The Truant Prince

Prologue

         Prologue

Castle Anashan, 1600 A. H. (Annoes Hiora)

The sound of steel clashing against steel drifted dimly from the palace courtyard. There were two men in the circular practice arena, one older man and a twelve year old boy. Sweat was dripping from a boy's forehead as he strained to follow the older man's commands.

"Upper cut, thrust, right hand swing..." The man called out the moves relentlessly, not seeming to notice or care that the boy was struggling. The young man considered asking for a break, but he knew it would do no good. All her would receive was a reprimand and twenty extra minutes dueling his instructor.

"Halt!" The older man finally called out in a curt tone. The boy's sword point immediately dropped towards the ground. He leaned over, his hands clasped on his knees, his breath ragged.

"Fairly well done, Ett." The commander spoke to the boy, stepped towards him and put his hand on the shoulder. Ett looked up at him, too tired to answer. The older man's breathing was as even as it had been when they started. He didn't look exerted in the slightest.

Ett felt annoyance creep up his spine. He longed for the day when he could give back as good as he got, and make his old teacher sweat a little.

"Thank you, Sir Donetral." He mumbled, his head lowering to the ground again.

Sir Donetral shook his student's shoulder a bit, causing him to look up again. There was a stern glare on his face.

"You dropped your guard. As soon as I call halt, what do you do?"

Ett's jaw tightened, and he lowered his gaze. "Stay in ready position."

"Demonstrate." The knight ordered.

Ett did as he was asked, turning his body sideways and lifting his broadsword with the tip pointing forward.

Sir Donetral nodded. "Adequate. Now, let's go wash up."

He and Ett made their way to the edge of the arena and deposited their weapons on the sword rack nearby. Next to it stood two was stands, each with a bucket of clear water on it. Ett dipped his cupped hands into one of them and splashed his face with the cold liquid.

Sir Donetral moved next to his own and crossed his arms, turning to look at Ett.

"I will be honest with you, your highness. I am not impressed with how you have been progressing. You're movments are sluggish and sloppy. You are a capable swordsman, Ett, but you lack enthusiasm. What's happened, your highness?"

Ett splashed the back of his neck, and didn't look at the commander as he answered.

"I don't know." He grabbed a linen from a nearby worker and rubbed his neck with it. The fabric was rough but if felt good to have his face clean and dry after the grueling workout. Sir Donetral crossed his arms and looked down at Ett, not touching his own bucket of water.

"It doesn't matter if you don't like sword practice, your highness. It's mandatory."

Ett finally looked up at the warrior, and saw genuine concern on his face.

"That's the problem." Ett said, tossing the towel down on the wash stand. "It's mandatory."

Before Sir Donetral could reply, a little girl waltzed into the courtyard, a grin on her face.