03

“Win for Sam of Haywood!”

She’d won, thank the gods. Had Tristan Lyons seen it? She shaded her eyes with her hand, scanning the crowd behind the barrier for a crop of golden hair.

He was gone, as if never there.

***

Tristan eyed his new shadow with ill-disguised contempt. He’d seen the boy during the Trials—Sam of Haywood should never have made it past the first round. Yet now he stood here, in the courtyard of The Center, a newly minted Paladin trainee. Tristan’s trainee. The boy’s father must have been some rich merchant or second-tier nobleman who had traded in a favor.

His upper lip curled back. Why had Tristan, ranked first overall in swordsmanship and second in hand-to-hand combat, been assigned the runt of the litter? He had hoped—no, he had assumed—that his seven years of faithful service to the Paladins would have warranted the pick of the lot.

Ever since he completed his own apprenticeship, six years prior, Tristan had looked forward to fostering his own trainee. The lad would be cut from the same cloth as Tristan—accomplished at weaponry, incomparably strong, a mite too handsome than was good for him—and they would be as brothers. They would fight together, break bread together, whore together...

Instead, the High Commander assigned him Sam of Haywood, the most incompetent trainee of this year’s crop. And Tristan was stuck with him for the better part of a year...if the boy survived the full term.

Turning towards his trainee, Tristan tried, and failed, to keep the sneer off his face. "Have you been to The Center before, boy?"

"It’s Sam."

So the boy had a mouth on him, did he? "I'll call you whatever I please,” said Tristan. “Have you been to The Center before, trainee?”

Sam looked sullen, but replied anyway. "No, Paladin, though I've seen pictures in my father's books. This is the first I've been more than a day's ride from home."

"Hmph. Well, don't get too used to the place. We move out in less than a fortnight."

Sam gave him a blank look. "Move out?"

"Aye, you and I are heading west. The High Commander has assigned me to the Diamond Coast,” Tristan said. “As my trainee, you are to accompany me.”

The trainee seemed taken aback. "I thought the Diamond Coast was uninhabitable.”

"No point in us going somewhere habitable, is there?"

Sam muttered something unintelligible.

"What was that, boy?" Tristan asked sharply.

Sam pinched his lips together. "Nothing, Paladin."

Tristan harrumphed. “Let’s lay down the ground rules, shall we? While we lodge here, I expect you to earn your keep. Just because you've got the luxury of a warm bed to sleep in doesn't mean you can afford to be idle. Breakfast is at dawn. Sleep through it if you want, but food won't be served again until midday. You'll do weapons training with the other trainees straight after breakfast. Sleep through that and you'll answer to me." Tristan paused to give Sam his best menacing glare. "Come, I'll show you to the armory. We’ve got to get you outfitted for training.” He let his distaste show as his eyes traveled down the trainee's skinny frame. “If we can find something in your size."

Without bothering to wait for Sam, Tristan headed for the far left tower. His trainee sputtered behind him, running to catch up.

The rounded tower projected out from a high outer wall that surrounded the entire courtyard. Crenellations encircled the top like a coronet, and strategically placed arrow loops were cut in neat, crosslike slits around the tower's circumference. A latticed iron gate partially blocked the arched entrance, flanked by armed guards on either side.

As they approached the portcullis, Sam asked, "Is it always so heavily guarded?"

Tristan chuckled. "Wait until you see the inside. You'll understand, then." He nodded at the guards, who moved aside to let them pass. "Welcome to The Center armory of the Paladins."

Sam’s mouth hung open at the sight of the largest collection of weaponry north of the Rheic Ocean. Thousands of longswords, rapiers and katanas suspended from circular racks. The true prizes, however, were the scimitars, locked behind glass display cases. Forged of a rare, indestructible blend of steel and obsidian, scimitars took even the most expert of blacksmiths a full year to complete. The price of a single sword could feed a village for a decade.

In the middle of the room, a spiral staircase wound clockwise around a marble column, leading to the tower's upper four stories. As Tristan and Sam ascended the stairs, the trainee's eyes grew rounder and rounder at the sheer mass of weaponry. Spiked wooden clubs, bronze-headed maces and flails spilled over the tops of overstuffed storage units. Double-edged battle axes and three-pointed picks dangled from chains in the ceiling, and piles of daggers and knives left barely enough room to walk.

"We keep our bows and arrows in a separate building by the archery range," said Tristan. "Shields and armor are on the top floor, but most of us opt to wear chainmail instead of a full suit of armor. You need to be able to move quickly in our line of work."

The boy twisted his neck left and right as if he couldn't decide where to focus his gaze. His body quivered with obvious excitement, and his eyes shone with pure, unadulterated lust. Whatever his shortcomings, Sam had a true passion for cold steel; Tristan could tell that much. Perhaps there was hope for him yet.

"The sword is your primary weapon?" Tristan asked. Given Sam's small stature, he would have expected the boy to choose the crossbow or dagger, the weapons of an agile fighter.

"Aye, Paladin."

"Are you any good?" Maybe the duel Tristan witnessed during the Trials had been a fluke.

The boy's eyebrows drew together. "I'm good enough.”

Tristan frowned at Sam. "This is the Paladins, trainee, not your backwoods village. Here, you're never good enough."

The boy muttered under his breath.

"Speak up, trainee."

"Haywood," Sam said, his eyes flashing. "I'm not from some backwoods village, I'm from Haywood."

Now there was a name Tristan hadn’t heard in a while, though he thought of it often enough. Briefly, his thoughts turned to a girl he once met, a skinny, coltish thing, all arms and legs and teeth. She’d be a woman now, of a marriageable age. Lady Samantha of Haywood.

Not a girl he was likely to forget.