King's Exile: Book 1Teaser Preview

Chap. 1, Part 1: Wooden Swords

Chapter 1

 Part 1: Wooden Swords in the Courtyard

Clack, clack, clack. The sound of the wooden wasters was loud and raucous—and embarrassing. Dax, the young, uncrowned king of West Landly, had to practice his swordsmanship with a wooden sword while all around him the rest of the Guardmen raised a blacksmith’s cacophony with the cool, sharp scrape and clang of steel on steel. Attack, defend, attack, Dax’s wooden practice sword just said, “Clack, clack, clack.”

On this particular day, General Herne had had him practicing swordsmanship with one of the young members of the West Landly Guard. The Guard’s castle detachment was an elite group charged with protecting king and castle, but that didn’t mean they showed their king any deference when charged to train him. Tre Lukas Trimble at age 19 was more than half again as old as Dax, full muscled and in his prime. Young for the rank of tre, Trimble sparred frequently with Dax. Today they dueled with weighted wooden wasters. To insure his safety, Herne insisted Dax wear a leather training vest and a wire mesh protective face mask while Trimble spared in ordinary training clothes. Although Dax understood Herne’s need to insure his safety, it still was embarrassing.

Dax circled Trimble, cautious in his attacks. Although the pennants atop the castle walls and towers snapped in the brisk wind off the great Western Ocean, down in the training yard scarcely a breath of a breeze stirred. The air held a hint of the cool ocean below, but Dax had sweated since the start of the bout. From experience he knew Trimble was fast and strong, and the man could have disarmed him easily. Trimble’s job, however, was to show Dax a practice challenge. Dax’s assigned task was to score a touch.

“What’s the matter?” Trimble called with a smile. “Tired already?”

Evidently Dax had been a little too cautious, but Trimble’s cocky attitude did not help. Dax lunged forward. Clack, clack, clack —WHAP! Trimble’s solid swat to the side of his head hit Dax’s mask and stung his ear.

“Oops,” his sparring partner said. “Did you forget to keep your guard up on the left?”

Trimble’s smile and mocking tone were too much. With an unexpected surge of hot fury, everything suddenly looked red to Dax. He could see every fiber of Trimble’s training jersey as well as each of the disgustingly few beads of sweat on his taunting face. Clack-clack-clack-clack-clack! The waster was almost weightless as Dax launched a furious attack.

“Hey!” Trimble exclaimed. “Ouch! There’s your hit. Match over. Stop!”

Dax felt a restraining hand on his shoulder, and he stopped his assault. Herne’s firm tones said, “The match is over, your majesty,” and the world looked normal again.

Dax pulled his mask off and stuck the point of his waster in the ground to rest his arm. He knew Herne would reprimand him for lack of sword discipline for that, but he figured it would be better than dropping the thing from his exhausted hand. He wiped his forehead with the back of his arm.

Now Trimble gave the proper end-of-match sword salute to Dax. “Good match, your majesty. I’m not sure what form you used there at the end, but it was effective.” Trimble smiled ruefully and rubbed his shoulder where Dax’s waster had hit him twice. Trimble also gave a sword salute to Herne even though, as a retired officer, Hern was not strictly entitled to the formality.

“Thank you for the match, Tre,” Dax responded and gave Trimble a nod with polite respect. “You were excellent as always.” He watched as Trimble racked his waster and trotted off towards the barracks.

The honesty in Trimble's comment gave Dax a little hope that all the practice was helping, but the reality was Dax was not exactly sure what had happened with that last series at the end of the match. In fact, he couldn’t really remember anything clearly except getting angry and attacking Trimble. He had certainly not used any of the  carefully learned sword moves he had been taught, but at least he hadn’t sensed as much cockiness from Trimble after the match.

Herne patted his shoulder as he let go. “In spite of what you think, Dax, you are getting better. In a few years you will be a swordsman your father would have been proud of.”

The rare praise and the unexpected personal contact startled Dax. The thought that his father would have been proud of him made his eyes burn with emotion. His father had nicknamed him Dax because he would be King Darius Ambegriff X and his kingly initials: D. A. the X. When Herne used the nickname, Dax always imagined it to be a sign of fatherly affection. He lowered his gaze so Herne wouldn’t see the water glistening in his eyes.

“Thank you. It is hard work, though,” he said roughly.

“Never said it wasn’t. Then again, ‘nothing worthwhile comes without a wagon full of work.’ Evnissyen says your lessons are going well, too.”

Every morning Dax had to work with Evnissyen, the royal tutor. A spare, graying man, Evnissyen  also spared little praise for his student. The cold intellect Dax sensed behind the man’s weak eyes intimidated him. Still, Dax’s lessons were interesting if exasperating. It seemed as if Dax could never get a straight answer to any of his questions. Instead he had to labor to argue one of Evnissyen’s position statements first from one side, then the other, and sometimes from three or more different sides. He diligently kept up with his assigned readings, but Evnissyen’s questions always stayed a pace or two ahead of his understanding forcing Dax to recheck his books. Sometimes had even had to search the Castle library to find more information. There was so much to learn before he ruled the kingdom in his own name, Dax sometimes despaired of the task before him.

“He never says that to me,” Dax replied.

“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? We have a lot of work to do to get you ready for your thirteenth-year when you will be able to govern in your own name.” 

Dax was tired. Not just in body, but in spirit. There was so much to do.

Herne paused while Dax returned his wooden waster to the rack of practice weapons. “One other thing you should know. Captain Danford is going to be supervising your physical training for the next week or so. Seems they want me to run an errand to the Guard garrison down south at the mouth of the Radkim River.”

Frowning, Dax said, “That’s unusual, isn’t it?”

Herne looked at him. “Damned unusual that they’d send an old, retired goat like me, but the Castellen asked me personally. Don’t worry, I’ve already given Danford plenty of things for you to do while I’m gone.” He smiled. “Just because I’m not here doesn’t mean there won’t be something for you to do.”

“It seems there’s always something to do.” Dax mumbled. Although Herne worked him hard, the man was an ever present anchor in his life. Dax realized he would miss him.

Herne evidently sensed his budding despair and jostled his shoulder again. “Don’t worry. Your father was my friend, and I promised to look after his son. The kingdom will be the better when you take the throne.”

The honesty in Herne’s sentiment was plain and comforting, and a flush of warmth from the man’s support washed over Dax. He knew he couldn’t ask for a hug in the middle of the training grounds, but Herne gave his shoulder a final squeeze and sent him on his way with a cuff like he would give to any budding warrior. In spite of the day’s hard work, Dax’s step was lighter than usual.