Having seen enough to know how she’d react, Naul stepped in suddenly, feinted a thrust and punched her full in the face with his free hand. As she staggered back, he tripped her, then rammed his sword into her chest where she lay. With a steel blade, she’d be dead. Even with a blunt wooden sword, she cried out in pain and curled into a ball. When Naul proceeded to beat her with the flat of his blade, the knight-adjudicator stepped in to end the bout.
I’ll not lose like that, Anskar told himself, but his mouth was dry again, and his stomach felt queasy. He had a vision of hammering out horseshoes and repairing plows for the rest of his life.
The four losers were escorted from the Dodecagon, and the winners returned to their benches. Beof announced the second set of bouts. This time, two were called from Anskar’s bench: Rhett and his sister Clenna.
Always full of insolence, Clenna immediately protested to Vihtor Ulnar. “It’s not fair to pit me against my own brother in the first round. I won’t do it!”
“The lots were chosen at random,” Vihtor said. “Fight or fail. Your choice.”
“My family in Nagorn City will hear about this,” Clenna said.
Anskar expected a mocking retort from the Seneschal. Everyone knew Nagorn City was a stinking mound of dung whose wealthiest families were poorer than the servants in Kaile, where Vihtor hailed from. But to his surprise, the Seneschal didn’t even roll his eyes.
“Very well, sit this round out,” Vihtor said. “It’s not like you two haven’t fought each other before.”
He wasn’t wrong there. Clenna and Rhett were always at each other’s throats, though you’d have thought Rhett would have learned his lesson by now.
In Clenna’s place, Vihtor selected an older lad called Shenk, who looked as though he might have a trace of San-Kharr blood, judging by the grayness of his skin.
The other three fights were well underway by the time Rhett and Shenk faced off in the square closest to Anskar, with Vihtor adjudicating.
It was immediately clear that Shenk wasn’t a good swordsman: he tried to muscle his strokes, using wide, sweeping arcs that left him open to counters down the middle. Rhett took full advantage, jabbing Shenk in the midriff with well-timed thrusts. Each strike knocked the air out of Shenk’s lungs, and soon he was backing up, gasping for breath.
Shenk rallied for one final assault, all rage and no finesse. Rhett sidestepped and struck him on the side of the head with the hilt. Shenk’s knees buckled and he went down. He didn’t even bother trying to get up. He knew he was outmatched and, judging by his shameful lack of heart, looked already resolved to pursue an alternative career.
“That’s him gone,” said an older novice, confirming what Anskar had deduced: fail at the first trial in any given year, and you didn’t advance to the second trial. Fail three years, and you were out. Permanently.
The other three bouts went to decisions. Points were allotted solely for swordsmanship, so it was a good idea to score hits with the practice sword rather than with punches, kicks, and elbows.
Anskar was itching to get up from the bench by the time his name was called. He strode toward the fight square, drawing his wooden sword and going through his forms, only looking up as his opponent stepped into the square. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did, and for an instant it deflated him. He’d come to like Blosius.
It was a fleeting regret. The instant Vihtor stepped into the square between them and signaled for the bout to begin, Anskar saw Blosius only as an obstacle in his way.
They circled each other, swords ready, eyes locked. Blosius said something—a curse or a challenge, Anskar couldn’t tell. Maybe he was asking Anskar to go easy on him.
Blosius’s first lunge came hard and fast, and wood clacked against wood as Anskar parried and stepped aside. Blosius gave an apologetic smile, but Anskar gave him nothing in return. He needed to be careful: he’d started to underestimate his opponent.
Anskar thrust once, twice—feints to see how Blosius would react. The rich boy didn’t bite, just kept his eyes on Anskar’s and circled away to his right.
Anskar let his blade drop and Blosius swung for his head, but he was at the extent of his range and Anskar swayed back out of the way then sprang forward with a counter. Blosius blocked, and Anskar angled away to the side.
There followed a sequence of thrusts and parries, neither willing to overcommit, but then Blosius pressed forward, aiming low, then going high, forcing Anskar back. The rich boy was breathing hard now, putting everything into his offensive, but Anskar just parried as he circled away, conserving his strength, waiting for Blosius to tire himself out before he countered.
As Anskar stepped to his right, Blosius moved with him. Back the other way, and Blosius was there again, more measured now with his strikes: thrusts down the center; hacks either side to prevent Anskar from circling out of danger.
When Anskar’s back touched the rope that defined the fight square, Blosius unleashed a ferocious combination. Anskar blocked desperately, then stepped beneath a swing and pivoted off to one side. Blosius turned and only just ducked beneath a vicious swing from Anskar.
Blosius retreated a step, keeping his blade in the high guard position.
Now it was Anskar’s turn to stalk him, and Blosius backed up in a straight line. Each time he tried to angle off to the side, Anskar was one step ahead of him. Blosius’s breaths came out ragged now, and he wiped sweat from his eyes.
Anskar’s heart thumped wildly in his chest, goading him to launch an all-out attack and finish this. And he almost did. Almost fell for it.
Blosius stumbled as he retreated, and Anskar darted forward; but it was a ruse. Blosius dipped his knees and thrust for Anskar’s chest. With speed his only defense, Anskar smacked the stroke away and sent a riposte at Blosius’s face. Blosius dipped and pivoted, but before he could take advantage of the angle, Anskar stepped back out of range.
They circled each other more warily now, and then Anskar broke the rhythm of their steps with a swift thrust at Blosius’s throat, at the last instant bending his knees and going low. Blosius parried and countered with a slash that left him wide open. Anskar thrust for Blosius’ exposed chest—just as he was supposed to. Blosius swayed back so the tip of Anskar’s sword barely missed then returned a thrust of his own. Anskar blocked, and Blosius separated, chest heaving.
Not giving his opponent time to recover his breath, Anskar closed the distance with three deft thrusts to stomach, chest and throat, then slashed at Blosius’s legs. Again, Blosius parried, but Anskar went high, his wooden blade grazing Blosius’s cheek.
This time, Blosius didn’t break off, but instead slammed blow after blow into Anskar’s sword, trying to knock it from his grasp.
Anskar fell back under the assault, knowing all he needed to do was weather the storm. Blosius’s strikes grew weaker and weaker, but then he tried a sudden jab at Anskar’s body. Anskar swayed aside and Blosius stumbled past him, pitching to one knee.
Anskar could have ended it there: could have hit the rich boy in the face as he tried to turn and stand, but instead he backed up and gave Blosius a second to recover.
Jeers sounded from the benches, but when Anskar glanced round, his eyes met Vihtor’s. He’d all but forgotten the Seneschal was adjudicating the bout. Vihtor gave a barely perceptible nod of approval, but then his eyes widened and Anskar turned just in time to block Blosius’s attack, which was designed to split his skull down the middle.