The Pagan Night Read Online Free PDF

imagine that if that happens on the battlefield, it will be more my opponent’s problem than mine.” Ian rested the sword against his chest and started fiddling with the chain gauntlets. “I think it’s the grip I’ve got wrong. Third finger of the left hand over the first of the right.” He left the tip of the sword on the ground as he wrapped his hands around the hilt. “But when I transition to the back stroke, it’s the second finger, and I’m not sure what to do with my thumbs. Does this look right to you?” he asked, glancing up.
    “I have no idea, my lord. I never think about it.”
    Without warning Sir Dugan stepped back, smoothly drawing his own sword and presenting a high guard. Ian looked puzzled, but then Dugan’s blade was coming at his head. A gasp went up from the audience.
    Ian backed away, lifting the broadsword into a high guard. Dugan’s weapon skittered off the steel of Ian’s blade, then danced around and came at him again. Ian shifted his stance, holding the tip steady but sliding the cross-guard to meet the arc of his instructor’s attack.
    Steel met steel, and as Ian thrust forward, Dugan skipped back. The older knight came at him with a quick series of overhead blows, and it was all Ian could do to keep his steel in the way. Finally, he saw an opening. He shuffled forward, putting Dugan off his balance, then swung the broadsword over his head, gathering speed and chopping across his body.
    Sir Dugan jumped aside. The heavy blow of Ian’s sword struck the target log squarely. He twisted it, leaned against the hilt and then drew it free in a long, rattling cut that sliced off the top of the log.
    Dugan sheathed his sword and nodded.
    “And what did you do with your thumbs, my lord?”
    “I’m not sure,” Ian said. He was gasping from the effort of the assault, staring at the wide gash in the log. “I would have to think about it.”
    “I strongly urge you to not do that, my lord. You’re a fine swordsman, when you leave your head out of it. You’re too serious. You study the blade too much. Leave your mind out of it, and let the blade find its path.”
    A smattering of applause came from the audience. Ian had forgotten about them, and turned to see his sister and her friends beaming down at him. His mother looked less amused.
    “You’ll catch hell from my mother for that,” Ian whispered to the knight. Dugan shrugged.
    “Better that than catching hell from your father for not giving you the training a duke’s son deserves,” he said. “Better than sending you into battle unprepared, my lord, and watching you cut down by some lordless knight who practiced the blade every day. As a knight should.”
    “There’s more to a lord’s duty than the blade, sir,” Ian said.
    “If you say,” Dugan replied. “I would not know, as I am not a lord.” He drew his sword again, picked up an oiled cloth, and ran it down the length of the blade. “You aren’t either,” he added.
    “When my father dies, I will be duke of Houndhallow, and lord of the Darkling March,” Ian said sharply, forgetting the audience. “Best that I prepare for that day, don’t you think?”
    “Perhaps. Though for now you are merely the son of a duke, and the heir to a throne. There are worse things for heirs to prepare for than battle.”
    Ian was about to respond when a horn sounded from the battlement. Dugan glanced up at the gate.
    “Our guests will arrive soon, my lord. Your mother will want you properly dressed.”
    “There’s no time,” Ian said. “I will meet the high elector in my sweat and in my blood, as befits a lord of the north.”
    Dugan chuckled. He drew the gloves from his hands and tucked them into his belt.
    “I can train you for battle, my lord, but I cannot advise you on a mother’s anger. Time is no excuse. The high elector is a large man. It will take his wagon an hour to make the approach. A lord of Tener should be able to change his shirt in that time.”
    Ian didn’t say