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“How dare you speak to me that way. I am Lord Praecepsia’s son and–”
“I would not care any more if you were the king’s son. Grab the tools and follow me.” With that, Solomon hobbled off toward the hut, and with a quick glimpse over his shoulder, the blond sneered back at the baron as he followed after the older man.
Were it not his mother’s insistence that he be there, he would have taken the opportunity to leave right then. To dart off into the woods without ever looking back. Unfortunately, he had seen his mother’s ordinarily docile nature turn feral before and thought better than to inspire that side of her again.
After gathering up the tools, he found Solomon and the blond standing at the back of the hut. He tossed the tools to a clamor onto the ground, the sound only startling the blond into a flinch.
Solomon rested his palms on the blunt end of an upturned ax. “You will begin your lesson by chopping wood.”
“Chopping wood?” The boy didn’t bother to hide the repulsion in his voice. “What does that have to do with wielding a sword?”
“You question me again.”
“I question an absurd request that seems to have no logical purpose, other than to assist in the completion of your chores.”
“You haven’t the strength to wield two swords at once. It is no wonder you dropped the tools. Your arms are weak.”
The old man’s words grated on him. “You are blind. You cannot see my arms, let alone judge their strength.”
“I do not have to see to know your weaknesses, young baron. You wear them like a child in a grown man’s armored suit.”
Hands balled to tight fists, the baron bit back the urge to knock the old man backward. “You insult me again.”
“And I will insult you frequently. Until you learn not to question my intent.”
“I will speak with my mother. This will be our last meeting, I can assure you.”
The sound of the elder’s mocking chuckle sent a tremble of rage through the boy. “Of course. Now, as I was saying, you will chop the wood there. When you are finished, you will climb that ladder to the roof and patch a hole that has made for a terrible leak. The incessant dripping into a pot keeps me from sleep.”
“Repair your roof. Would you like me to wash your breeches? Cook your supper for you, perhaps?”
Solomon let out another quiet chuckle and shook his head. “That will depend on how quickly and efficiently you complete the other chores.”
“Do not mock me! I did not come here to be some … slave to a blind old man and … whatever in Hades he is to you!” The baron pointed toward the blond.
“Soreth? Soreth is my apprentice. An academic, for the most part, but he was no different than you when we began our lessons a few years back. Sounded like you, as well.” The old man hobbled over to a pile of wood stacked beside a tree stump. He patted around for one of the pieces, and the baron watched him awkwardly place it on the stump. A second later, he brought the ax down on a perfect strike, splitting the log clean down the center. “Unlike you, Soreth listened without question. And while you insist that the skill of a Pentacrux soldier is unmatched, I can assure you, Soreth would be the exception.”
“Him?” While the baron had no love for the Pentacrux, he had witnessed their rigorous trainings, had taken part in them, and knew his claims were ridiculous. “I should like a demonstration of such skill.”
“Against whom? You? I would not advise such a challenge. You are not ready.”
“I may not wield two swords at once, but I can surely handle one.”
With a heavy sigh, the old man shook his head. “Perhaps it is necessary. And after this match, you agree to begin the task of chopping wood?”
“Only on the condition that, should I prove to be victorious, he will do the chopping instead.”
“Agreed. And should he prove victorious, you will not question me again. Or the next match will be againstmysword.”
“Agreed.”
With a nod, Solomon handed off one of the swords to the baron, the other to Soreth. “These swords are equal in length, weight, and bite. It is only skill that will put one of you at an advantage over the other.”
In the yard behind the small hovel, the baron took his stance with the sword in hand, just as he had been trained since he was old enough to wield a weapon. Not for the glory and victory of his country, or the Pentacrux, but to one day defeat his father. To slice his blade across the elder Van Croix’s throat and watch him choke on his own blood.
The boy across from him, though bigger in stature, held his sword loosely in his hands. His terrible form was far more casual. Mocking, perhaps. An observation which sent a prickle of irritation through the young baron.
At first, the two circled each other, and as Master Tennyson had instructed him years ago, the baron did not take his eyes off his opponent. He watched his footing, his grip, where the blond’s gaze slid over him as he undoubtedly surveyed where to land the first strike. An unnerving tickle climbed over the baron’s neck, but he ignored it. Concentrating. Studying.
