CHAPTER 848: HUMOR ME

The hearths of the Great Hall in Lothian Manor were piled high with timber and burning fiercely enough to make the vast hall feel warm despite the dreary, winter weather outside the weathered stone walls. In addition to the dancing, golden glow cast by the hearths, every candle in the chandeliers had been freshly lit, and the stone floors were freshly swept, as though the room was prepared to host a grand ceremony.

When Sir Gilander arrived in the Great Hall, however, there were only two people present in the vast chamber. The summons he received during breakfast had said that Lord Bors wished to see him in the great hall and so the veteran knight wasn’t surprised to see the aging Marquis sitting on the oak throne.

He was, however, surprised to see his liege lord dressed in a heavily padded training jacket with a battered steel cuirass over the top of it and a long handled, blunted ax resting against the back of the throne.

Equally surprising was the presence of Master Hess, the overly slender, gray haired man who served as Lord Bors personal physician.

"My lord," Sir Gilander said formally as he knelt before the throne. "As you have summoned me, I have answered your call. What commands do you have for your loyal servant?"

"No need to be so stiff, old friend," Bors said as he gestured for the knight who had fought with him during the War of Inches to rise. "There’s a jacket and plate for you over there," the aging marquis said as he gestured to one of the many tables in the hall that had been pushed to the edges of the great hall. "It’s been too long since I’ve trained. I hope you don’t mind indulging me in a bout."

"My lord," Gilander said, frowning at the man who had been on bed rest for the past few days and glancing at the physician standing beside the throne. "Are you certain? Your health..."

"Humor me, old friend," Bors said as he gestured to Master Hess. "This buzzard won’t leave me be until he sees for himself that I’m fit and I’m sick of everyone hovering around me like I’m made of egg shells. Help me put an end to the nonsense, Gil," he said in a tone that was firmer than it had been in days as he looked at the aging knight, not as his subject, but as friend of many years.

"Since your Grace commands," Gillander said with a faint smile and a more casual bow. "How can I refuse?"

Stripping off his formal, embroidered coat, Gilander traded the garment for a well worn padded jacket, buckling it on with quick, practiced motions. His strong fingers pulled tight the straps at his wrists and waist before adding a padded hood and securing it to the jacket.

Most of the time, when he needed to don armor, whether for war or training, he would have had the assistance of a squire, but when demons raided their camps and the rough forts they’d built on the slopes of Airgead Mountain, there was no time to summon a youth with peach fuzz on their chin so faint they hadn’t begun to shave, and so Gilander had long made a habit of working with his own armor and weapons.

If he’d been heading into real battle, he would have followed the padding with a coat of mail, but for simple training, a steel cuirass and a simple helm were enough to prevent serious injuries. There was, however, a choice to make as he eyed the weapons resting on the table.

Bors had provided him with both a blunted longsword similar to the one he’d carried into most battles against Claw Demons as well as a smaller arming sword and shield that was more familiar to his years since the war when he acted as Bors personal guard.

The Marquis had already selected a long-handled ax, just like the one he’d carried in the war, and it would offer a tremendous advantage in reach. If Gilander wanted to respond to the unspoken challenge his lord had given him then he should retrieve the longsword and fight as they had when facing the demons.

But the longsword was an aggressive choice, more suitable to young swordsmen like Owain Lothian, and his chances of injuring his lordship in a more aggressive match were higher. If it had been two or three years ago, when Bors still trained with weapons at least once a week, Gilander wouldn’t have questioned his choice, but now... Now he couldn’t bring himself to put the Marquis at greater risk.

"I’ll make you regret bringing along your turtle shell," Bors said as he stood from his throne and retrieved his ax. He’d offered his friend the choice for a reason, but he was far from pleased with the decision that Gilander had made.

"I’m sure you will, your Grace," the knight said as he sketched a quick salute in the air with his blunted training sword before settling into a defensive stance. "But I’ll make you work for it," he added with a challenging look in his eyes.

"Your Grace," Master Hess said as he knelt on the ground to retrieve a small sand glass. "I’ll count out three turns of the glass," he said as he held up the device he used to keep time while taking a patient’s pulse or measuring their breathing.

"So long as your Grace is in good condition after three turns, I’ll withdraw my recommendations for bed rest and I’ll rescind the orders to the kitchens," he said, using words that were entirely proper and polite with a tone that mirrored a parent speaking to a petulant and willful child. "But, your Grace, remember..."

"I know, I know," Bors said as he waved off the hovering physician and walked out to meet his old friend in the center of the Great Hall. "You don’t understand fighting any more than I understand a physician’s arts, so sit back, count your time and leave this to fighting men," he said gruffly as he placed a steel helm on his own head.

"Prepare yourself, Gil," Bors said as he raised his ax. "I’ve been cooped up for days and I’m looking to vent," he warned.

"Then vent to your heart’s content," Gilander said with a slight nod of understanding as he tapped his shield with the flat of the arming sword. "I stand ready to receive your fury!"