Disenchanted Read Online Free PDF Page B

scowled, but said, “Outside, then, Messenger.”
    Boric nodded curtly and grabbed his pack from under the table where he had been sitting. He had tied the sword that Brand had given him, Brakslaagt, to the side of the pack. His own sword hung in a scabbard at his side.
    He and Corbet went outside, and he gave a silver coin to a young boy in the street to watch his pack. “There’ll be another for you if everything’s still there when I’m done schooling this prince,” Boric told the boy, who nodded and smiled at him.
    The two princes drew their swords. Boric’s was a simple broadsword of good quality; he had left his own sword at Kra’al Brobdingdon because with its Ytriskian markings and jewels it would have given him away as a member of the court. Corbet’s sword, he noted, was a work of understated beauty — cold blue steel that almost seemed to glow in the night. There was no question: this sword was the brother of Brakslaagt.
    Boric regarded the prince. Corbet was a year older than he, but his features were still slathered in a layer of baby fat. Or maybe middle age had come early for the prince. Corbet’s father, King Celiac, was a giant of a man, both in height and in girth, and his offspring evinced the same tendency toward heft. Celiac was a gruff man with leathery skin that was scarred from countless battles, though; this prince’s flesh was smooth and puffy. He moved nimbly enough, his sword cutting gracefully through the air as he limbered his muscles, but his poise and general affect was that of a boy prancing around the arena with a toy sword. Boric wondered if he had ever faced a real opponent. One of the hazards of being the eldest son in the royal family was that your opponents tended to let you win.
    Boric did not have that problem. His older brothers, Yoric and Goric, had been beating the shit out of him for as long as he could remember — first individually and then, as Boric grew, collaboratively. Even now, both brothers were still bigger than he, but he had learned how to use their size against them. The best combat tutors were reserved for Yoric and Goric, but Boric could beat either of his brothers in a fair fight — and could even give them a run for their money in a completely unfair fight. He didn’t see Corbet giving him much trouble, although it would be interesting to see how his sword performed.
    The two men squared off, testing each other’s defenses. Boric’s sword was heavier than the one he ordinarily used, but it was a good, well-balanced blade. Boric had learned early on that in sword-fighting, there were two basic temptations: one was to let the momentum of the sword carry you around, which led to overextending yourself and losing your balance. The other was to hold your sword close, trying to keep it completely under control as if it were a knife, which led to an overly defensive stance. The trick was to think of the sword as an extension of your arm, to find the balance between controlling the sword and letting the sword control you. Corbet clearly erred on the side of being too aggressive: he was used to opponents who paused before taking advantage of his overextension. Still, the gaps he left were small — Boric would need to time his blow just right. He sparred with Corbet for several minutes, trying to get a sense of his rhythm. Corbet was strong, too — stronger than Boric. He rained blow after blow on Boric’s sword, scattering sparks and cutting notches into the blade. Corbet’s own sword seemed unscathed. Boric chuckled.
    Ytrisk wasn’t exactly at the forefront of metallurgy but Boric knew that there were many different sorts of steel, from the malleable steel used for horseshoes and door hinges to the hard-but-brittle steel used for cooking knives. Before the rise of the Old Realm, swords had been made mostly of iron. These swords rusted easily, dulled quickly and — worst of all — were prone to bending, a trait which led to many awkward interludes in