He hadn’t lied, either, he knew how to handle a sword. At his insistence, Tanaros tested the former prisoner himself on the training-field of Darkhaven. Hyrgolf brought a squadron of Tungskulder Fjel to watch, forming a loose circle and leaning casually on their spears.

Inside the circle of onlookers, they fought.

Speros saluted him in the old manner; a clenched fist to the heart, then extended with an open palm. Brother, let us spar. I trust my life unto your hands. The old traditions died hard in the Midlands. How many times had he and Roscus Altorus saluted each other thusly in their Altorian boyhood?

Too many to count, and the memories were fond enough to hurt.

Tanaros returned the salute and drew his sword. Speros wasted only one glance upon it, briefly disappointed to see that it was not the General’s infamous black sword, but merely an ordinary weapon. As well for him, since the black sword could shear through steel like flesh. Afterward, he ignored it, fixing his gaze on Tanaros himself, watching the subtle shifts in his face, in the musculature of his chest, in the set of his shield, that betokened a shift in his attack.

Flick, flick, flick, their blades darted and crossed, rang on the bosses of their shields. It made a prodigious sound on the training-field. Back and forth they went, churning the ground beneath their boots. Such was the swordplay of his youth, drilled into him a thousand years ago by a grizzled master-of-arms, sharp-tongued and relentless, always on the lookout for a pupil of promise.

“Not bad, horse-thief.” Tanaros found himself smiling. “Not bad at all!”

“I do better …” Speros essayed a thrust and stumbled, wincing, forced to make a desperate parry. “I do better,” he gasped, “when I’ve not been clamped in chains and had hot pokers held to my feet, Lord General.”

“You do well enough.” Putting an end to it, Tanaros stepped inside the young man’s guard, catching his ill-timed swing on the edge of his shield. The point of his sword came to rest in the hollow of the lad’s throat. “I am not displeased.”

Speros, with commendable poise, held himself still, although his brown eyes nearly crossed in an effort to look down at Tanaros’ sword. “I concede, my lord. You have the better of me.”

“Well, then.” Tanaros put up his sword. “We have each other’s measure.”

Deep, booming laughter ensued; Hyrgolf, who stepped forward to clap a massive hand on Speros’ shoulder. It rested there, heavy as a stone, talons dangling. “Give the lad a dram of svartblod,” he rumbled, beckoning to one of his soldiers with his free hand. “He’s earned it.”