Crack. Huon Liu grunted as the shield buffeted into his, taking him at a wicked angle that threw the stress across his leg rather than punching straight back into his fighting crouch. He snarled and switched stance as fast as he could, trying not to stagger, giving ground and bringing the shield up. The armored figure rushed at him with a movement as smooth as oil, nothing to see above the shield save the long vision slit in the curved visor. He was wearing an open-faced sallet himself, but he’d been maneuvered until the lowering sun was making him squint.

Perhaps if he tried a looping flourish cut and—

Crack and his sword struck against the shield, jarring his right hand and arm. It pushed in, binding and hampering his sword-arm.

The other sword lunged towards his face. He brought his shield up and around and ducked his head, desperately trying not to block his own vision. The other’s shield twitched out to block his cut at the leg then darted in to lock its edge under the rim of his and lever it aside.

Another quick pivot, and the blunt tip of the wooden practice sword struck the back of his thigh with paralyzing force. Huon gave an involuntary grunt of pain and went down on one knee, desperately propping the point of his shield on the ground and against his shoulder, whipping his padded oak sword back.

The High Queen stepped back and used the edge of her shield to knock her visor up. Her face was red and streaming with sweat, but she grinned at Huon.

“Not bad, youngster. And you don’t give up, which is the essential thing. If they cut off your arms and your legs, your last words should be: Come back, you coward, I’ll bite you to death! But you’re still thinking too much while you’re doing. Just throw the lever and let it happen. Disarm me, you two.”

Huon levered himself back to his feet and racked the battered practice weapons with the others; nobody in the Household slacked off. Even the Queen spent at least two hours a day at it, and she had enough other work to choke a horse. There was no choice; if you lost your edge you were easy meat in a fight.

Though with armies this big—St. Michael witness, tens of thousands!—commanders may not fight with their own hands as much or as often. But it’ll still happen, and it only takes once to die.