For over an hour Dumar demonstrated basic stances punches and kicks to his little group of students, finding them incredibly apt at absorbing and performing the moves he taught. Already competent fighters and in the peak of physical fitness, the royal guards made excellent students and were beginning to build muscle memory even in the short time they had been practising.
At one point they confused Dumar for a second by all snapping to attention as one, their eyes fixed on the wall. The big man looked around before noticing Prince Warval had entered.
"As you were," he called in his effeminate voice.
All but the two guards who had arrived with the prince turned back to the big man who carried on tweaking their techniques.
"Let's call it a day for now," he said. "Maybe another time, eh?"
As well trained as they were, they all snapped to attention again, held the position for a couple of seconds and then fell out.
That's just plain weird.
More than half of the small group left the room but a few remained to carry on their mock fights. Dumar watched with interest as Warval made a circuit of the sparring partners, pausing to speak to several of them as he went.
Dumar had discovered a bucket of chilly water and some wooden cups at the far end of the room and watched as the royal guards politely replied to the prince who looked downtrodden at their responses.
After failing to get a satisfactory answer from any of them, Warval caught sight of Dumar and made his way over.
He wore a pale yellow shirt with forest green waistcoat and heavy trousers that had been tucked into highly polished boots. In contrast to how Dumar had seen him before, the prince looked reasonably normal.
Gone were the outrageous colours and gaudy jewels that had adorned him, leaving a youthful looking man in his prime.
"My lord Dumar," Warval inclined his head.
"Good morning, your highness and please just call me Dumar."
"Then you should just call me Warval," Dumar nodded as the prince sighed deeply. "It is always the same reply when I ask to spar with the guards," he added.
"They make an excuse to be back on duty or have some other pressing matter that needs their immediate attention. I realise it may be seen as an etiquette problem if I were defeated, yet I would never think to make issue of it. It would be in the name of practise after all, can you see?" He looked at Dumar, eyebrows raised.
"I haven't got a clue," Dumar admitted. "I expect there's some kind of protocol or order involved though. Stops them going about hitting you?"
A half smile curved one side of Warval's mouth and he hummed his agreement.
"It is frustrating, nevertheless," Warval carried on. "If the information my uncle brought is true, I also need to hone my skills.
"Yet I find myself at a loss to do so when everyone is afraid of grazing my tender royal flesh."
Dumar smiled at his sarcasm.
"I could ask Fultard. He would come and give me lessons, as he used to. Yet he has far too much on his agenda now and I would not think to draw him away," the prince looked despondently at the floor.
"What about your sister?" Dumar asked.
Warval looked aghast.
"You cannot be serious!" He squealed. "She would kill me and call it practice. Then justify my death by telling everyone I deserved it if was not able to defend myself adequately," he affected a shudder. "No, Dumar, do not even suggest Alystra."
The big man chuckled, surprised to find the prince was fairly amusing.
"What's your weapon of choice?" He wondered.
"I was next to useless with the sword, so Fultard suggested I practice with the staff. I suppose I got to a fair proficiency with it before I ceased training."
Dumar nodded.
"Why'd you stop?" Waraval rolled his eyes.
"That is quite a long story and it takes in some times in my life when I have done things I am less than proud of," he admitted candidly. "Allow me simply to say I thought Saruline would eventually rule, whether by fair means or foul, and could see nothing in my future I would need to fight for," Warval stared into space as he spoke.
"When he was killed, though," he carried on. "It struck me. Eventually I shall become king of Rothmury and the prospect is...troublesome to me." Warval shook himself and looked at Dumar. "I should not be speaking of this to you, I am sure you have many problems of your own to deal with."
You remind me of me, mate, friendless and in the middle of some shit.
"It's supposed to be easier to talk to someone you don't know. What about your mum?"
Confusion mixed with amusement at the big man's unfamiliar way of speaking.
"Again, mother has enough to deal with at the present time and you may have noticed my sister is not the most supportive of ladies, so I shall have to make the best of things alone."
Dumar grinned at the prince's assessment of Alystra, the princess was definitely not supportive.
So why do I feel my guts twist up when I think about her?
"Come on, let's have a go at beating each other with sticks." Dumar said.
"Really?" Warval asked in surprise.
Dumar nodded and followed Warval across to the racks of weapons.
A foot shorter than Dumar, Warval appeared fairly well muscled but had a layer of fat beneath his skin that Dumar saw as the other man stripped his shirt off.
"After you," Warval offered Dumar the first pick of the staffs and staves on offer. Dumar grabbed one that looked solid enough and hefted the staff, noting it was well balanced with the thicker ends evenly carved.
Warval limbered his arms up as he carefully selected a staff and crossed to face Dumar. He was obviously competent with the thing as he twirled it around in an arc, flipping it from hand to hand and bringing it round in a sweeping motion that he brought to a standstill before him.
Wordlessly the prince jabbed the butt end of his staff at Dumar's face, nodding his approval as the big man knocked it easily aside, dodging at the same time. Warval brought the staff back and braced the other end behind his back, sweeping the tip towards Dumar a little faster than his previous blow.
Dumar brought his own staff up, bracing it in both hands to stop the prince's blow.
The pair carried on, Warval attacking and Dumar defending, increasing in speed as the pair got used to each other. Warval was quickly breathless and sweating but did not give up or call for a break, impressing the big man.
For his part, Dumar did not push the prince too hard but flicked the occasional blow in his direction.
"Hold! Hold!" Warval eventually called.
The prince almost collapsed, using his staff for support as he tried to capture his breath. A few minutes later he had recovered enough to speak.
"Enough for now, Dumar, I cannot continue."
Dumar looked down at the prince before kicking the end of his staff away, tumbling Warval to the floor. The prince's face was a mask of surprised shock as he looked back up at Dumar.
"Enemies won't wait for you to catch your breath." the big man said, slamming the butt of his staff down towards the prince's face.
Warval rolled to one side, dodging the blow that Dumar had adjusted the aim of to miss. He had not expected Warval to dodge but was trying to make the point.
Meanwhile, Warval had rolled completely over and was in the process of bringing the end of his own staff viciously towards Dumar's ankle.
Were it not for his reflexes and immense speed Dumar would never have been able to get the end of his own staff against his ankle, stopping the blow that would have smashed his talus.
"That's more like it. Harness that anger."
Warval rolled to his feet, breathing hard as he aimed jabs, lunges and sweeps at the big man. Dumar's perception of things shifted until time appeared to slow.
Even with that advantage he knew he faced an opponent of superior ability and wondered if the prince had lied about not practising.
Why, though? What would he get from lying about it?
With lips peeled back in a feral grin, Warval continued his attack until he made his mistake.
He brought his staff back from a blow Dumar had blocked and tried to slam it down in a vicious double handed, overhead sweep. The big man could not let the opportunity pass and flicked his foot out, catching Warval directly in the middle of his chest.
Even though Dumar had made sure his kick was light, it had an immediate effect on the prince who staggered backwards, crumpling as his knees gave out.
The two royal guards who had accompanied the prince and the two who had come with Dumar streaked into action, throwing themselves between the two men and drawing their bright swords against Dumar.
The big man stepped back, letting the staff he held fall to the floor before anyone else got hurt.
"S...Stand down!" Warval said weakly. "This is practice," he panted. "Nothing more."
Slowly the two men and women sheathed their swords and stepped aside. Dumar moved to Warval's side and offered his hand. The prince took it, wincing as the big man helped him up.
"I really have had enough this time, Dumar," he said in a terse voice. "I am heading for the baths and a massage, you are free to join me if you care."
Without waiting for an answer Warval made his slow way across to where his shirt lay and struggled into it, grunting as he did so. He turned and offered Dumar a brief, sickly look.
I think I might have upset him a bit.
"Warval," Dumar called, trotting over to the prince. "Were you being serious about the bath or just polite?"
The prince grunted a bitter laugh.
"I was serious, yet you will appreciate I cannot actually breathe at the moment so might sound a little out of sorts."
His voice sounded a little more masculine now he had been hit.
"Do you want me to carry you, your highness?" Dumar asked his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Warval pretended to think about it for a moment, making Dumar smile, before he walked on.