Honor Crowned Read Free

men standing guard around the perimeter.  The scouts’ fire had burned down to a few glowing embers.  Just enough light came from the starry sky for him to find some wood to stoke up the fire.  The warmth of the flames eased the tension in his muscles as it soaked through him.
                  With practiced ease, Jorem tightened the lacings of his shirt and pants.  By the time he was done, the armor felt as if it had been sewn on.  The mottled beige and brown coloring blurred to faded yellow in the firelight.  The material was scuffed and scratched from the abuse it had been put through.
                  Next, Jorem began inserting the myriad of blades into their hidden sheaths.  Even though he’d checked them before, he again inspected each blade for damage.  He wasn’t likely to see battle where he’d been ordered to go, but self-preservation had become a habit during his training with Neth.  After the time he’d spent with her he would never be caught without a weapon nearby.
                  Fully dressed and armed, Jorem drew his sword and began a warm-up routine to loosen his muscles.  Then he moved on to an intricate exercise, twisting and turning as his blade wove patterns in the dim light.  It was a far cry from the stately dance he’d tried to learn from Jen so long ago.  Still, as his movements became smoother and his concentration more focused, it became a dance of sorts.
                  Silent as the wind, he moved about the fire.  Only the light scuffing of his feet on the moist soil gave evidence of his passing.  The light from the fire cast his shadow across the camp.  The flickering light reflected off tents and trees.
                  Sweat beaded on his forehead.  So caught up in the moment, he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to.  Each completed move brought renewed energy, and his whole world condensed down to the fire, his sword, and the “dance.” His muscles strained and stretched as he forced himself to extend each move to his limits.  The mercenary Neth had taught him the routine, and it involved nearly every move, both offensive and defensive, she had taught him.  It also included moves to increase one’s flexibility, reach and stamina.  In the back of Jorem’s mind he thought about how much easier it was to keep his movements smooth and fluid without the worry of being whacked whenever he faltered or made a mistake.  Neth had been a cruel taskmaster and not at all patient with mistakes.  He could have argued that he was still learning but it was hard to argue when her blade was so often at your throat.
                  The final move was a deep lunge ending with his left leg nearly parallel to the ground behind him and his right leg bent so his knee touched his chest.  Before standing, he ducked his head down, flipped his sword around, and slid it smoothly into its scabbard.  A light hiss of the metal sliding against leather and a subtle click as the sword seated in the scabbard were the only sounds.
                  When he stood up, he found a dozen men watching him.  He knew some of them by name, the others he’d worked with or seen about camp.  They were guardsmen old and young.  Good men he’d eaten with, marched with, and fought beside.  Brothers in arms he’d come to care for.
                  “So, is it true?” one of the men asked.
                  Ferd was the man’s name, rough around the edges, but a good man.
                  “Well, Ferd,” Jorem drawled, “that depends on what ‘it’ is.”
                  Emboldened by Jorem’s familiarity, Ferd blurted out his question.  “We heard you’re really Prince Jorem.”
                  Jorem had to smile.  The men facing him were barely breathing in anticipation of his answer.  Knowing his response would be spread through the entire camp