Page 123 of Dragon Slayer

“This can’t be mine,” Val murmured, not daring to touch it. His hand opened and closed in the empty air above it.

Arslan made a strange sound – when Val lifted his head, he found that the boy waslaughing. He’d never heard such a thing from him before. When he did, his eyes danced, and his smile broke white and straight across his face.

“What?”

“Of course it’s for you,” the slave said. “It was commissioned just for you. For your size. See? It’s too small for a regular soldier.”

Finally, breath held, Val reached in and pulled the sword out. Sunlight winked down the length of it, blinding. When he held it upright in front of him, distorted reflection staring back, wide-eyed, he saw that Arslan was right: it was a short sword, narrow and light. Built for a boy who was not quite a man.

“Why did he have this made for me?”

Arslan shrugged. “He said to bring it to you. That you would know why.”

Because he’d asked to spar.

Val shivered…and for the first time in a long time, not from fear or pain.

~*~

The next day, Mehmet turned up just after lunch dressed in simple, worn clothes, his own sword on his hip. He grinned rakishly. “You wanted to practice, oh great golden knight?”

Val raced to throw on his own humble clothes and gather up his new sword, its jewel-studded scabbard belted tight around his slim waist.

They didn’t go to the regular training yard where the other boys at court practiced. Instead, a short walk from Mehmet’s chambers found them in a circular, hedge-lined room in his own private area of the garden, shaded with grape-laden bowers and cherry trees, the footing a loose, small gravel that crunched underfoot. A water jug and ladle waited, as well as an array of other weapons, laid out on layers of leather and silk on one of the decorative benches.

“It’s just us?” Val asked, apprehension blooming sudden and tight in his belly. He didn’t know why he was worried; they were alone together all the time. He slept in the man’s bed, gave of his body every night. But unease crawled across his skin, itchy as a rash.

Mehmet crossed to the bench and reached for a set of leather bracers there. “The privilege of being a sultan: privacy. Here, come help me with these.”

Val went to do up the complicated laces on the bracers, Mehmet holding out each forearm in turn.

“You know,” he mused, as Val’s fingers made quick work of the task, “when you first mentioned this, I admit that I was offended. Here I’ve been heaping you with luxuries, and yet you wanted to spar. You were bathing in rose oil, wearing all the most lavish silks and jewels, living like a prince for the first time in your life, and yet you wanted to get sweaty and dirty in the training yard. What was I to make of that?”

Val wisely didn’t answer.

“But then I thought about it a little more,” Mehmet continued, “and I decided it sounded like a fun way to spend the afternoon. Treaty negotiations have been giving me a headache all week.” Val finished, stepped back, and the sultan flexed his hand into a fist, smiling down at the way the leather bracer tightened against his wrist. “Let’s have a go, then.”

They stripped off their scabbards and set them aside on the bench; faced off from one another in the center of the circle. Val’s sword was light, yes, but he could feel keenly, already, what months of being a lapdog had earned him; his arms quivered, the muscles soft and weak. He would tire quickly, he realized, and struggle on his follow-through.

Damn. Perhaps this had been a poor idea after all.

But no. He had to get stronger so that he could be of use to Vlad. The only way to improve upon weakness was to work.

Mehmet, by contrast, looked fit and lithe, balanced on the balls of his feet, sword held casually, as if it weighed nothing. It was a larger blade than Val’s, longer and heftier.

Val’s was no match for it.

It was the same here as it was in all other areas.

“Ready?” Mehmet asked, grinning. He waved the tip of his sword through the air, a showy little twirl.

Val took a breath and let it out hard through his mouth. “Ready.”

In all the ways that swordsmanship was like dancing, Val excelled. Light on his feet, quick, agile, downright graceful. He could remember his proper footwork, and keep his balance effortlessly, focusing on his opponent and not his own steps.

But his swings didn’t have as much power as other boys; bigger boys. His blocks were less steady. Quickness would get him by at first, but once he tired…

No. He had to practice. Had to improve.

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