HONOR BOUND (The Spare Heir) (2 page)

“Okay,” Jorem said to himself, “the guardsmen said it would be foolish for me to wear my armor.  As they had no reason to be lying, I’ll take that as fact.  I’ve seen the guardsmen on the practice grounds and they wear their armor to practice.  So that tells me what?  I’m not a guardsman, obviously.  So what am I?  I’m a Prince, but that shouldn’t matter for weapons training.  I’m training in weapons work so that would make me a trainee.  Now all I have to do is figure out what that means.”

Jorem closed his eyes and tried to envision what the trainees for the guard did.  Recruits, that’s what they were called.  Just a few months ago a group of “fair meat,” as his brothers called them, had been down on the practice grounds—a bunch of farm boys escaping the drudgery of tilling the soil with dreams of glory.  A guardsman was handing each recruit a leather helm.  Another was handing out swords no, not swords, sticks.  They were training with sticks.  Even with just sticks, after less than a mark most were bruised and bloodied.  Had they been using real swords half of them would have been dead.  Then, after they had beaten each other senseless the guardsmen had set them to running around the barracks until they dropped from exhaustion.

“Fine, so what would I wear to fight with sticks and run for a mark?”  Once again Jorem began stripping off his armor.  Finally deciding that his mail shirt would suffice, he stuffed the remaining gear back in its sack and set off for the arena.  He was in a hurry so he didn’t take time to pull his hair from under his mail.  His hair was a mess anyway.  At least this way it would stay out of his face.

Chapter II

As Jorem closed the door to the arena he found himself in a large room with a wooden floor and wood paneled walls.  The air in the room was cool and slightly musty. Dust motes drifted through the air where the sunlight came in through the high windows. About a dozen men stood in groups around the room talking in lowered tones.  A quick look around told him his brothers had not yet arrived, though he could have sworn they had left the castle before him.

Two wooden benches were centered on each of the sidewalls.  Each of the four corners had a rack of weapons.  The far wall had two doors that Jorem presumed were to rooms for storage and repairs.  Four candelabras hung from the ceiling, giving added light to the sunshine filtering in through the windows.  He set his armor and sword down at the end of one of the benches and wandered around to the racks of weapons.  Each of the racks held a variety of weapons.  The first rack had spears, lances and staves.  The second rack had swords, many of a type Jorem had never seen.  There were broad curved swords that appeared very unwieldy, swords with hooked ends, swords that had no edge that looked more like an iron rod than a sword, and even wooden swords.

“Any bets on how long this one will last before he decides he knows all there is to know and goes off to town with his brothers?”  Jorem overheard from the nearest group of men.

“I’m wondering if this one will even bother to show up!”

Realizing the men were talking about him, Jorem walked over and joined the group.  He thought with him standing there they would change to a different topic.  When they continued he realized they didn’t know who he was.

“I saw the four older boys ride past on their ponies, their armor all bright and shiny, about half a mark ago.”

“The last one, Prince Lauren I believe it was, stayed with us for barely a sevenday.  The one before that not much more.”

“I’ve heard tell that this one is different from the other four, spends most of his time with the old wizard.  Truth is I’ve not laid eyes on the youngest of the lot.  I suppose he’s a match for the other four.  Big boned, bad mannered and loud mouthed.”

“Not hard to spot them in a crowd with raven hair half down their backs.”

“So we’re going from the dour, fearless and flashy to a bookworm.  I’ve heard this one has a hard time not tripping over his own feet.”

“Well, if he reads he may well have a brain inside his head.  Those other four, I swear there’s not half a brain amongst the lot of them.”

“Now, now lads, they make a fine little parade all dressed up in their shining armor and riding their pretty horses.  Why, they’ve worn a perfect trail all the way to the nearest tavern.”

It was apparent that most of the men in the room held a similar opinion of Jorem’s older brothers.  Those who had joined in the conversation certainly hadn’t spoken in hushed tones.  Those who hadn’t spoken had smiled and nodded in agreement.  These men had judged him before they had even met him.  His brothers no longer even came to weapons practice?  That meant he would be here alone amongst a group of men who obviously didn’t want him here.  Jorem was just about to bolt for the door to avoid the taunting remarks when one of the doors at the far end of the room opened.

All talking stopped in the room as the weapons master entered.  He was dressed in dark gray and could have passed for a shadow.  Weapons Master Gregorio was the tallest man Jorem had ever seen.  His hair was black, cut short, with a sprinkling of gray at the temples.  His mustache and goatee were also short and showed a bit more graying than his hair.  Jorem’s first impression of the weapons master was all angles and hardness.

“Form up!” shouted the weapons master.  The men quickly sorted themselves into three rows facing the weapons master.  Jorem took a place at the back, not at all sure what to expect.  “I was expecting young Prince Jorem to join us today.”  The weapons master’s voice was not rough and gravelly as Jorem had expected, but soft and smooth like the sound of a well-oiled sword sliding out of a leather scabbard.

“Perhaps he finds his brothers’ training more to his liking,” remarked one of the men in the front of the room.  Jorem thought he had seen him in the castle before and presumed him to be the son of one of the many Lords that had residence there.

“Aye, an ale in one hand whilst the other reaches fer a wench.”  Jorem recognized that voice as one of the guardsmen he’d heard on the path earlier.

“Trenton!”  The young man who had spoken first flinched as the Weapons Master Gregorio spoke his name.  “I seem to have left a strap of leather at the western guard post.  Fetch it for me and be quick about it.”

Trenton shrugged as he started for the door.  The western guard post was a good five miles away.  “And Trenton”, the weapons master added, “As it’s such a fine day and you’ve such energy, you had best go afoot.”

Trenton visibly sagged as he reached for the door.  “Jacobs, you had best accompany Lord Haliver’s son to keep him out of mischief,” the weapons master said as if it were a trivial thing.  The guard, whose remark had followed Trenton’s, let out a sigh, turned and left the arena with Trenton.

“Now then, if there is no more foolery to be had, have any of you see Prince Jorem today?” asked Gregorio.

“I’m here sir,” Jorem said quietly, half afraid he had done something wrong.

The room went deathly silent.  No one moved, no one looked, no one even breathed.  The weapons master moved to stand before Jorem.  As Gregorio stood looking down at him, Jorem’s first thought was
“How does he move so quietly?”
followed by
“I’m dead”.

The tension in the arena was so high that when the weapons master spoke it was as if a whip had cracked.  Although he spoke just above a whisper, in the silence it sounded much louder.

“Although Jacobs should know better, Trenton is young and oft his mouth starts running before he thinks.  I would ask that you not begrudge him his remarks.”

With a start Jorem realized that they were expecting him to cause trouble for Trenton and Jacobs.  Thinking of his brothers he could see any one of them demanding that punishment be meted out for a far lesser offense.

“Sir,” Jorem’s voice quivered a bit, “they believed themselves to be among trusted friends when they spoke, and if what I have heard of late has truth in it, I cannot blame them for what was said.  Perhaps you might have a word with them. They should be aware of all those who might hear before speaking ill of another.”  With a bit of a smile Jorem realized that what he had said was almost word for word one of Pentrothe’s lectures.

Weapons Master Gregorio looked at Jorem with mild surprise.  With a nod of his head he said, “Very well Prince Jorem, I will see to it personally.”  Everyone in the room relaxed a bit and a few exhaled breath that had been held in expectation of disaster.

Clasping his hands behind his back Gregorio relaxed his stance.  “So, Prince Jorem, as this is your first time with us, we must decide how to start.  Tell me, what do you know of self defense, fighting and combat?”

“Please sir, just Jorem.  I’ve read a lot about wars of the past and the tactics that were used, but as for actually doing the fighting, I’m afraid I don’t know much.  The records don’t go into that much detail.  As for self defense, the only thing I’ve found that works is to run faster than my brothers or hide in places they can’t find me.”

The weapons master looked at Jorem as if he expected something more.  What else could he say?  He didn’t dare make anything up. Besides, Pentrothe had told him more than once not to pretend to knowledge he didn’t have. 
“If people find you don’t know the things you say you know, they will have no confidence in you when there is need.”
  So he just looked up at the weapons master and waited.

Gregorio nodded his head, looked thoughtful for a moment and then began pacing up and down the rows of men.

“Retreat from a superior force is a sound tactic, but not one that can always be used.  Sometimes a soldier must stand and fight, knowing he might lose or even die.  Here you will learn how to be better than those you might face.  You will learn to duel with honor and precision.  As you have no knowledge of fighting you will have no bad habits to unlearn.  All will be new.  Learned right the first time is always best.

“We will start you with basic stances and foot work.  Defensive moves to begin with.  Did you bring a sword and helm, a shield perhaps?  We don’t want any accidental injuries.”  When the weapons master said this he was looking more at the other men than he was at Jorem.

“I brought all of my gear sir, but I didn’t think it proper for training with.”  Jorem could feel his cheeks color and hoped no one would notice.

“Bring them here and we’ll have a look at them.”

Jorem hurried over to the bench and reached into the bag to get his helm.  As he pulled it out he winced at how brightly the lights reflected off of its shiny surface.  For as excited as he had been to wear it this morning, now he was almost embarrassed for the others to see it.  Picking up his sword and shield, Jorem walked back to the weapons master and held them out to him.

Weapons Master Gregorio took the sword and inspected blade, grip and pommel.  “Definitely a beautiful weapon.  It’s light, strong and well balanced.  Not a blade meant for daily use.  A gift from the King, is it not?”

“Yes sir.”  Jorem nodded as he replied.

The weapons master looked closely at the gem studded grip and then down at Jorem.  “Hold up your hand,” he said in a commanding tone.  Slightly confused, Jorem did as he was told and held a hand up.

Grasping Jorem’s hand Gregorio ran a thumb across the palm.  Jorem’s body twitched in reaction to the feel of the rough calloused hands of the weapons master rubbing against his smooth palm.  Years of wielding a sword and a myriad of other weapons had left the man’s hands with layers of calluses and a grip of iron.

The weapons master’s lips compressed together.  “That will not do,” he said.  “As this is a gift from the King you must wear it and there is no sense wearing a sword you cannot use.  For now your hands are too soft to wield it for long, so until they are toughened up a bit, have the grip wrapped in doeskin.  It will have a better grip without the bite.  Choose a practice sword from the rack over there.  Your helm you will wear.”

Jorem looked down at his helm then back up at the weapon master.  “It’s a bit ummm shiny for this isn’t it sir?”

“It will mark you as a Prince,” said Gregorio as he looked at each of the men in the room, “so that those who practice with you will have care with their strokes and not risk injuring a son of the King.”

“Sir,” Jorem said hesitantly, “I understand that there are risks in wielding a sword.  The healers were very detailed in their chronicles of the last few wars.  I’m not afraid of getting hurt, but if the others hold back in my training I won’t” Jorem realized that his hand was beginning to cramp from holding his helm so tightly.  Taking a breath to relax a little he continued, “A friend of mine told me that the best metal comes from the hottest forge.  I’ll work hard and follow orders sir, but if they hold back in my training, I won’t ever be good at this, and sir, I want to be good at this!”

There was a slight twitch to the corner of Gregorio’s mouth that might have been a smile.  “I believe I know this friend of yours and he speaks well of you.  I’ll do what I can for you but you must understand this, the care I speak of was not for you.  If any man here injured you his life would be forfeit, as would mine.”  Again his gaze crossed the eyes of every man in the room.  “Now fetch a sword and we will begin.”

Jorem walked over to his bag of armor and set his sword beside it.  As he walked over to the rack of swords, he could feel the others in the room watching him.  None of them actually turned toward him, but they watched him nonetheless.  “
So many swords, which one should I use
” he thought.  Jorem glanced back to see that Gregorio was watching him.  “
He’s testing me.  Great!  No pressure
!”

Jorem turned back to the swords.  “
The trainees used sticks at first, but I don’t see any sticks sooo, the next best thing would be
.” Reaching out he grasped the hilt of one of the wooden swords.  It was heavier than it looked for being made of wood. The edges and the point had been blunted.  As he drew the sword from the rack, Jorem saw that it was a bit longer than his own sword and that it had numerous dents and scrapes along the blade.  The grip was darkened from the sweat of the many hands that had held it.