"Left, right, left..." the call echoed along with the clack of wooden swords clashing together across the courtyard, "Down, right, left..."
Step back, raise the sword to block, and... Illyon grunted as the force of the swing shuddered through his body, shoving him a step back. Still, he stood his ground, his arms trembling as he waited for his opponent to move away. As he did, Illyon swung at the man, but he ducked out of the way, and a hard force slammed into his chest, sending him sprawling. His sword skidded across the sand, well out of his reach. Illyon sighed and sat up, staring up at the older man standing over him with a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Well fought, my lord." The man said.
"Yes, but not well enough." Illyon sighed, dusting himself off.
"You will grow better with practice." The man promised, shrugging, "No one is a master at the sword when they're born."
"Yes—and I'm not just born." Illyon pointed out, scowling, "One more round. I think I can properly execute the move this time."
"Tomorrow." The man shook his head, "Rest is also important to training."
"I can go another round." Illyon protested, "I'm barely tired."
"Your mother, her grace and your siblings are waiting for you in the hall." The man reminded him, "The king is returning today."
"I suppose so." Illyon sighed, "Will you train me again tomorrow?"
"Perhaps, my lord." He bowed slightly, and turned away to head towards the armory, leaving Illyon to frown in his direction.
Illyon shook his head, and turned away from the courtyard as well, "Draw up a bath and have my best ready." He ordered as he strode from the yard and through the doors of the east tower, "And have Tridon saddled."
Even though it hadn't taken Illyon very long to reach his room, a lukewarm bath was ready, his clothes spread out on his bed. He grimaced as the servant pulled the shirt over his head, trying to ignore the twinge of pain that shot down his shoulders when he raised his arms. The water was warm and welcome, but he didn't have long to linger. The servant roughly scrubbed the dirt and grime from his skin, and hurriedly dressed him in his soft velvets. He was later than he had thought.
He leapt on his horse, and urged him into a canter, but by the time he had crossed the distance from the east tower to the central grounds, the king was already leading his procession through the main gates. His mother and siblings were certainly already in the council room, ready to meet his father, but he didn't have time to dismount and race in through the doors.
His horse took a few steps back, shaking his head as the procession passed, "Father—your grace—" he stammered, "I am sorry for... not being more..."
His father's glare silenced him, and he drew back as the king didn't spare him another glance after passing him. The man at the right of his father gave him an apologetic shrug, but the rest of the procession ignored him just as much.
The man he was fighting moments before drew up beside him, an amused look on his face, "I see you did not make it, my lord."
Illyon scowled, "I should not have come at all." he muttered.
The man didn't reply. He was a broad man, making even the heavy-set stallion under him seem dwarfed. Hints of a beard grew around his chin, but he was bald, with a long, but crooked nose, and a rough face that looked as if it was molded from clay.
They watched the procession in silence, leading with the king, his commanders and the mounted soldiers, to the foot soldiers, and finally a straggling band of captives, herded by men with spears.
