They should’ve dominated Reynald, yet he moved through them like water. I’d been watching them for twenty minutes. Both brothers were out of breath and their necks and hands were covered with red welts, while Reynald hadn’t even broken a sweat.
The books said he was one of the best swordsmen in Rellas. But reading about it and watching it were two different things. I was used to movie fights. The clashing of the blades, the dramatic scene with two guys crossing their swords and pushing against each other, the long sequence of spectacular moves . . . This was nothing like that.
The Magnars circled Reynald. At first, they attacked at the same time, but he kept using them against each other, so now they were taking turns.
He waited for them, his sword held in both hands, the blade pointing up over his left shoulder.
Will struck from the right, swinging his axe in a short, vicious arc. Lute hung back. Reynald turned, gliding past the axe, and rammed the pommel of his sword into Will’s solar plexus.
“Ooh,” Gort grunted.
Will’s mouth fell open, and he landed on his ass and stayed there.
Lute thrust, fast as a snake. Reynald knocked his blade aside, turned, grabbed Lute by his neck with his left hand, and kicked his leading leg from under him. Lute crashed on his back, the point of Reynald’s sword half an inch from his throat.
It was all so fast. I barely followed this one. Most of the time I couldn’t. They would clash, and then one of the brothers would be either on the ground or walking away, cursing.
Will clambered to his feet, trudged over to us, grabbed a pitcher of water from the table, and drank from it.
Gort kept working on his wire.
Will wiped his mouth with his arm and growled. “The man isn’t human.”
“There are people in the kingdom who would trade years of their life for one lesson from him,” Gort said. “Learn while you can. You’ll live a little longer.”
Reynald offered Lute his hand and pulled him to his feet. He raised his arm slowly and thrust the blade, turning his arm. “Look at the angle.”
Lute mirrored his stance and thrust. The point of his blade quivered.
“Imagine the muscles in your arm,” Reynald said. “Feel them work.”
Lute thrust again.
“Slower,” Reynald said.
Another thrust.
“Slower.”
Lute thrust very slowly. The point of his sword danced.
“Don’t worry about keeping it steady for now. Concentrate on learning the motion.”
Lute squared his shoulders and tried again.
“Better,” Reynald said.
“Feels awkward.”
“Do it just like that thirty times every morning until it starts to feel natural. Break it into three sets of ten.”
“Why thirty? Why not a hundred?”
“Too many and you’ll overwork your shoulder. You won’t get there any faster, and we have a fight in seven days.”
Will took a deep breath and headed back to the center of the courtyard.
I wasn’t great at sports, but I played volleyball and swam in high school. I could tell when someone was phoning it in during practice. The brothers were giving it their all, and tonight they would be sore as hell.
