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Authors: Miles Cameron
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careful fighting style was the very opposite of the ostentatious display of his arms and clothes.
Brewes stalked Lyliard like a high-stepping panther, his pole-arm going from guard to guard – low, axe-head forward and right leg advanced, in the Boar’s Tooth; sweeping through a
heavy up-cut to rest on his right shoulder like a woodcutter in the Woman’s Guard.
Francis Atcourt, thick waisted and careful, faced Tomas Durrem. Both were old soldiers, unknighted men-at-arms who had been in harness for decades. They circled and circled, taking no chances.
The captain thought he might fall asleep watching them.
Bad Tom came and rested on the same wall, except that his head projected clear above the captain’s head. And even above the plume on his hat.
‘Care to have a go?’ Tom asked with a grin.
No one liked to spar with Tom. He hurt people. The captain knew that despite all the plate armour and padding and mail and careful weapon’s control, tiltyard contests were dangerous and
men were down from duty all the time with broken fingers and other injuries. And that was without the sudden flares of anger men could get when something hurt, or became personal. When the tiltyard
became the duelling ground.
The problem was that there was no substitute for the tiltyard, when it came to being ready for the real thing. He’d learned that in the east.
He looked at Tom. The man had a reputation. And he had dressed Tom down in public a day before.
‘What’s your preference, Ser Thomas?’ he asked.
‘Longsword,’ Bad Tom said. He put a hand on the wall and vaulted it, landed on the balls of his feet, whirled and drew his sword. It was his war sword – four feet six inches of
heavy metal. Eastern made, with a pattern in the blade. Men said it was magicked.
The captain walked along the wall with no little trepidation. He went into the sheepfold through the gate, and Michael brought him a tilt helmet with solid mesh over the face and a heavy
aventail.
Michael handed him his own war sword. It was five inches shorter than Bad Tom’s, plain iron hilted with a half-wired grip and a heavy wheel of iron for a pommel.
As Michael buckled his visor, John of Reigate, Bad Tom’s squire, put his helmet over his head.
Tom grinned while his faceplate was fastened. ‘Most loons mislike a little to-do wi’ me,’ he said. When Tom was excited, his hillman accent overwhelmed his Gothic.
The captain rolled his head to test his helmet, rotated his right arm to test his range of motion.
Men-at-arms were pausing, all over the sheepfold.
‘The more fool they,’ the captain said.
He’d watched Tom fight. Tom liked to hit hard – to use his godlike strength to smash through men’s guards.
His father’s master-at-arms, Hywel Writhe, used to say
For good swordsmen, it’s not enough to win. They need to win their own way. Learn a man’s way, and he becomes
predictable.
Tom rose from the milking stool he’d sat on to be armed and flicked his sword back and forth. Unlike many big men, Tom was as fast as the tomcat that gave him his name.
The captain didn’t strike a guard at all. He held his sword in one hand, the point actually trailing on the grass.
Tom whirled his blade up to the high Woman’s Guard, ready to cleave his captain in two.
‘Garde!’ he roared. The call echoed off the walls of the sheep fold and then from the high walls of the fortress above them.
The captain stepped, moved one foot off line, and suddenly he had his sword in two hands. Still trailing out behind him.
Tom stepped off-line, circling to the captain’s left.
The captain stepped in, his sword rising to make a flat cut at Tom’s head.
Tom slapped the sword down – a
rabatter
cut with both wrists, meant to pound an opponent’s blade into the ground.
The captain powered in, his back foot following the front foot forward. He let the force of Tom’s blow to his blade rotate it, his wrist the pivot – sideways and then
under
Tom’s
Brewes stalked Lyliard like a high-stepping panther, his pole-arm going from guard to guard – low, axe-head forward and right leg advanced, in the Boar’s Tooth; sweeping through a
heavy up-cut to rest on his right shoulder like a woodcutter in the Woman’s Guard.
Francis Atcourt, thick waisted and careful, faced Tomas Durrem. Both were old soldiers, unknighted men-at-arms who had been in harness for decades. They circled and circled, taking no chances.
The captain thought he might fall asleep watching them.
Bad Tom came and rested on the same wall, except that his head projected clear above the captain’s head. And even above the plume on his hat.
‘Care to have a go?’ Tom asked with a grin.
No one liked to spar with Tom. He hurt people. The captain knew that despite all the plate armour and padding and mail and careful weapon’s control, tiltyard contests were dangerous and
men were down from duty all the time with broken fingers and other injuries. And that was without the sudden flares of anger men could get when something hurt, or became personal. When the tiltyard
became the duelling ground.
The problem was that there was no substitute for the tiltyard, when it came to being ready for the real thing. He’d learned that in the east.
He looked at Tom. The man had a reputation. And he had dressed Tom down in public a day before.
‘What’s your preference, Ser Thomas?’ he asked.
‘Longsword,’ Bad Tom said. He put a hand on the wall and vaulted it, landed on the balls of his feet, whirled and drew his sword. It was his war sword – four feet six inches of
heavy metal. Eastern made, with a pattern in the blade. Men said it was magicked.
The captain walked along the wall with no little trepidation. He went into the sheepfold through the gate, and Michael brought him a tilt helmet with solid mesh over the face and a heavy
aventail.
Michael handed him his own war sword. It was five inches shorter than Bad Tom’s, plain iron hilted with a half-wired grip and a heavy wheel of iron for a pommel.
As Michael buckled his visor, John of Reigate, Bad Tom’s squire, put his helmet over his head.
Tom grinned while his faceplate was fastened. ‘Most loons mislike a little to-do wi’ me,’ he said. When Tom was excited, his hillman accent overwhelmed his Gothic.
The captain rolled his head to test his helmet, rotated his right arm to test his range of motion.
Men-at-arms were pausing, all over the sheepfold.
‘The more fool they,’ the captain said.
He’d watched Tom fight. Tom liked to hit hard – to use his godlike strength to smash through men’s guards.
His father’s master-at-arms, Hywel Writhe, used to say
For good swordsmen, it’s not enough to win. They need to win their own way. Learn a man’s way, and he becomes
predictable.
Tom rose from the milking stool he’d sat on to be armed and flicked his sword back and forth. Unlike many big men, Tom was as fast as the tomcat that gave him his name.
The captain didn’t strike a guard at all. He held his sword in one hand, the point actually trailing on the grass.
Tom whirled his blade up to the high Woman’s Guard, ready to cleave his captain in two.
‘Garde!’ he roared. The call echoed off the walls of the sheep fold and then from the high walls of the fortress above them.
The captain stepped, moved one foot off line, and suddenly he had his sword in two hands. Still trailing out behind him.
Tom stepped off-line, circling to the captain’s left.
The captain stepped in, his sword rising to make a flat cut at Tom’s head.
Tom slapped the sword down – a
rabatter
cut with both wrists, meant to pound an opponent’s blade into the ground.
The captain powered in, his back foot following the front foot forward. He let the force of Tom’s blow to his blade rotate it, his wrist the pivot – sideways and then
under
Tom’s
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