A Joust of Knights (Book #16 in the Sorcerer's Ring) by Morgan Rice Page A

raised his wrists,
wrapped with shackles, and used his chains to catch the blade. He wrapped them
up in it, then stepped aside and yanked hard, pulling the taskmaster toward
him. He then leaned back and kicked the taskmaster in the solar plexus, sending
him stumbling backwards, gasping and weaponless.
    Darius sneered back and dropped his sword
at his feet. It landed with a clang.
    “You’re going to have come at me with a
lot better than that toothpick,” Darius said, reveling in the moment.
    The taskmaster stared back, shocked, and
turned apoplectic. He grabbed a spare sword from the scabbard of the soldier
beside him, then began to charge once again for Darius.
    “I’m going to carve you into pieces,” he
said, “and leave your corpse for the dogs.”
    The man charged, but then stopped
abruptly.
    “No you’re not,” came a voice.
    Darius was shocked to see a long staff suddenly
drop down between him and the taskmaster, against the taskmaster’s chest,
holding him back.
    The taskmaster scowled as he turned and
looked over, and Darius was shocked to see a man standing there—a human—about his
size and build, perhaps in his forties, his light-brown skin the same color as
his, wearing only a simple brown robe and hood, and wielding only a staff. Even
more amazing was that he held the Empire soldier back. Darius had no idea what
a free human was doing here.
    The man looked back at the taskmaster steadily,
fearlessly, calmly, standing there proudly. His sleeves cut off, he was wiry
and muscular, like Darius, but not overly so. He wore sandals, the laces
wrapped up his shins to his knees, and he bore the proud face, square jaw, and
noble look of a warrior.
    “You will let this one be,” the man
ordered the taskmaster, his voice low and full of confidence.
    The taskmaster sneered.
    “Get that stick away from me,” he
replied, “or I will kill you along with him.”
    The taskmaster raised his sword and
slashed at the staff, to cut it in two.
    But the man moved quicker than any
warrior Darius had never seen before, moving so quickly that he was able to
move his staff out of the way and bring it down in a circle on the Empire
soldier’s wrists, smacking them so hard that he knocked the sword from his
grip. It fell to the ground, and the man then held the tip of his staff to the stunned
taskmaster’s throat.
    “I said, this boy will live,” the man
repeated firmly.
    The taskmaster frowned.
    “You may train them,” the taskmaster
said, “but it is I who decides who lives and who dies. You might be able to
outfight me, but look around—here are dozens of my men, all with fine weaponry
and armor. Are you going to stop all of them with that stick of yours?”
    The man, to Darius’s surprise, smiled
and lowered his staff.
    “We shall make a deal,” he said. “If
your dozen soldiers can disarm me, then the boy is yours. If I, however, can
disarm all of them, then the boy is mine to train.”
    The taskmaster grinned back.
    “They will do more than disarm you,” he
said. “They will kill you. And I’m going to enjoy watching you die.”
    The taskmaster nodded to his men, and
with a shout they all raised their swords and charged the man.
    Darius watched, riveted, his heart
pounding for the man, desperate for him to live, as the man stood in the center
of them all with only his long staff. He spun every which way as the men
approached from all sides.
    The man, as quick as lightning, swatted
the sword from one soldier’s hand after another. Darius had never seen anyone
move that quickly, and he was a thing of beauty to watch, spinning and turning,
ducking and tumbling, wielding his staff as if it were alive. He deflected one
soldier’s blow, then jabbed another soldier in the gut, disarming him. He swung
around and smashed one in the temple, knocking him down; he poked another straight
on, breaking his nose, while with another he swung upwards, knocking the sword
from his hand—and with another, he swung low,