Prince of Thorns. Mark Lawrence
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and clapped a hand to the back of his neck. ‘This here is Robart Hool, third son of the House of Arn. Of all this sorry lot, he’s the one who might have a chance to earn his spurs one day. Got himself a way with the blade has our Master Hool.’ He shook his head. ‘Try Stod.’
‘Try none of them, Prince Jorg.’ Lundist kept the irritation from his voice, almost. ‘This is foolishness. You are not yet recovered.’ He shot a look at the grinning guard captain. ‘King Olidan will not take kindly to a relapse in his only heir.’
Sir Makin frowned at that, but I could see it had gone too far for his pride to let him take instruction. ‘Go easy on him, Robart. Really easy.’
‘If this ginger oaf doesn’t do his level best, I’ll make sure the closest he gets to being a knight is clearing the horse dung after the joust,’ I said.
I advanced on the squire, my head craned to look him in the face. Sir Makin stepped between us, a training sword in his left hand. ‘A quick test first, my prince. I’ve got to know you’ve enough of the basics not to get yourself hurt.’
The point of his blade clacked against mine, and slipped away, angled for my face. I slapped it aside, and made a half-lunge. The knight tamed my thrust easily enough; I tried to slide to his guard but he cut to my legs and I barely held him.
‘Not bad. Not bad.’ He inclined his head. ‘You’ve had decent instruction.’ He pursed his lips. ‘You’re what, twelve?’
‘Ten.’ I watched him return the trainer to the cart. He was right-handed.
‘All right.’ Sir Makin motioned the squires into a circle around us. ‘Let’s have us a duel. Robart, show the Prince no mercies. He’s good enough to lose without serious injury to anything but his pride.’
Robart squared up to me, all freckles and confidence. The moment seemed to come into focus. I felt the sun on my skin, the grit between the soles of my shoes and the flagstones.
Sir Makin held his hand up. ‘Wait for it.’
I heard the silver voices of the skylarks, invisible against the blue vaults above us. I heard the flapping of the execution flag.
‘Fight!’ The hand dropped.
Robart came in fast, swinging low. I let my sword fall to the ground. His blow caught me on the right side, just below the ribs. I’d have been cut in two … if it hadn’t been made of wood. But it was. I hit him in the throat, with the edge of my hand, an eastern move that Lundist had showed me. Robart went down as if a wall had dropped on him.
I watched him writhe, and for an instant I saw Inch in the Healing Hall on his hands and knees with the fire all around us and the blood pulsing from his back. I felt the poison in my veins, the hooks in my flesh, the simple need to kill – as pure an emotion as I have ever known.
‘No.’ I found Lundist’s hand on my wrist, stopping me as I reached for the boy. ‘It’s enough.’
It’s never enough. Words in my head, spoken by a voice not my own, a voice remembered from the briar and the fever-bed.
For several moments we watched the lad choke on the floor, and turn crimson.
The strangeness left me. I picked up my sword and returned it to Sir Makin.
‘Actually, Proximus is yours, Captain, not Lundist’s,’ I said. ‘Proximus was a Borthan scholar, seventh century. One of your ancestors. Perhaps you should read him after all. I’d hate to have nothing but Robart here, and his judgement, between me and my enemies.’
‘But …’ Sir Makin chewed his lip. He seemed to have run out of objections after ‘but’.
‘He cheated.’ Young Stod found the words for all of them.
Lundist had already started walking. I turned to follow him, then looked back.
‘It’s not a game, Sir Makin. You teach these boys to play by the rules, and they’re going to lose. It’s not a game.’
And when we make a mistake, we can’t buy our way out of it. Not with horses, not with gold.
We reached the Red Gate on the far side of the courtyard.
‘That boy could die,’ Lundist said.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘Take me to see these prisoners that Father’s to have killed.’
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