CHAPTER ONE
Lance's weapon whistled as he swung it towards his opponent, the sound of the impact loud against the silence of the open field. The hit was jarring, but the strong muscles of his forearms held firm.
He circled his opponent again, holding the weapon two-handed, concentrating on his footwork even as his weapon shifted through the different guard positions that the art of the sword demanded: the boar's tusk and the lady, the high guard and the low.
He was stripped to the waist, his lean frame beaded with sweat. He was eighteen today, a man now. He already stood taller than most men, his dark hair falling in a tangle down to his shoulders. His blue eyes were locked onto his foe, searching for any weakness.
Lance feinted to the left, then quickly stepped in, and thrust his weapon towards his opponent's chest. The blow skittered away, but Lance was already moving again, spinning around, and bringing his weapon down in an overhead slash. The satisfying impact made Lance tense to absorb the jarring force of it.
Lance went back to circling, trying never to be too predictable with his footwork, trying to ward every possible gap in his own defenses while looking for openings that he could exploit. This wasn't a foe that he could trick, though. Trying guile was pointless, here.
Instead, Lance pressed in, trying to find an angle where he could bind the extended blade of his foe with his own weapon while he struck. Lance lashed out, flicking his wrists as he attacked...
The stick he was using sent the sword flying, breaking the lengths of cord that Lance had used to attach it to the old scarecrow in the back field. The sword arced through the air, glinting in the sun before it thudded into the dirt. Lance cursed, feeling foolish for not securing it properly.
At least the move he'd used for the attack had been properly executed. He had been practicing for so long, trying to perfect his technique in secret. His father, a simple farmer, would never understand his obsession with sword fighting.
But Lance couldn't help it. It was in his blood. His mother had been a warrior, a fierce fighter who had died in battle against bandits when Lance was just a child. He had inherited her strength and passion for the art of the sword. The sword had been hers, but he couldn't use it against the scarecrow without risking cutting it to pieces.
Lance retrieved the sword and started to work with it now, practicing swinging it through the air again and again, trying to make each cut feel as natural as breathing.
As he practiced, Lance's
mind wandered. He was tired of being cooped up in his small hamlet so close to Destarra, the capital of the kingdom of Lytos, tired of pretending to be content with his simple life. He longed for adventure, for the thrill of battle and the rush of adrenaline.
Whenever he could get into the city, Lance went to watch the knights of the king's guard training. Almost everything he'd learned, he'd picked up from watching them, and from play-fighting with the other boys his age. He'd learned to wrestle and he went to the archery butts at the edge of the city to practice with a bow, but there was something beautiful about a sword that made his heart sing whenever he held one.
As he trained, Lance's mind wandered, thinking of his mother. He had never known her, not really. Only the stories his father had told him kept her memory alive. When he'd been younger, his father had told those stories regularly. Then he'd remarried and the stories had stopped, as if he hadn't wanted to upset his new wife by mentioning his dead first love.
"Lance! Where are you, boy?"
That was his father's voice, and Lance could hear the anger there. Hurriedly, Lance grabbed his tunic, throwing it back on as his father appeared.
His father was a stout man, his weathered face etched with lines of worry. "What are you doing out here?" he demanded, his eyes narrowing as he saw the sword in Lance's hand.
"I was just practicing," Lance said, trying to keep his voice even. He knew how his father felt about his sword fighting. He’d only been practicing because he’d assumed that his father was working on the far side of the farm. "I wasn't hurting anyone."
"Practice for what?" his father snapped. "You think you're some kind of knight? You grew up a farmer, boy. We're poor folk here. You'll never be anything else."
Lance felt a flare of anger, but he kept it in check. He knew his father wasn't trying to be cruel. He just didn't understand. "There’s always a chance. I could still
be a warrior, like Mother. Especially today."
Today, on the day when the knights of the king’s guard were holding trials that would judge who could join their number. This was a day that Lance had been building towards for so long.
His father's expression briefly hardened even more.
"Your mother was a good woman," he said gruffly. "But she died in battle. Is that what you want? To die?"
"I know it's dangerous," Lance said. "But I feel like I'm meant for more than just... this. I want to see the world. I want to do something important."
"Important," his father said, making it sound distasteful. "It's time you put thoughts like that from your head, boy. You're eighteen. Magda says it's time to stop indulging your nonsense and your daydreaming."
Magda was his father's current wife, Lance's stepmother. She was ten years younger than Lance's father, and she'd given him two more young children. From the very start, she'd made it clear that there wasn't any room in her heart for Lance, and she didn't want there to be any room on the farm for him either.
"I'm not daydreaming," Lance said. "I'm training."
"And you have no business practicing to become some kind of warrior," his father snapped. "Do you think the world needs men like that? Men who answer everything with violence? Men whose first thought when faced with a problem is to start killing?"
"The king's guard are noble and honorable," Lance argued.
"Noble! That's the point, boy. They're all noble born."
"Sir Cagduan wasn't. Nor was Sir Boris the Tall." Lance remembered those names from stories his friends had told among themselves. They were men who had started as commoners, but proved themselves worthy. "They passed the challenges to join."
"Those are just stories," his father snapped back. "It doesn't actually happen. Do you think they ever let a common born boy win that contest of theirs? They put them up against noble whelps who've been trained to fight since they could walk."
"But there's still a chance," Lance insisted. "It’s the princess’s birthday, so they’re holding the trials. I could still-"
"Enough!" The roar of his father's voice carried out over the field. "This ends, now. You're a grown man. You need to make a life, get a job, find a woman to settle down with. Which is why I've talked to a friend of mine
who works down on the docks. There's a merchant there named Hanran. He wants an assistant. You can count, you have your letters, and you're a big, strong lad. You might do well there."
"You want me to be a merchant's assistant?" Lance asked, not quite able to believe it.
"You can't stay here," his father said. "There isn't room for you."
"You're throwing me out?" Lance said. Again, it was all happening too fast.
"I'm saying you need to build a life. A sensible life. You need to do something, and that's steady work. If you're smart, you might be running the place in a few years."
"A few years," Lance said, a sinking feeling in his stomach. Already, he could see how his dreams of adventure were slipping away from him.
Lance felt a sense of despair wash over him. He knew his father was trying to do what he thought was best for him, but it was hard to accept that his dreams were being crushed under the weight of practicality. He said nothing, just stood there with his sword in his hand, feeling like a part of him had been amputated.
"This is a chance for you, boy. I'm doing what's right, here. Now, I'm heading back to the house. You need to go speak to the merchant, today. My friend spoke to him and he's agreed to see you. You'd better impress him, Lance."
His father held out his hand, palm up. It took Lance a moment to realize what his father wanted. He wanted Lance to hand him back the sword. To give up the one thing that let him feel a connection to his mother. To walk away from any chance of undergoing the trials.
He could imagine how the rest of his life would play out. He would toil away on the docks for the merchant, day in and day out, until he was too old and broken down to do anything else. He would never know the thrill of adventure, the rush of battle, the feeling of freedom that came from making his own choices.
"I won't do it," Lance said firmly, his hands clenching around the hilt of his sword.
"You don’t have a choice," his father said, his face hardening. "You can't stay here if you won't work. You'll have to make your own way in the world."
Lance felt a knot form in his throat. He had always known that his father would never understand him; half the time he’d treated Lance like he wasn’t even his son, ...
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