Darran twisted his hands on the fading leather hilt, the groves of the fingers of boys set deep in the leather. Elanna, his twin sister, Thraeca, and Fyrien, his other younger sisters, and Fyrion and Harrad, his two older brothers, stood next to him; their very presence was soothing to him. Fyrion was already seventeen, learning their father's trade, and betrothed to a young woman near where the Tharradsson's city house; and Harrad was already married with a baby son. Harrad had pursued a different craft and was one of the city watchmen. Harrad and Fyrion both gave him advice and Harrad kept giving him reassuring pats on the back. For today was the Tournament. A day when young boys from the noble families competed with each other, under the gaze of all the assembled eorls and thessas, in such things as stamina, wit, and sword fighting prowess. The reward: a place in the palace, Vareiath Citadel, and training with the best swordsmen in the kingdom.
Darran cast another furtive glance at the royal box; many of the lords of the realm were already assembled, but it was rumored the king himself would make an appearance. A herald came striding across the green arena, wearing a white doublet and black trousers. He looked down at the group of noble boys gathered some feet from Darran and his siblings. The herald looked down at a scroll in his hands. He called all the boys by their name and house, then sent them away toward the dueling pen. The herald cast a glance at Darran.
"There is a high fee for entering the Tournament, I doubt you can pay it." he said, looking down back at his scroll.
Harrad took a purse of money from his belt and tossed it to the herald. The man looked mildly surprised an obviously poor family had two hundred crowns on them. Enaro, Darran's swordsmanship tutor, had given them the money.
"Very well. Name?"
"Da-Darran, son of Tharrad, s-sir." Darran muttered.
The herald looked down at him, then sighed. "Come with me." and he spun around and marched back across the field. They were near the fenced in arena, the other boys wee clustered around it, and hundreds of eyes were watching. Darran would either succeed and live in wealth at the castle, or he would lose; but he could not let that happen.
"Wait!" a voce cried.
Darran looked around and saw Enaro striding across the green, sword at his hip and dressed in his typical baggy sleeved shirt and hose. The Cinter looked flustered. He reached Darran, putting a hand on his shoulder.
"Darran, what a day, eh? Remember what I taught you: keep a deep stance; keep your sword out in front, not close to your body; be ready to defend yourself, these spoiled boys have been taking lessons far longer than you; but always remember, look them in the eyes, study them, and do not forget to be yourself." Enaro gave him that fatherly smile with the sadness in his eyes. Enaro had lost his only son during a Wilder raid.
"Don't worry, master, you have been teaching me for years, and your the best swordsman in Narenior." Enaro smiled at the compliment, "I won't forgot my training."
Enaro stood, and shooed Darran off to the waiting throng of boys. The herald led two of the boys dressed as they were in leather jerkins over their rich tunics and pants. Darran hastily slipped on his own jerkin over his old brown tunic and yanked the side straps tight. The herald announced to the audience the names and houses of the two boys, waved back the starting flag, and the fight began. Darran couldn't see it well over the heads of the other boys, but he could hear the vicious strikes of wood on wood and occasionally wood on leather.
Several duels followed after the first, with the herald recording each boys victories and defeats on a great rostra at the head of the half-square of stands around the dueling pen. Darran jumped, heart racing as the herald, with a commanding wave of his hand, ushered Darran and a boy with red hair and a purple and gold-lined tunic under his jerkin.
"Roren of the House of Turfen." he said gesturing grandly to the red-haired boy. "And Darran, son of Tharrad."
A small cheer rose up from where his siblings stood; Thraeca was jumping up and down cheer her older brother, a huge grin splitting her tiny face. A blush of deep red crept up Darran's jaw and up his cheeks. His heart hammered and it felt like a small creature was writhing in his stomach. All the eyes of the audience noble or otherwise—most of the population of Aurdethal—were on him; and his heart skipped a beat and his knees shook as he saw, seated in the white draped, stonework, box was King Ereneor IX, seated in his purple cape and shining helm on a carved, wooden chair. Darran swalloed hard, then set into his guard position, readying his sword.
The herald withdrew the flag and stepped back. Suddenly all his shyness and embarrassment was gone, replaced by the cool focus that was the product of Enaro's training. Roren charged toward him, quickly closing the ground in between them; but he stopped short just out of arm's reach of Darran. Darran feinted toward Roren's hip, then flicked his sword up, toward the exposed wrist. Roren cried out, leaping backwards just in time; the blunt tip of the sword flying past his nose. Darran pressed forward, redoubling and thrusting, but being parried just in time. Roren lunged forward, sword outstretched. Darran saw his opening on his lower flank; Darran side-stepped the lunge and drove the point of his sword into Roren's side, winding the other boy. With a simple swipe, Darran unarmed Roren and lifted his sword point up to his pale throat. The herald called an end to the match. All eyes were on Darran
Darran was allowed a rest as other matches went, but eventually his name was called again. Weritharaun III, son of the renowned markfein, Weritharaun II Shield-breaker. The flag was waved and the fight began. Weritharaun began at first by keeping his distance, then slowly darting in and stabbing at Darran's side or neck, which Darran parried with relative ease. Weritharaun, after minutes of fruitless thrusts and parries, lunged forward, feinting and then circling down to Darran's low line. Darran leaped back, knocking the blade aside, then struck out with lightning speed and nearly jabbed Weritharaun in his stomach, but the boy side stepped and counter-attacked; driving Darran back. They fought like this, sweat streaming down their faces, for several more minutes, until Darran noted a loose chunk of sod behind Weritharaun; he drove the broad boy toward it with three quick strokes and an advancing lunge. When Weritharaun was in place, Darran did a mighty overhead blow, bringing his sword crashing down on the other boy's raised sword. Weritharaun slid backwards just a step, stumbling on the piece of sod and momentarily losing his balance. That was all Darran needed. With a quick leap and swipe, Darran whacked the his opponent on the sword arm, making Weritharaun yelp and nearly lose his sword. Darran then feinted toward the low line, but at the last second angled the tip up, into the jerkin-covered belly. Weritharaun took a step back, then fell to one knee. Darran disarmed him and pointed his sword at his throat. The arena was silent except for the two boys' ragged breathing.
Darran fought and unarmed six other boys, from increasingly more noble houses—like one was the son of an eorl, when his final match was called.
"Threodran son of Arim, Archeorl of Lydar!"
Darran tightened his grip on his notched wooden sword; he was unaware that an archeorl's son was participating. Threodran stood half a head taller than Darran, wore a custom fitted jerkin and rich trousers, and wore an actual metal cap on his head. His face was shrewd and already showed signs of coming manhood; the look in his brown eyes showed his confidence and disapproval for Darran. The flag was raised and Threodran fell on Darran like a wolf. Darran parried and ducked furiously, sweat quickly covering his face, as he was forced to defend himself from the onslaught. Every time Darran tried to make a thrust or stab, Threodran's blade was there to parry it then its tip would shoot toward Darran. They circled round and round the arena; Darran realized that, as good as he was, Threodran couldn't get through his guard and was thus trying to tire him out. Darran tried a complex feint and disengage, trying desperately to get his sword past Threodran's. The noble boy smacked Darran's sword to the side and struck toward his exposed chest. Darran was forced to throw himself to the side, scrambling hurriedly back and away from Threodran's sword. Threodran advanced, sword out and ready, wanting to finish this match. Darran saw the opening and took it, and fell into Threodran's trap. Threodran parried down, smacking Darran's blade down into the dirt, then he slashed at Darran's hip. Darran, never letting go of his sword for that would have signaled defeat, ducked swung around, coming up behind Threodran; who spun around, sword flying through the air in an arc. With a jarring crack, Darran blocked the downcut, then swung his arm to the side bringing Threodran's sword with him. Threodran snatched away his sword from Darran's control, snarling, and thrust it forward. Darran caught the wooden blade, but Threodran again pulled it back. Darran shot his tip forward, his aim true, and slid his blade under Threodran's cross guard and against his fist. Threodran struggled to free himself of Darran once again, but by twisting and manipulating his blade like Enaro had taught him, Darran kept his blade locked under Threodran's. Finally, when his opponent paused for only a second, Darran twisted his blade; the blunt edge banging against Threodran's fingers and knuckles, bruising them. Threodran snarled, but released his sword as his hand spasmed in pain. Darran caught the sword in his left hand and held the two sword points to his opponent's throat. Threodran sank to his knees in submission.
King Ereneor, hand under his chin, sat watching the fight between the peasant boy and Arim's son. The peasant boy disarmed and won the match in a spectacular move; the king joined in in the applause that followed.
"Aréthios," he called to his chief advisor, "what is that boy's name?"
"The peasant boy, Your Majesty?"
"Yes, Aréthios."
"Darran, Your Grace, a son of a tanner, Tharrad."
"So it shall be Darran that will come to the palace."
Aréthios cocked his head. "But, Your Majesty, he is a peasant, the son of a tanner—"
"Yes, I know, you said that already. That boy is prodigious in his talent: eight bouts, Aréthios, against the finest young swordsmen in my realm, and he disarms them all. He deserves a place in the palace. Who knows, perhaps he might stay and rise through the ranks; we shall have to find out, won't we?"
