The Outlaw King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book One by Craig Saunders

wiser.
                The short sword was the first weapon Tarn picked up.
He knew the seven basic strikes, but he was sure Gard wasn't sticking to them.
Gard told him there were a traditional thirteen moves allowed in regulated
combat, for more advanced swordsmen, but refused to teach them to Tarn before
he mastered the basics. Tarn thought he could recognise five additional moves
so far. He was getting better at avoiding them, but instinct, rather than
training, still ruled Tarn's moves. He tended to lean away from the sword,
rather than moving his feet. This threw his balance off, and Gard took every
chance to remind him of it.
                Gard lunged and thrust his sword at Tarn's unprotected
throat before Tarn was ready. Tarn swung wildly and knocked the sword aside,
but Gard flowed in the direction of the block, spinning on his heel, and
thudded a resounding blow into Tarn's ear.
                ‘Keep calm, boy. Your anger makes you stupid and slow.
Anger is for berserkers, and has its place, but if you don't want to live your
life stitching your wounds, you'll think to your defence.’
                ‘What?’ mumbled Tarn, his ear ringing from the blow.
It would swell yet again. Tarn went to bed six nights out of seven with a
bruised face or bruised limbs, thankful for his leather padding.
                On the first day of swordsmanship Gard told him they
would hold back in training, but to never pull back in battle. Apart from
lunges, which should only be deep enough to pierce the heart, or slice the
throat or groin. There were so many rules Tarn struggled to remember them all,
but he was learning fast. Soon he would hit the old man. Already he had come
close. Well, he thought, on two occasions at least.
                Tarn looked up at Gard. Carious was already set.
                ‘
Swords up. That's it
for today.’
                It was time to move on to fists. Tarn was better with
his fists. There weren't so many rules. Gard didn't fight like a boxer.
Anything went. Tarn could use his imagination.
                Tarn put his sword up. Then, limping slightly from a
bruised thigh, he followed the big man into the barn.
                He was two months into his training, and while he
improved day by day, he had a long way to go before he could best the big man.
He seemed almost invincible. Tarn no longer believed Gard's story that he was
just a common soldier. To Tarn's untutored eyes he seemed like a sword master.
                For Gard's part, he thought the boy showed promise. He
was better already than many of the men Gard had trained in his former life.
The big man spent fifteen of his younger years in the army, from a common
soldier to a Dragon, to the weapons' master's understudy, taking over from the
old warrior when he died.
                Gard did not regret the day he left the army. The
constant fighting made him a surly man. He was a better man for the love he
shared with Molly, and now Tarn. He only hoped the boy did not follow the same
path he had. Gard had been forced into it, thrust from a farmer’s life to civil
war. Tarn had a choice. Gard wished the boy would follow the swan’s path, to
peace, but saw the warrior’s pride in the boy’s eyes when he fought. He would
be a warrior one day, and it was all the big man could do to give him the tools
Tarn would need to survive. 
                Gard
set thought aside and concentrated on Tarn. He raised his fists, as they did
before every bout, and stepped forward. Already the boy had landed several
punches on him. He was faster than Gard and a natural with his fists. The boy
could shake off a decent punch, too, a skill which any fighter needed. Someone
would always land a punch, no matter how good you were.
                They
fought for ten minutes, taking a break after five. The boy had Gard in a
headlock once,