He was sweating heavily. The thick woolen padding prevented any crippling damage from the blunted practice blades, but it was not designed for comfort during the hot Roman summers. Lothar took a step back, away from his circling opponent, and quickly shifted the three foot arming sword to his left hand. He wiped his hand on his thigh pad, then scooped up a fistful of dirt and ground it into his palm. It took only a moment, but it was an opening he knew would not be ignored.

The tip of the man’s sword flicked out to the right, but the weight on his left foot showed his true intent. With dirt still filling his right hand, Lothar dropped the tip of his still, angling the sword across the front of his torso. His left arm was not strong enough to stop the blow, but he kept his wrist loose and stepped into the attack with his left foot, turning his body outwards at the same time. The man’s blade slid off his own with a shriek, the force of his blow carrying his arm down and across Lothar’s right side.

In the blink of an eye, the young Bavarian flipped his weapon back into his right hand and lashed out with a wicked cut. He put all of his strength into the back handed slash. The blow would have taken the man’s right arm off below the armpit, had the blade been sharpened. With his mind’s eye he saw a fountain of blood erupting from the severed limb; the shocked expression on the face of a man who did not yet understand that he was dead. At least that was what would have happened, had the man’s arm had still been there. Instead of hitting padded armor and flesh, his blade met only air.

With his sword swinging wide into empty space, it would take precious seconds to reverse the momentum and bring it back to guard his now wide-open body. Seconds he did not have. In desperation, Lothar backpedaled, but it was useless. Before he had managed half a step, he felt cool steel sliding up the right side of his throat. Even though the edge had been rounded off, the sheer speed of the thrust drew a long line of blood. He shouted in pain and dropped his sword.

The man stood up from the crouch and threw a dirty rag in his face. “Arrogance!” He spat on the ground. “What did you think you were doing?!”

Lothar clasped the cloth to his neck and breathed heavily. “Your right was open. You put in too much weight to pull back.”

“But not too much to go forward!” Adelman, weapons master to the House of Bavaria, growled. “Never move without planning for failure as well as success!” He stepped forward, his grizzled face towering over the still growing teenager, and slapped Lothar hard on the side of the head. “You did not think, dummkopf! You celebrated victory when the battle was not yet over!”

The young Steffen bit back an acidic retort. Of all his teachers, Adelman was the only one he respected, but even so it was difficult to restrain himself. Strategy, tactics, combat, these he excelled at beyond all his peers. Few adults could best him in combat, let alone war games, yet for all that there was the indisputable fact that had the battle been real, he would have less than a minute to live before he died of blood loss.

Adelman snorted. “Good, at least you’re learning when to keep your mouth shut. Go clean yourself up, we’re done for today.” Lothar bowed and left. The weapons master was low born, peasant stock, but on the practice field he outranked even a Duke. His first day of training with Adelman had been on his tenth birthday, over six years before, but he still remembered the first lesson clearly. Though he had yet to experience the flush of manhood, Lothar had stood at the edge of the field and ordered Adelman to kneel. He had been rewarded with a laugh and a boot to the chest. The Bavarian weapons master had stood over him, his eyes cold and disparaging. “On this field, nobility is earned, not inherited. You will bow to me at the beginning and end of every lesson. Until you can best me in combat, you are not worthy of respect.” Six years later, Lothar was still bowing.

He left the practice field in a foul mood and stalked the dark halls of the manor. It was a cavernous place, built for a corrupt Milanese Cardinal who had decorated it with paintings and friezes of the most appalling nature. The grand bedroom had been adorned with a disturbingly large number of scenes of the Virgin Mary, nude. His father had stripped the place bare and replaced all religious scenes with dark tapestries and captured weapons and armor. There were rumors that one particular sword, hung over Gerhard’s bed, was the very weapon Pope Gregory had wielded in his final battle with Kaiser Heinrich.

A few servants approached him in the hallway, but the sneer on his face kept them at bay. It was with relief when he finally reached his bed chamber and shut the door behind him. I am the eldest son of the Steward of Bavaria. My father leads the greatest House in the Reich and rode with Kaiser Heinrich in his war against Pope Gregory. By the time I was thirteen, I already knew more about combat and military command than most nobles will ever hope to understand in their entire lives. Yet none of them take me seriously. The Diet disregards me; they laugh at me. They think I am a child still.

His eyes were drawn to a shape resting on the corner of his writing desk. It was a large bundle, wrapped in rough burlap and tied with twine. Lothar loosened the knot and opened the package. Inside was a smooth, folded cloth; black as pitch and soft as silk. As he lifted it, the layers opened to reveal a thick, body-length cloak with a cavernous hood. On the inside of the cowl was a small red marking, no larger than his thumbnail. When worn, it would be invisible to all, pressed against the back of his head. He raised the mark to the light and gazed at it. In small, exquisitely embroidered stitching was an all-seeing eye.

I am not a child any longer.