Dean edged closer to the edge of the tent, peering around to get a view of the struggle.
Two young men were wrestling behind the tent, their noise subdued by the fact that both were concentrating intently on the matter in hand, and also by the fact they were so evenly matched as for there to be no distance between them in ability. Dean recognized one of them immediately as Petor, the adopted son of the queen, who attended to her personal tent and belongings. He also had a position in the armory, working under Margia.
The other combatant was also a worker in the armory. Dean had seen him around the camp and knew that his name was Jon, but hadn’t had any contact with him. He had seen both young men together, and so relaxed when he realized that the wrestling match wasn’t hostile, but was an exercise of their skills. Dean straightened and stepped out from behind the tent, the better to observe, arms dropping easily to his sides, hand away from his blaster.
The two young men didn’t see him. Their attentions were focused on their own contest. They were both standing, thigh and calf muscles straining under the tensions of their efforts. Jon was attempting to trip Petor, and throw him across his body while still retaining a grip on one arm, so that he could follow through with an armlock. However, because of Petor’s strength he was finding it hard to get the advantage, and was unwilling to give an inch in order to gain momentum, as he knew that Petor would immediately take advantage.
For his own part, Petor had height over Jon. Although Petor was wiry where Jon was stocky, with a broad face that was as open and honest as his fighting stance, Petor was a couple of inches taller, so their difference leveled the playing field. Petor’s main disadvantage was in having his arm potentially locked if he should yield an inch to his friend and sparring partner. Even though it wasn’t in serious combat, such a move on Jon’s part could break Petor’s arm.
So they were deadlocked. Dean cocked his head, examining their respective stances and positions. Then he spoke.
“Foot behind on his left leg, then flick. He’ll loosen his grip instinctively to save his balance. It’ll only be for a fraction of a second, but that’s all you need.”
The sound of Dean’s voice had an unexpected result on the contest. Both Jon and Petor looked up in surprise, their shock causing them to lose balance with each other, tumbling in different directions and pulling each other into a heap of tangled limbs on the floor.
Dean suppressed an urge to laugh at the ridiculous sight, not wanting to anger them for something that had been his fault. “Sorry, guys,” he said simply. “I thought you heard me walk up.”
“No, stupidworks, of course we didn’t. Think I’m going to let this bastard beat me ’cause I’m listening for someone?” Jon said, picking himself up and dusting himself off, indicating Petor with a brief inclination of his head.
“Fuck you, asshole,” Petor replied with a grin as he picked himself up.
Then he said to Dean, “So you think you could do better, then?”
“Mebbe,” Dean said, eying Petor. Both the young men were about four or five years older than Dean, and he gave them a little in height and weight. Ranged against this was his certain knowledge that he had more vital combat experience than them, and that just from his observation he could tell he knew more about hand-to-hand techniques.
“Wanna try?” Jon asked.
Dean nodded.
“Okay,” Jon shrugged, shuffling his feet.
But although it was Jon who had spoken, it was Petor who moved. Hoping that his friend’s actions had deceived the young Cawdor, the lanky youth sprang forward to grab Dean by the arm and pull him into a neck lock.
At least, that was the idea. Dean saw it differently, and with the ease of a striking cobra he swerved his torso and struck out with the flattened edge of his hand, avoiding the main thrust of Petor’s body and landing a blow just above the elbow and deadening all feeling and response in Petor’s arm.