Elaire took his position in front of Neman and waited. The instructor's gaze met his, a cold stare that commanded his attention, the pale eyes fixing him… Elaire didn't think, he simply acted, stepping to the side and bringing his sword up, the blade deflecting Elaire's move with a sharp crack.
Elaire stepped back, sword ready for another blow. Trying to ignore the voices of the others, concentrating on Neman's next attack position.
'Harder to faster.'
Neman brought down his sword down with a strike and Elaire brought his forward with a hard block. The boy felt pain ran down his arms and the instructor felt a sense of amusement in his mind.
"That's it, " shouted Neman, "harder to faster."
Ignoring the pain, Elaire did as told. He moved sideways and brought a swift strike to Neman's wrist. The instructor was sharp, he stepped back and guarded his wrist before the contact.
Elaire lunged again, this time harder and faster. His strike came from every possible direction for the young boy to perform, but the instructor blocked each one of them. Neman struck forward.
'It's time.'
Elaire stepped sideways and crossed the instructor's sword at the guard. He caught the opportunity he was waiting for and parried the instructor's sword backwards.
"Excellent, now---"
Before he could finish. Elaire lunged with another strike. Neman raised his brow while blocking. This should be over after the successful parry, but the boy didn't stop. The fire in the boy's eyes was clear, he didn't just want this, he wanted to end this with a win.
He struck again, again and again, each one Neman blocked. "This has gone too far, boy, " said Neman parrying the next strike and taking the Elaire's sword by hand. The boy's eyes darted to his fallen sword when a hard kick hit his chest thrusting him backwards.
Elaire flew back a distance where he was caught by the other boys who circled him and the instructor. They helped him sit on the floor where caressed his ribs in pain and whimpered. Thankfully, nothing was broken. He felt bile run of his throat burning, but he swallowed it with little tears out of his eyes.
"Diamond, but a rough diamond," remarked Instructor Neman before darting his eyes towards another boy to train.
"You boy, " he said pointing his sword at another boy with dark hair and brown eyes, "raise your sword."
The boy nodded and entered where Elaire stood. The instructor blinked and then there was a blur. The boy was the first to attack without any indication. Neman quickly turned defensive, he managed to dodge the first lightning lunge but his riposte failed to connect with the boy's sword and he went down to the boy's tackle that swept his legs from under him.
'Did he just?' Elaire gawked at the scene with his eyes widened. The pain on the chest was ignored by him as he just sat and watched in shock. The same was with others.
Neman slowly got up with a furious face. The boy stepped back, sword ready for another blow. Trying to ignore the frozen silence of the others, concentrating on the instructor's next likely avenue of attack, an attack no doubt fuelled with the fury of humiliation. Elaire was expecting the same, but the attack never came. Instead, he asked, "What's your name, boy?" to the boy put 'defeated' him.
"Lucas- Lucas Raizel." replied the boy.
Instructor Neman nodded and simply packed up his wooden sword and ordered them: "Gather your things and follow me to the dining hall with all haste."
Elaire and others watched him carefully as they walked across the practice ground and into the courtyard, searching for a sudden tension that could signal another swipe of the cane, but Neman's demeanour remained unchanged. The boys found it hard to believe he would swallow the insult and vowed not to be taken unawares when the inevitable punishment came.
*****************************
Mealtime proved to be something of a surprise. The hall was crowded with boys and the tumult of voices engaging in the habitual ridicule and gossip of youth. The tables were arranged according to age, the youngest boys near the doors, where they would enjoy the strongest draught, and the oldest at the far end next to the instructors' table.
There seemed to be about thirty masters altogether, hard-eyed, mostly silent men, many scarred, a few showing livid burns. One man, sitting at the end of the table quietly eating a plate of bread and cheese, appeared to have had his entire scalp seared away. Only Master Jovar seemed cheerful, laughing heartily, a drumstick gripped in his meaty fist. The other masters either ignored him or nodded politely at whatever witticism he had chosen to share.
One of the instructors led them to the table closest to the door and told them to sit down. There were other groups of boys about their own age already at the table. They had arrived a few weeks earlier and been in training longer under other masters. Elaire noted the sneering superiority some exhibited, the nudges and smirks, finding that he didn't like it at all. Another boy then joined Elaire's table, it was Lucas the boy who had won against Instructor Neman. He didn't say a word just silently sat forward with his meal on a plate. Cold and distant.
"You may talk freely," Instructor told them. "Eat the food, don't throw it. You have an hour." He leaned down, speaking softly to Elaire and Lucas. "If you two fight, don't break any bones." With that, he left to join the other instructor.
The table was crammed with plates of roasted chicken, pies, fruit, bread, cheese, even cakes. The feast was a sharp contrast with the stark austerity Elaire had seen so far. Only once before had he seen so much food in one place, at the Royal Palace, and then he had hardly been allowed to eat anything. They sat in silence for a moment, partly in awe at the amount of food on the table, but mostly out of simple awkwardness; they were strangers after all.
One of the boys looked at Lucas who was ignoring everyone and was silently eating his meal. Then towards Elaire and asked, "How did you do it?"
Elaire looked up to find Deren, the hefty Zijeli boy, addressing him over the mound of pastries between them.
"What?"
"How did you parry the blow?" The other boys were looking at him intently, Rickon dabbing a napkin at the bloody lip he got from the training. He couldn't tell if they were jealous or resentful.
"His eyes," he said, reaching for the water jug and pouring a measure into the plain tin goblet next to his plate.
"What about his eyes?" Jon asked, he had taken a bread roll was cramming pieces into his mouth, crumbs fountaining from his mouth as he spoke
"Ye tellin' us it was the taint?" Rickon laughed, so did Deren, but the rest of the boys seemed chilled by the suggestion, except Benjen and Lucas who were concentrating on a modest portion of chicken and potatoes, apparently indifferent to the conversation.
Elaire shifted in his seat, disliking the attention. "He fixes you with his eyes," he explained. "He stares, you stare back, you're fixed, then he attacks while you're still wondering what he's planning. Don't look at his eyes, look at his feet and his sword."
Deden took a bite from an apple and grunted. "He's right you know. I thought he was trying to hypnotise me."
"What's hypnotise?" asked Jon.
"It looks like magic but really it's just a trick," Deren replied. "At last year's Summertide Fair there was a man who could make people think they were a pig. He'd get them to root in the ground and oink and roll in shit."
"How?"
"I don't know, some kind of trick. He'd wave a bauble in front of their eyes and talk quietly to them for a while, then they'd do whatever he said."
"Do you think Instructor Neman and other instructors can do such things?" asked Roy, the boy who was earlier insulted by Jarem to look like a mule.
"Faith, who knows? I've heard the masters of the Orders know many tainted things, especially in the Crone Order."
Deren held up a drumstick appreciatively before taking a large bite. "It seems that they know cookery as well. They make us sleep on straw and beat us every hour of the day, but they want to feed us well."
"Yeh," Jon agreed. "Like my uncle Sim's dog."
There was a puzzled silence. "Your uncle Sim's dog?" Benjen enquired.
Jon nodded, chewing busily on a mouthful of pie. "Growler. Best fightin' hound ever. Ten victories 'fore- he -'ad 'is throat torn out last winter. Uncle Sim loved that dog, --'ad four kids of --'is own, to three diff'rent ------, but he loved that dog better'n any of my --- cousins, feed Growler before the kids he would. Best of stuff too, mind. Give the kids gruel and the dog beef steak." He chuckled wryly. "Rotten old bastard."
Benjen was unenlightened. "What does it matter what some Eastfield peasant feeds his dog?"
"So it would fight better," Elaire said. "Good food builds strong muscles. That's why war horses are fed best corn and oats and not set to grazing pasture." He nodded at the food on the table.
"The better they feed us, the better we'll fight." He met Benjen's eyes. "And I don't think you should call him a peasant. We're all peasants here."
Benjen stared back coldly. "You have no right to lead, Dí Sálem. You may be the commander's son…"
"I'm no one's son and neither are you." Elaire took a bread roll, his stomach was growling. "Not any more."
They lapsed into silence, concentrating on the meal. After a while, a fight broke out at one of the other tables, plates and food scattering amidst a flurry of fists and kicks. Some boys joined in right away, others stood by shouting encouragement, most simply stayed at their tables, some not even glancing up. The fight raged for a few minutes before one of the masters, the large man with the seared scalp, came over to break it up, swinging a hefty stick with grim efficiency. The boys who had been in the thick of the fight were checked for serious injury, blood mopped from noses and lips, and sent back to the table. One had been knocked unconscious and two boys were ordered to carry him to the infirmary. Before long the din of conversation returned to the hall as if nothing had happened.
"I wonder how many battles we'll be in," Deren said.
" Lots and lots," Jon responded. "You 'eard what the fat Master said."
"They say the war in the Realm is a thing of the past," said Lucas. It was the first time he had spoken and he seemed wary of offering an opinion. "Maybe there won't be any battles for us to fight."
"There's always another war," Elaire said. It was something he had heard his mother say, actually she shouted it at his father during one of their arguments. It was before the last time his father went away, before she got sick. The King's Messenger had arrived in the morning with a sealed letter. After reading it his father began to pack his weapons and ordered the groom to saddle his best charger. Elaire's mother had cried and they went into her drawing-room to argue out of Elaire's sight. He couldn't hear his father's words, he spoke softly, soothingly. His mother would have none of it. "Do not come to my bed when you return!" she spat. "Your stench of blood sickens me."
His father said something else, still maintaining the same soothing tone. "You said that last time. And the time before that," his mother replied. "And you'll say it again. There's always another battle."