Page 66 of A War of Crowns

Aldric tightened his grip on the pole of his glaive. “Sporting?” he echoed while shifting his stance. He lifted the weapon and changed his grip to a two-handed one. “Well, you’re right about one thing, boy.”

The Elmorian champion’s eyebrows knit together with obvious confusion.

“…Thisisn’tabout to besporting.” Aldric punctuated his words by dropping his glaive low and throwing the entirety of his weight behind the swing. When the polearm cracked against the side of the knight’s left knee, the man buckled and pitched to the ground at Aldric’s feet.

The crowd erupted into a medley of gasps, boos, and even a few cheers.

“Is this the best Elmoria has to offer?” Aldric roared as the younger man scrambled back to his feet. “Or are you all too afraid to fight the little man?”

When next he looked toward the stands, it was to find the Queen of Elmoria on her feet and glaring straight at him. Pure venom shone within the depths of her eyes.

“Someone bring me my sword,” Dacre shouted the moment he regained his footing. Dirt now dusted the right side of his pretty face.

Aldric squared himself up and waited for the younger man’s retaliation. Elmoria’s champion was tall, broad, and clearly knew how to handle a lance.

He was eager to see if the boy could handle a sword just as well.

“Murder him, Tristan,” the older knight who brought the pup his sword said, and Sir Dacre nodded his agreement.

They had both still forgotten his helmet, though.

“You’re going to regret that, old man,” Dacre bit out during his advance, his blunted bastard sword wielded in a two-handed grip. “I was trying to be polite.”

The young knight made his first lunge, pressing in close. A dangerous move.

Clearly, this boy had never fought a shorter opponent before.

Up close was where Aldric had the biggest advantage. He could see Sir Dacre’s core, his legs, and easily judge his every movement.

But the other man could only see the top of his head.

Aldric easily swept away the incoming blade. “Manners will get you killed on a real battlefield, boy,” he advised.

His glaive sang through the air when he thrust forward with its blunted tip into the space just below Sir Dacre’s breastplate.

The lad grunted from the impact of the blow.

Thrust, parry, block. Thrust, parry, block.

Only once did the boy slip past his guard and land a hit on his left shoulder. The force of it rattled his teeth.

Sir Dacre was good. Clearly a well-trained fighter.

But he fought by the book. He utilized formal stances and strategy.

Not once did he press his obvious advantage and circle to Aldric’s blind side.

That was a mistake.

When next Sir Dacre lunged for him, Aldric hooked his glaive’s blade under the lad’s right armpit. The knight was already off balance.

Aldric just wrenched him further.

The knight staggered, bald surprise stamped on his face. Before Dacre could recover, Aldric side-stepped and cracked the length of his polearm against the back of the other man’s knees.

Elmoria’s champion fell. Again.

And the fight was over before it had even properly begun.

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