him, then turned his pointing finger to aim at Draka again, this time he went close enough that Draka could feel the heat of his breath. “The day will come when you will wish you hadn’t gone against me. I. Have. Influence. Influence you could have shared if you weren’t so pretentious!”

  “What does it say?” Enya and Tilly boxed Portis in as he unkinked the crumpled paper.

  “Get out of my way,” Cardinal Olivier stamped back out the way he came.

  “Just some Priest telling him that he won’t leave some Abbey,” Portis answered. All three pinched their brows together as they looked up to Draka. “What does that mean?”

  It means Father Hagen understands that when all is said and done, you do what God wills, not some politicking Cardinal. Draka beamed at the doorway the Cardinal disappeared through.