Read Online Gayle Eden by Illara's Champion - Free Book Online
Authors: Illara's Champion
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Illara.
Beroun nodded. Having worn black leather breeches, a loose fitting linen tunic, the young man turned to Randulf who handed him an adequately matched sword. The blade was four foot and thinner than a broad sword, also of Arabian steel, one they had brought back from the holy land.
Timing her turns, Beroun stepped into her reach at the next one. Pagan tensed every muscle until she raised her blade and deflected. From there they tested each other. Pagan glanced at Randulf when Beroun tapped her with his fist at the sword hilt--at what would have been a hit—or rather in battle, a lethal strike. His brother shook his head and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.
Their boots scuffing the floor, breathing and grunts sounded amid the slide of steel for the next hour. He saw her shirt dampen down her back, and lost count of the times Beroun tapped her. Just when he thought to put an end to it because she would be black and blue, Pagan straightened from the wall, noticing Beroun being driven back.
Grinding his teeth to keep from praising her, Pagan witnessed Illara drive him to a point, and when Beroun recovered, she ducked a swing of his blade, drove her shoulder into his stomach and was behind him.
Pagan flickered a glance to see Randulf had straitened too and was tensely watching. Beroun laughed and it rang in the space. Nevertheless, Illara was focused, her eyes on his sword. After an exchange she sliced, then used her other hand to grab his free one, and it was only her skill that kept her from breaking his arm when she had it back behind him, her body also, with the blade at his throat.
Half-bowed Beroun was huffing, breathing as hard as she, but smiling like an idiot.
“Yield?”
“Aye.” He grunted on a laugh.
She released him and came around, showing a grin of her own on her flushed face. Illara bowed her head. “I would have been dead long before then.”
“Aye.” The young man took her hand, stepping close. “Here, here and here.” He moved the hand with the sword. “You sweep too wide. You must tighten the arc and shorten the openings. Better to have your arm cut than your guts.”
“Yes.” She waited for him to release her then switched hands, shaking the other, which was red. “And you must protect your other hand and arm whilst fighting.”
They laughed.
Illara turned to Pagan. “A poor showing, Sir.”
“I have seen worse.” He turned and unhooked a wineskin from the wall, tossing it to her.
She drank cold water as her opponent was doing. Pagan took her sword a moment and trickled water over her knuckles, rubbing lightly at her reddened hand. When he saw her glance down, he realized he had not drawn his gloves back on. However, when he would have pulled his hand away, she grabbed it.
Her back was to the others and only he saw the action, as well as the expression in her eyes. Her damp fingers rubbed over the scars, some from the fire and more from those brutal days fending off more predatory guards in the tower.
“Paraffin wax,” she supplied softly. “I have it in my trunk. It helps to keep the skin supple and scars less dry in harsh weather. I will leave some in the bathing chamber. You melt it in a bowl and let it form on your skin.”
Pagan nodded. “You will be dotted with bruises.”
“I already ache from head to foot.” She chuckled. “What are a few bruises? Besides, it is not often I have had an opponent. There was a sister of a knight, Sefare, who was well trained. She and I exercised together until her betrothed came for her. I would like to practice more with the young man.”
“Beroun.”
“Sir?”
Pagan considered the man. “This is Lady Illara. Illara, Beroun.”
Illara released Pagan’s hand and took the young man’s. They again smiled at each other.
“I must take him away.” Randulf drew her attention. “We have work.”
“Thank you,” Illara offered quietly.
Pagan saw his brother’s eyes soften toward her before Randulf nodded
Beroun nodded. Having worn black leather breeches, a loose fitting linen tunic, the young man turned to Randulf who handed him an adequately matched sword. The blade was four foot and thinner than a broad sword, also of Arabian steel, one they had brought back from the holy land.
Timing her turns, Beroun stepped into her reach at the next one. Pagan tensed every muscle until she raised her blade and deflected. From there they tested each other. Pagan glanced at Randulf when Beroun tapped her with his fist at the sword hilt--at what would have been a hit—or rather in battle, a lethal strike. His brother shook his head and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms.
Their boots scuffing the floor, breathing and grunts sounded amid the slide of steel for the next hour. He saw her shirt dampen down her back, and lost count of the times Beroun tapped her. Just when he thought to put an end to it because she would be black and blue, Pagan straightened from the wall, noticing Beroun being driven back.
Grinding his teeth to keep from praising her, Pagan witnessed Illara drive him to a point, and when Beroun recovered, she ducked a swing of his blade, drove her shoulder into his stomach and was behind him.
Pagan flickered a glance to see Randulf had straitened too and was tensely watching. Beroun laughed and it rang in the space. Nevertheless, Illara was focused, her eyes on his sword. After an exchange she sliced, then used her other hand to grab his free one, and it was only her skill that kept her from breaking his arm when she had it back behind him, her body also, with the blade at his throat.
Half-bowed Beroun was huffing, breathing as hard as she, but smiling like an idiot.
“Yield?”
“Aye.” He grunted on a laugh.
She released him and came around, showing a grin of her own on her flushed face. Illara bowed her head. “I would have been dead long before then.”
“Aye.” The young man took her hand, stepping close. “Here, here and here.” He moved the hand with the sword. “You sweep too wide. You must tighten the arc and shorten the openings. Better to have your arm cut than your guts.”
“Yes.” She waited for him to release her then switched hands, shaking the other, which was red. “And you must protect your other hand and arm whilst fighting.”
They laughed.
Illara turned to Pagan. “A poor showing, Sir.”
“I have seen worse.” He turned and unhooked a wineskin from the wall, tossing it to her.
She drank cold water as her opponent was doing. Pagan took her sword a moment and trickled water over her knuckles, rubbing lightly at her reddened hand. When he saw her glance down, he realized he had not drawn his gloves back on. However, when he would have pulled his hand away, she grabbed it.
Her back was to the others and only he saw the action, as well as the expression in her eyes. Her damp fingers rubbed over the scars, some from the fire and more from those brutal days fending off more predatory guards in the tower.
“Paraffin wax,” she supplied softly. “I have it in my trunk. It helps to keep the skin supple and scars less dry in harsh weather. I will leave some in the bathing chamber. You melt it in a bowl and let it form on your skin.”
Pagan nodded. “You will be dotted with bruises.”
“I already ache from head to foot.” She chuckled. “What are a few bruises? Besides, it is not often I have had an opponent. There was a sister of a knight, Sefare, who was well trained. She and I exercised together until her betrothed came for her. I would like to practice more with the young man.”
“Beroun.”
“Sir?”
Pagan considered the man. “This is Lady Illara. Illara, Beroun.”
Illara released Pagan’s hand and took the young man’s. They again smiled at each other.
“I must take him away.” Randulf drew her attention. “We have work.”
“Thank you,” Illara offered quietly.
Pagan saw his brother’s eyes soften toward her before Randulf nodded
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