8. Haldric
eight
Haldric
Haldric dodged to the left, parrying the sword thrust with practiced ease. He tried to slip past his opponent’s guard, but his steps were too slow on the loosely packed dirt. By the time he’d brought his own sword down in a sweeping blow, his opponent had already danced backward out of reach.
“Almost, Your Highness,” Marshal Fendrel said with a small smile. “Your form is much improved. Now, we just need to work on your speed.”
Haldric answered the head of the royal guard with a grin of his own. Readjusting his grip on his sword, he fell back into a resting stance. “If you’d just allow me to use a little magic…”
Fendrel snorted and prowled forward across the training yard, his sword up and at the ready. “If you can’t beat a man nearly twice your age without runeflame as a crutch, then you’re not worthy of carrying on your father’s name.”
The words conjured a familiar swell of self-doubt even as Haldric strove to keep his calm. He’d trained under Fendrel enough by now to recognize the man’s favored tricks.
Sure enough, the marshal moved quick as a viper, hoping to take advantage of Haldric’s distraction.
Haldric was ready for him. Steel clanged against steel, their metal blades flashing in the early morning light as they danced around each other in a flurry of strikes and parries.
A single well-timed spell could’ve ended the duel in a heartbeat, but Haldric knew Fendrel was right: relying too heavily on magic risked it becoming a crutch.
Besides, Fendrel had his own soulflame to draw upon. Though he’d been born with his magic rather than unlocking it the way the fabled warriors trained at the Akkadia once had, it nevertheless made him a formidable fighter, capable of inhuman speed and strength.
There’d be time enough for Haldric to practice enchanting his blade and incorporating battle spells into his fighting style once he’d properly mastered the basics. Better to save his runeflame for his next lesson with Dexil.
Thinking of the Grand Magus reminded Haldric of that impertinent boy from yesterday. Haldric had tried to remain cordial and ignore the boy’s utter lack of decorum, only to have his head bitten off over it.
By the Goddess, the way that boy had behaved, you’d think he was the next coming of King Lyzar himself!
Unlike the man who’d once united the city-states scattered across the plains into the kingdom of Ilthabard, however, the only thing that boy would be accomplishing was a quick boot out of the palace.
His pale gray eyes were rather striking, though…
Parrying another of Fendrel’s blows a touch too hard, Haldric tightened his jaw. Striking or not, the boy could turn that judgmental gaze of his upon someone else. No doubt Dexil had promptly sent him on his way. The thought brought Haldric some small measure of satisfaction.
Unfortunately, that proved his undoing. He was so focused on the insolent boy that he didn’t notice the groove in the dirt.
His foot caught, forcing him into a stumble.
Instead of a clean parry on Fendrel’s next strike, Haldric’s sword scraped off its edge.
He tried to recover and twist his blade around, but it was too late.
Fendrel swerved his sword past Haldric’s clumsy strike and delivered a nasty blow to Haldric’s gut.
Though his armor blunted the sword’s dulled edge, the force of the blow still sent him sprawling to the dirt. He spat out a wad of blood from a small cut on his lip as he accepted the older man’s offered hand and let him haul him to his feet.
“Nice strike.”
Fendrel shook his head, not looking the least amused. “You were distracted, Your Highness. Had I been an enemy on the battlefield, that mistake might have been fatal.”
“Then it’s a good thing we’re not on the battlefield,” Haldric replied with a strained grin even as guilt curdled his stomach.
He couldn’t afford any mistakes or distractions—not when he was already so far behind in his training. If he wanted the dukes and duchesses that ruled Ilthabard’s other provinces to respect his rule, he had to be stronger, smarter, cleverer. Otherwise, they would eat him alive.
Though the marshal was too polite to say so himself, Haldric read the same warnings on Fendrel’s stern face. All he said, however, was, “Again, Your Highness?”
Forcing any thoughts of that boy and his hostile gray gaze from his mind, Haldric wiped the sweat from his brow and nodded.
The rest of the morning passed in sweat and dirt and battle. Haldric missed lunch, and though his stomach rumbled after his exertions, he knew it would have to wait. There was no time to waste.
Grabbing a quick bath in his quarters, he swapped his practice armor for his favorite leather tunic, a gift from his aunt for his last birthday.
Then, he hurried to meet his first tutor.
While he spent most mornings training with Marshal Fendrel, his afternoons were filled with lesson after lesson.
Geography, history, politics, diplomacy—the list went on and on.
All skills vital for an effective ruler to possess…
and all things he’d neglected while growing up.
Instead of taking his battle training or political lessons seriously, he’d snuck away every chance he could to read heroic tales in his room or watch the Grand Magus brew a new batch of potions.
He’d preferred to leave such boring things as dates and names and family lineages to Melisie—a decision he sorely regretted now.
As always, remembering his elder sister sent a wave of sorrow numbing him.
It had been two years since bandits killed her while she was visiting the important trade province of Zaros, but the pain of her loss remained fresh and raw.
They’d been inseparable as kids, and though they’d grown apart as they got older and her duties left less time for him, she’d been one of the few people Haldric trusted.
Melisie would have made a great ruler—as great as Father had been in his prime. So much better than I will ever be…
Moroseness hung over him like a heavy shroud by the time he returned to his quarters that evening to freshen up for dinner with his father. Knowing what he was about to walk into did little to improve his mood.
Though he’d never have admitted it out loud, he’d come to dread these weekly meals even more than his lessons on politics. To see the man he’d once idolized wasting away, a husk of his former self, was almost more than he could bear.
And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the more his father’s health declined, the more time the king spent looking toward Haldric’s future and the future of the kingdom.
King Roland knew as well as Haldric did how inadequate he was for the job, how unprepared he still was to assume his sister’s lost mantle even after two years of remedial education to make up for his skipped lessons.
But they both also knew that such was Haldric’s burden to bear.
The Goddess willed as she wished, and if this was the path she’d set before him, then so be it.
He’d discarded the childish dreams he’d once had of attending the Arcanum and focused instead on becoming the best heir he could be.
Whatever it took, he refused to let his father and the people of Ilthabard down.
Nodding to the royal guards standing watch outside his father’s door, Haldric entered the chamber, calling out a greeting. “Good evening, Father. Sorry I’m late. I was…”
The words died on his lips as he took in the room’s other occupants. He wasn’t surprised to see Grand Magus Dexil there, dressed in his usual elaborate finery. These days, the alchemist spent more evenings than not attending to the king’s deteriorating condition with his array of magical remedies.
No, it was the other figure who gripped Haldric’s attention, their familiar gray eyes widening in apparent shock.
“Greetings, Your Highness,” Dexil said with a slight incline of his head. “Apologies for our late presence here—we’re almost done.”
“Haldric!” his father called from his bed. The silken sheets rustled as he shifted to sit up with a groan. “It’s good to see you, Son.”
“Y-you, too, Father,” Haldric said. His confused glaze flicked back to the boy inexplicably here with Dexil.
Dexil caught the look and smacked his forehead. “Forgive me my rudeness, Your Highness. This is Benjin. I believe you met briefly the other day. He is my new apprentice.”
“Your…apprentice…” Haldric spoke slowly, feeling like he’d missed some crucial piece of a puzzle. Instead of banishing the impertinent boy, Dexil had chosen to hire him?
“Indeed, Your Highness.” Either oblivious of Haldric’s discomfort or choosing to ignore it, Dexil flashed a broad grin. “It turns out that Benjin here is quite the gifted mage. With a little training, I believe he’ll prove a most distinguished asset for Ilthabard.”
Somehow, Haldric found that difficult to believe. No matter how much runeflame this Benjin had, he and distinguished didn’t belong in the same sentence. Not if his behavior at their last meeting was anything to go by.
“You’re the prince!” Benjin blurted, still staring at Haldric. His gray eyes widened another fraction as if he hadn’t meant to speak, and he clamped his hands over his mouth.
Exhausted from his long day and the memory of his previous run-in with Benjin still fresh in his mind, Haldric felt his patience fray.
“Indeed. Was it the honorifics that gave it away or my presence here in the royal bed chambers?” He feigned deep contemplation, tapping a finger against his chin.
“Hmm, or perhaps it was the king calling me son?”
Benjin flushed a deep crimson while his eyes narrowed. “Sorry if I’ve given offense, Your Highness. Your behavior when we first met just didn’t seem particularly princely, that’s all.”
The jab hurt more than it was likely meant to with how perfectly it echoed Haldric’s own internal doubts. “Perhaps you lack the proper conception of what a prince should act like. After all, it’s clear that your education in court etiquette is rather lacking.”