little pieces

—I don't give a shit—the child cried out as the little hand reached down for a spear three times as big as him, one he could hardly lift.—I'm no servant of yours!

—You are my pupil.

—I'm royalty!

The paladin didn't have to move to evade the thrust, for the youngster tripped halfway and fell to the floor with a sturdy thud. Used as he was to fight with his own light scimitar, of which use he’d been banned not so recently due to misbehavior, the weight of the iron grip had made him lost his balance. Sir Parry (being that name the way he was always addressed by the rest of the class due to marvelous ability of parrying every single attack in a most artistic way) had to suppress a laughter.

—As far as I’m concerned, Sir Royalty, we are a thousand miles away from your country. You’ve been sent here to this state in order to be trained and raised properly while your father attends his meetings at the Royal Brotherhood Council. One day, my lord, you shall be sultan too, with lots of responsibilities which you’ll have to deal with, but first you have to be taught how to. And that, sir, is my duty.

—I don’t want to be sultan!—Ali was now being more stubborn then usual—I don’t want responsibilities! I don’t want to grow up and be like Morgan and Meril! I hate them, they sent me here!!

—Oh, then,—Parry was rather shocked to hear that—what’s your goal in life?

—I want to be a knight shiite, like Ayatullah! She can slain foes with a single blow! I saw her once in the battlefield,—there he begun to holler and roister around randomly beating invisible enemies with imaginary sort of weapon—she’s amazing! She'd have whipped you out in two seconds should you'd been there!

—Oh, would she?—Ali nodded frantically—And why two seconds and not one?

—To let the pain scatter.

This time the smoothy voice had come out mischievously. Ali's grimace contorted in a wicked toothy grin.