{Author's note: this novel is written from several points of view, by people in different places. When I change, I often mark it with ~switch~. Just so you know. There's also a lot of backstory I'm not putting yet, so I'm sorry if this is confusing!}
Clangs rang out as sword practice continued. Coron watched out of the corner of his eye as Duma practiced, breathing hard, in the large ring in the middle of the courtyard. It was just after dawn, and the courtyard was lit with the dim light of early morning, and the breath of the practicing soldiers rose in the air like steam. Coron watched as Duma dodged sideways landed awkwardly, and was barely able to get his shield up in time to block his opponent’s next blow.
A swish in the air caught Coron’s attention, and he dodged without a thought as his own opponent’s sword cut through the air next to his ear. He landed ably two feet away, keeping his balance on the gravel. He was ready when Lieutenant Viri’s sword came again, and he pushed it aside with his small shield. In the same movement, he thrust forward with his sword towards Viri’s now unprotected chest and struck his thick leather practice armor. Viri parried it away, but Coron rode the parry and struck again. This time his blow was beneath the arm, and he looked up at Viri with a grim but triumphant smile.
“Gotcha,” he said. “Good thing it was only a wood sword, eh?”
“That’s ‘eh, Lieutenant’ to you, princeling,” Viri responded, huffing from the blow. Whenever he beat Coron, which was often, he always smiled and winked mockingly as he remarked about the wood swords. He never liked having it thrown back at him. Especially, Coron had overheard the other soldiers say, by an eight-year princeling.
“Shall we go again?” Coron asked, putting his sword up, but at that moment he heard the stiff clamp of leather armor as every soldier in the courtyard suddenly drew up to attention. Coron turned just as his father entered the courtyard with his sword at his side. A real sword.
“Father!” Duma called, raising his hand in the air, but as usual, the King ignored him, moving first to the equipment hut to put on his armor. Coron watched for a moment, then shrugged and turned to face Viri again. Duma should know better- everyone knew that he always ignored them.
Well, not quite always, a small voice in the back of Coron’s head whispered. He doesn’t always ignore Duma- he just always ignores you.
“Viri?” Coron said, disregarding the thought, “Again?”
The other soldiers in the courtyard had slowly started practicing again, and Duma had moved out of his circle to make room for the King. Viri looked over at the King still, but as nothing was happening, he shrugged his shoulders to loosen them and put up his sword.
“Again, Prince,” Viri said, sounding a little tired. Coron nodded, smiling a little. He could use that.
It was two hours after dawn when they finally finished. Coron had beaten Viri twice more in their bouts, but had lost the rest. Coron had convinced him to do one more and they were about to start when suddenly a voice cut through the clatter of swords.
“Duma!” the King called loudly. “Duma, come here.”
Duma stopped what he was doing suddenly and was almost hit by his opponent’s sword. Luckily, the swinging lieutenant managed to stay his blade. Duma left his gravel practice circle walking quickly. Coron watched, a little jealous. If Father had called him, he would have run- but at 14, Duma was too old for that, he supposed.
Duma approached the center circle cautiously. “Father?” he asked, bowing his head respectfully.
The King made a beckoning gesture. “Come here,” he said, pointing with his sword towards his practice opponent. Duma entered the circle and took a stance facing the captain.
The King sighed exasperatedly. “No, not him, face me, boy,” he said. Duma face reddened a little, but he turned to face the King as the captain left the circle.
“Put your sword up,” the King instructed, and Duma did. The King crossed his sword on Duma’s and paused. Then, so quickly Coron barely saw it, he struck. Duma backed away, surprised, and almost fell as another stroke came toward him.
“Get your sword up, boy!” the King shouted, and Duma obliged, then dodged backward again as the King struck out toward him. Duma was almost up against the line that marked the circle’s edge.
“Don’t trap yourself!” the King yelled. “Stay in the middle! And attack, for Mila’s sake!”
They continued like this for a while, the King striking and Duma only just parrying. It seemed to Coron, though, that the King wasn’t even trying; he easily blocked all of Duma’s moves and didn’t even have to try to attack him. After about fifteen minutes, the King seemed to be finished, and with a quick move he spun Duma’s sword out of his hand and to the edge of the circle. He pointed his sword at Duma’s neck, and for a moment, Coron didn’t breathe. Then the King lowered his sword point and motioned for Duma to leave the circle. Coron felt ashamed- why had he been afraid?
The practice seemed to be over now. Coron approached the King a little warily. He was smiling. He’d never seen the King actually smile. Granted, it wasn’t very big, but still. He clapped Duma on the shoulder and shook his head. “My boy,” he said, “You have quite a lot to learn.” With another smile, the King began reaching for the ties of his armor.
“Wait, Father!” Coron called, and approached the King. The soldiers moved backward to permit him near. “Father, will you practice with me?” The King ignored him, and began removing his armor. Duma looked at him for a moment, then looked away. Coron felt a flame of anger- even Duma was turning away. He didn’t want to share that smile. Coron turned back to the King- he would not be left behind.
“Father!” he called again. “Please, practice with me!” Coron caught a glance of some of the soldiers smirking and turning away, as once again the King said nothing. Coron flushed- he must look like a child, running around with a wooden sword and a shield, yelling for his father. Quickly, he ran to the nearest equipment hut and grabbed the smallest sword he saw. Then, dropping his wood practice sword and shield, he ran back to Duma and the King.
“Father?” he asked, trying to sound more respectful, and older. But no one listened. The King was done with his armor and was walking back towards the castle, and out of the practice courtyard. He was leaving.
“Father? Father!” Coron called, then he walked, quickly and angrily, after him. The soldiers were probably all laughing at him now- well, they wouldn’t laugh. He’d get his father’s attention.
Coron pushed through the soldiers until he was in front of his father, facing him. He stood trying to look grim and respectful, with his sword loosely tucked under his arm.
“Father?” he asked calmly.
The King’s eyes settled on him for a moment, and then, like always, he was gone. He looked through him, and turned to go out under the archway.
Coron’s anger flared. He stepped forward, swinging his sword to hit his father’s shield. “Why won’t you listen?” he yelled. Suddenly, the King turned. Coron, surprised, was not fast enough to pull back the blade, and it swung forward, striking the King on his empty hand, right across the palm. Coron gave a little gasp and stepped backwards. The King breathed in sharply, then looked up. This time, he looked straight at Coron. His eyes were like embers.
“I- I’m sorry, Father,” Coron said. “I didn’t mean-”
The King cut him off gruffly. “Come,” he said, and moved past him. Coron back up quickly to get out of his way as he passed. He hesitated, then followed the King into the center circle.
The King waited until Coron was facing him, then raised his sword. Coron looked apprehensively at it, then at his father.
“Father,” he said, his calm voice threaded with uneasiness, “Father, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry, I didn’t want to-”
“Raise your sword,” the King said stiffly, cutting him off again. “We shall practice.”
Coron hesitated again, then raised his sword and unconsciously adopted a defensive stance. “Father,” he tried again, his voice lower, but at that moment, the King moved.
All Coron saw was a flash of light before the King’s blade crashed into his with a loud clang. He managed to raise his blade enough to keep the King’s sword away from his face, but the King was pushing hard. The blade came closer, until its point was touching Coron’s face, and he felt its cold steel mark him.
Then suddenly, the pressure was gone as the King retreated a step, but Coron had barely reaffirmed his footing before the King was back. This time, Coron heard the swish as the sword cut through the air and managed to dodge sideways before it struck. His foot almost slipped on the gravel, but he steadied himself, using the momentum from the slip to come swooping up and strike at the King’s blade, extended in the place he had been standing a moment before.
Coron swung with all his might, and his sword glided up the King’s blade to the cross hilt. The King twisted his sword, freeing it and knocking Coron’s defense open with the same movement. Coron drew it back, but once again it was met by the King’s attack. The King moved forward, pressing him back, and Coron could barely keep up with the barrage. The King’s face was flushed and sweaty, but his expression however was one of calm, cool determination. His sword was everywhere; its movements were so sharp and deft that Coron couldn’t keep up.
Suddenly, though, something in Coron’s mind began to work, and he began to see some sort of a pattern in the King’s blows. It wasn’t much of a pattern- very random, but even the randomness became somehow predictable, and Coron began to meet more blows than he received. Then suddenly, he ducked beneath one of the King’s attacking blows and stabbed upwards, trying to get between the King’s sword and his face. The King blocked it with his arm, but it made a small cut on his cheek. He stepped back again, his sword up and his eyes angry.
Then, with a fury, he moved forward again, and Coron couldn’t keep up with the rain of blows. He’d feel the sword nick his arm through a tear in his armor, then pound his leg, then brush by his face- too fast for him to block them all. Within a minute, he was once again against the edge of the circle, constantly retreating, and then he was outside it. The King followed him until he was pressed against the wall of a hut. Coron’s arms were so sore from the strain of the blows that he could barely keep his sword up, and the King flicked it out of his hands with a quick motion. Then, slowly and deliberately, he raised his sword again and pointed it at Coron’s neck.
They stood there for a moment, both panting, eyes locked. Coron’s arms shook, though he tried to control them, and he stared up the length of the sword at his father, whose face had reclaimed its dispassionate calm. No one moved.
Then the King bent the blade up slightly, so it tapped Coron underneath the chin. The King looked at him critically, with an eyebrow raised.
“Well, boy,” he said, “have you learned your lesson?”
“Y-yes, Father,” Coron said, trying to keep his voice and face as steady, and failing.
“Yes, sir,” the King corrected, his eyes looking deep into Coron’s. They seemed to take up his entire vision.
“Yes, sir,” Coron repeated. The King lowered his sword, but as Coron began to straighten up, the King leaned in. At his approach, Coron leaned back again. His father’s face was as threatening as any blade.
“A prince should never disgrace himself, as you did,” he said in a low voice. “You dishonor me, with your actions and your presence. I hope you have indeed learned your lesson- or I may have to teach it again.”
The King said nothing, but continued looking down at Coron. Finally Coron broke the gaze and stared at the ground.
“Sir,” he said, his voice shaking. The King stepped back and sheathed his sword. Then he turned back toward the archway, and marched out of the practice courtyard, accompanied by a few soldiers. Coron remained where he was, not listening as the soldiers drifted away, talking among themselves. His mind was racing, combing over every detail of his practice with the King, when suddenly a voice broke through his thoughts.
“Coron,” Duma said quietly.
Coron glanced up at his brother, then away again. “Yes?” he asked.
Duma didn’t answer, but he handed him a small, wet towel. “You should get cleaned up,” he said, after a minute. “Remember- the capitol feast is today.”
Coron said nothing, but after a moment took the towel. He dabbed at his face with it, then looked impassively at the blood and grime that came off on it. He straightened up, and suddenly was aware of the cuts and bruises he had. He groaned softly, then cut himself off.
“Are you alright?” Duma asked, putting out a hand to help him.
Coron stopped and looked curiously at the hand. It was almost funny- now Duma was helping him.
Without looking up, Coron pushed past the hand and ran out of the courtyard. “I’m fine,” he said, turning his head back for a moment. “Just fine.”
The feast that night was one of the best since the war, according to all comers. Prince Coron did not attend, however, and could not be found by the several servants that were sent out looking for him. His mother the Queen broke with tradition and departed early, pleading fatigue. She did not speak to the King.
The King sat at the centermost table in the Grand Hall, surrounded by his counselors, highest nobles, and commanding officers. He seemed in an especially good mood, as he did not object to the Queen’s departure or Coron’s absence.
Duma sat at the table to the King’s right, surrounded by lower nobles. He said nothing the entire night, and seemed distracted.
[Thanks for any critique!]
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