Alinore
SHE SAW THEblade arcing towards her, a thin line of shadow set against honeyed dawn light. She stepped back, but she was not fast enough. The blunt edge struck her shoulder and she winced. Before she could recover, the blade swung back and smacked her side. She toppled to her knees on the cold, damp sand of the practice ring.
‘Too slow,’ tutted Prince Ottone.
‘The sunlight got in my eyes.’
‘Doesn’t matter. You’d be dead.’
Alinore pursed her lips and stretched her shoulder, ignoring the twinge of pain. ‘Just wounded, not dead. Yet.’
Prince Ottone offered her his hand and hauled her back to her feet. They were standing close, and she could feel the warm gusts of his breath on her cheeks. She tried to ignore it.
‘Again?’ she asked.
Since his arrival home from the Journian war three days ago, Alinore had asked Prince Ottone repeatedly for a match, finallywearing him down into acceptance. She was reluctant to let him go now.
‘All right,’ he replied, pushing his dark curly hair away from his forehead. ‘One more before the Sword Master appears.’
Alinore nodded. She must concentrate.
She tightened and released her grip on the hilt of her wooden practice sword, trying to keep her hold firm but relaxed. Bending her knees, she wriggled her toes in her boots and fixed her eyes on Ottone’s blade.
Be faster,she told herself.
Without warning, Prince Ottone sprang forward.
This time Alinore was ready. She parried him away, their blades jarring. Then she side-stepped out of his reach.
Prince Ottone raised his eyebrows. He feigned a thrust at her feet and lunged again, but Alinore was ready and she blocked the charge.
Their blades met with a thump, ricocheting apart.
A look of surprise flashed across Prince Ottone’s face. He pulled back, blade dipping, then rallied and attacked twice more.
Each time she blocked him.
Alinore could see that he was impressed and a little frustrated.
Good.
She had been training every day, gaining strength and skill, waiting for his return. Nerves had caused her to misstep and blunder at first this morning, but now she felt herself settling into the match.
It was a cool, clear morning on the cusp of spring, but beads of sweat prickled Alinore’s neck and she felt the hilt of the practice sword slipping in her grasp. She darted forward, then back again, making Prince Ottone advance and retreat.
He began to pant, his breath trailing faint grey clouds.
Alinore squared her shoulders, ignoring the ache in her right arm. Prince Ottone’s attacks were forceful and it took all her strength to block them. She had been trying to build her stamina over the last season, hauling sacks of grain around the pantry at nightfall when most of the castle were sleeping. But her improved strength was not a match for Prince Ottone, who was naturally tall and bear-like, and had spent the last seasons on the battlefield in real combat. Alinore did not know how much longer she could last.
Prince Ottone swung his sword, feigning retreat. But as he moved away, he momentarily lost his balance and Alinore saw her opportunity.
She lunged, bringing her sword down hard.
Their blades clashed and Prince Ottone tried to pull away from the hold, but Alinore threw her body into the attack.
With a hiss of defeat, Prince Ottone dropped his practice weapon.
It hit the sand with a dull thud.
