Constantine (Daughter of War #1)

Chapter 4: Hidden Passageways

A/N: Dedicated to cleofriskey for motivating me to write.

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"Higher, higher. Faster. Don't lose ground." The sharp comments of Sir Eldric sting me as I struggle to meet his expectations.

A sickening crack slaps over my knees; I buckle under the shock. Lowering my sword, I lean my head against the wooden post, a free hand gripping my injured legs. Pain immediately flares from my back.

"Did I tell you to stop, squire?" growls Sir Eldric. In his hand is a long, slender, and extremely deadly cane, the source of my throbbing back and knees.

"No, Sir Eldric," I say through gritted teeth. For a non-Champion, the man could hit hard. Very.

"Then why did you stop?"

I straighten myself and raise my head to look at him, appreciating in full the Captain-like features. An interrogating nose; a thin, critical mouth; fierce, hawk-like eyes. I place him at about my father's age, his dark hair thinning with streaks of silver running through it. "Because I was in pain, sir," I reply coolly.

He snorts. "In pain. If you're in pain in a battlefield, do you drop your weapons to nurse your wounds? Do you expect everyone to halt the fight and comfort you when you're down?"

"No, sir."

"So is being painful a reason for ceasing to swing your sword?"

"No, sir."

He studies me for a moment, his eyes probing and intelligent. "You're too much like your father—pig-headed and smart-mouthed," he remarks, a hand reaching up to stroke the faint stubble at his chin. He sighs in exasperation. "Pride was always one of the damning traits that ran in Rutherland blood. We'll stop sword practice for now and move on to crossbows." He turns towards Gilbert, who is desperately slashing at another post after he saw what happened to me. "Squire Falkner, put down your sword now. Move over to the archery fields."

It's the first day of our exclusive training with the king's best warriors. Captain Eldric and Sir Kendrick had decided to rotate their training sessions every other day to not trouble themselves so much. Today, Captain Eldric takes the helm.

After Gilbert puts his sword back with forced enthusiasm, he scurries to the Captain's side. I repeat his actions with certain reluctance, making my trainer's nostrils flare slightly. I know I'm supposed to behave properly, but some rebellious streak is guiding my actions unconsciously, bending me into its will.

Around us, the yells and battle cries of training knights and soldiers rise to a vicious crescendo. Gilbert and I are allowed to train on the knights' field, adjacent to the squires' training field. Even from afar, my eyes can pick up the squires' clumsy manoeuvres and less-than-graceful attempts at sword-fighting.

Sir Eldric pokes about the crossbows rack, before handing us two heavy models. Then he picks up one for himself with relative ease and gestures for us to walk towards the archery field. It's crowded with knights, but a path through them opens for us as we approach. They bow towards their superior, who acknowledges them with a slight nod.

We load our bows in silence, then stand at our marks and take aim. I even my breathing, allowing my mind to focus on the tiny black dot at the target's centre, near indistinguishable from this distance. I release the trigger, feeling a gleeful jolt as the quarrel shoots out. A watching knight hollers the result from afar.

It has hit the centre.

Sir Eldric grunts in reluctant approval. He turns towards Gilbert, who has trouble smoothing out his breathing. I heave a sigh of relief; at least there's something that I can do to please the impossibly demanding Captain. I start to load my next quarrel.