I punted the squire closest to me with a frontal kick to the diaphragm when he lifted his sword to attack.
The straw-haired boy folded like an envelope around my foot and crumpled to the ground, gasping for air. The thin sound of a slash cutting the air to my left had me raising up my shield to meet it, and the next moment I spun out of the way of another sweeping blow aimed at my knee.
And so I danced in between the three squires still on their feet, all my age or older.
I made it impressive too, not letting even a single blow so much as glance against my padded torso while delivering what would be serious cuts and stabs were I to use a real sword.
I was more than used to this style of training when I practiced against my own men back home.
When I decided enough was enough, I went in for the kill.
A feint to the left saw that I had a second's advantage against the tallest of the squire before his two friends had a chance to help him. Dash in, parry, punch to the face. Another down. The last squires were smart enough to try and synchronize their attacks, but they weren't good enough.
When the rotund, pimply boy tried a textbook sideswing, I swept his wooden blade away and pushed him onto his ally. The bulk of the boy knocked his friend's weapon out of his hand, and then it was all a matter dotting the i's and crossing the t's.
Ten seconds later I had them both flat on their backs, repeating "I yield, I yield," like the words were some kind of ritual chant.
I let myself breathe out once it was all over. Instead of gloating, I went over and offered hands to the two boys, helping them up as they muttered their thanks.
This group was under direct tutelage of the Rock's master-at-arms, from what they told me, and it was a credit to him that they took their defeat with dignity.
The straw-haired squire I kicked and the tall one I punched had gotten to their feet on their own, so I only offered a respectful nod. One squire answered in kind, the other huffed and stormed away.
Ah well. You can't win them all. There's always a dick in every group.
As the straw-haired boy—Clay Linderly by name—came over to ask me for tips, I made sure not to indicate that I had noticed the smattering of knights and lords that had gathered around to watch me fight.
These boys were the third group of older squires I had demolished without breaking a sweat, so it made sense that my fights had gained a following in the yard.
"Try not to over-flourish your form when you go for a swing," I told him. "Keep it tight. Short movements. That'll make a difference, you'll see."
He slapped me on the shoulder amicably and was about to speak up again when someone cleared their throat. Oh I knew the voice. I had to hold back a grin when I turned toward Ser Benedict Broom.
"Back to the dummies, Linderly," the master-at-arms grunted. "I won't have it said you learned that ridiculous form from me. Go!"
He shooed off the boy. Clay took it in good humor and left after another cheery thanks.
"Warrior save that boy. He wasn't made for the yard." Ser Benedict turned toward me, eyes narrowed. "This your idea of fun, Tarth. Beating up on my squires?"
Looking about, I noticed the small crowd had dispersed after the squires and I started talking. Good. The one man I wanted to get the attention of at the moment was right here.
"I did say I was going to introduce myself, ser." I shrugged. "This is just how I say hi."
That cracked him. Ser Benedict chortled. "Very well kid, you got it." He nodded toward the center of the yard where dozens upon dozens of men were still hard at practice. "On your head if you get yourself hurt though."
My smile was genuine this time.
The morning carried on like that. Some of the knights who had been watching me against the squires were the first to ask for a spar.
I asked for their names and tried my best to remember them, but their initiative soon opened the floodgates and I fought man after man for an hour, too many to remember. I stopped only occasionally to refresh myself for a few minutes here and there.
The only ones I made sure to recall were the Stormlanders: a jolly man of House Fell and a fierce one of Herston; an older knight who served the Errols of Haystack Hall and almost tricked me with a feint; a cocky prick called Ser Lomas Estermont that I had to be conciliatory with when his skills couldn't cash in his tall talk; a tough bout with Cedrik Storm, the Bastard of Bronzegate, and even Lord Bryen Caron of Nightsong who had just had a son called Bryce earlier in the year and spent half the fight gushing about the boy.
I hadn't realized who my next opponent was until he introduced himself.
"Ser Gwayne Gaunt," the man said simply, as if he was just another knight. He held up his practice, dulled-edged blade. "Shall we?"
I gaped for a full five seconds before I got myself together. "It will be an honor, ser," I managed to say.
I could finally test my swordhand against a kingsguard.