Rayan disabused him of this notion within seconds. When Cyrus dual-slashed downward, Rayan blocked both with his shield and then stepped forward to add strength to his shove. Only this time, he did not retreat back into his defensive stance. He pushed forward, his shield a battering ram. Forward, forward, quick steps each time the gray metal battered Cyrus’s body. He tried to force the man back with his swords, but they were too close, the weapons long and awkward at that distance against the brutal simplicity of the shield. At last he tried to roll off its surface, feet spinning beneath him for a wide slash above the shield for Rayan’s head.

A single swift kick to Cyrus’s leg ended the move before it began. He dropped to his knees. A flash of light shimmered from the corner of his eye as the tip of Rayan’s sword hovered an inch from his throat.

“Dead,” Rayan said simply.

“Another round,” Cyrus pleaded as he hopped up to his feet. The first inklings of panic surfaced in his tightening chest. “I don’t have much experience fighting against a shield.”

Rayan glanced over to Thorda, who calmly watched from his seat. The old master shrugged.

“He’s not wrong. An oversight I shall correct, I assure you.”

The paladin returned his gaze, and he settled back into a stance, shield forward, sword back and at the ready.

“Very well,” he said. “Bring your swords to bear, Cyrus. Let me see how well you think on your feet. Show me flexibility, and not excuses.”

Thorda’s arm rose and then dropped.

“Begin.”

Cyrus paced before Rayan, slow steps that made the paladin shift on his heels to follow. He needed to study his foe. Respect his greater skill. Thorda constantly preached that there would be differences between opponents, and Cyrus’s responsibility was to take advantage of his opponent’s weaknesses and nullify their strengths. Speed, Cyrus decided. His advantage had to be speed and maneuverability.

One-two remained the exchange, and so Cyrus tested it. Prodded it. Several times he danced out of the way of a retaliatory swing after Rayan blocked an experimental thrust. Still Cyrus kept circling. He was the hunting panther, Rayan the prey. Keep control. Keep the battle on his terms. Perhaps he imagined it, but he swore he saw some of Rayan’s disappointment melt into concentration.