There were twelve of them surrounding Athaelos, but he did not panic. His breathing was calm and steady, and his muscles supple and relaxed as he waited. His gleaming, emerald-coloured armour was cool against his skin, and the spear was a familiar, comforting weight in his hand. He closed his eyes as he focussed his mind, readying himself for the Trial of Swords to begin.
At some unspoken command, they attacked. They came at him in a rush and he burst into motion, his almond-shaped eyes snapping open. The blade-edged shield upon his left arm came up to deflect the first blow. Moving like a dancer, he spun lightly on the balls of his feet, swaying to avoid a second and third strike. The fourth and fifth he turned aside with his shield as he turned a full circle, neatly redirecting blades towards other attackers, using their numbers against them. Athaelos’s spear slapped a sixth and seventh attack aside and he ducked the next.
With languid grace, comfortable now with the rhythm and pace of the battle, and confident of his own skills, Athaelos began to attack. He took down one attacker with a blow to the back of the knees, and ducking beneath a slicing sword, he rose and slammed his shield into another’s face, sending him reeling. Two thrusts, perfectly timed, and another two were floored, the blows taking them square in the chest, just below the heart. He spun again, slapping aside a pair of swords that sought his back, and another two enemies were taken down, one with a heavy blow to the temple, another with a crushing strike to the throat with the butt of his spear.
More wary now, the remaining six spread out around him. Athaelos, his breathing still calm, his heart steady, merely closed his eyes once more and waited for them. For more than half a century he had trained for this moment, but if he was nervous or anxious, he did not show it. His pale face was an alabaster mask, his noble, angular features devoid of expression.
A sword slashed for the back of his neck even as a second blade stabbed towards his stomach, and with his eyes still closed, he threw himself into a forward roll, avoiding both blows, his dark hair fanning out as he leapt. Like an acrobat, he was back up on his feet in an instant, and another enemy was felled with a sharp spear-thrust to the back. Another was swept to the ground and dispatched, and reversing his grip on his spear, he thrust behind him, taking down another closing in on his blindside. He felt more than saw a sword slashing in towards his gut and threw himself forwards, somersaulting the hissing blade. Twisting in mid-air, he slammed his attacker to the ground with the blow to the neck. He landed lightly, weapon at the ready. Only two foes remained.
They came at him simultaneously, working together, but they were clearly outmatched. Spinning his spear in a humming arc, Athaelos deflected their attacks effortlessly, and it was over in heartbeat. His gleaming, crystal spear tip came to a halt a hair’s breadth from the throat of one, while the bladd point of his shield resting against the neck of the second. Neither moved; they knew they were beaten.
A blare of horns announced the cessation of the trial, and Athaelos stepped back, bowing. Only now did Athaelos register those lining the deep forest glade, the warriors and elder nobles who had come to witness his trial. Fireflies circled overhead, and more onlookers watched from above, gathered upon the gleaming walkways and bridges linking the ancient trees overheard.
A figure stepped forward from the ranks of the watching nobles, and Athaelos’s eyes widened. Only now did his heart started to beat faster, and he felt a trickle of sweat run down his back. Instinctively, his gaze flicked to the deadly, cursed black sword sheathed at the figure’s waist.
‘My lord,’ he breathed, dropping his gaze and falling to his knees before his king.
‘Rise, Athaelos,’ said Elthenar Bladedancer, his voice little more than a whisper, he filled with power and authority. ‘Rise and join your kin. You are one of us now.’