Two Brothers

The dull crack of wood against wood echoed around the small barn, which was deserted apart from the two duellers, both of whom wielded ash wood training swords. The broad, older man handled his waster like an experienced swordsman, keeping his feet an even distance apart with his weight distributed centrally to allow him to shift easily from front to back foot. He relied on his weapon to defend himself and kept his movements to a minimum, his grey cloak hardly lifted from his back. His opponent was a stark contrast in style. The young man moved his feet quickly and often, keeping on his toes when still, dodging the older man's blows as often as parrying them.

Both men had metal sheets strapped to their chests, although the protection seemed to weigh heavier on the youngster's tall, slender figure. Despite the differences in style, both men were well matched and the duel had gone on longer than all the previous contests between the two. In fact, it had outlasted most duels of this kind. As both men fought to find an advantage echoes continued to resonate, as thrust was parried and cut was guarded and counter was blocked.

Finally, the younger man saw an opening. As his blow was parried, he glanced his opponent cocking his sword-arm, a sure sign that a thrust was coming. Quickly, he sidestepped to the left, avoiding the lunge aimed at his chest plate, before bringing his own wooden blade down onto his opponent’s right leg, hitting him hard below the hip. Knowing that a blow to his opponent’s limb did not end the contest, the young man spun quickly to his right, deflecting a counter strike as he moved. Another harsh blow to his opponent’s left leg brought a pained howl from the older man as he fell to his knees. The duel was over.

The young man’s face was over-run with concern. “Uncle,” he said as he lent forward to support the other man, “I’m sorry, curse my heavy hands. I never meant to strike you so hard.”

The older man was laughing as he allowed himself to be helped to his feet. “Ah, bless you, Taris.” He chuckled, shaking his sore leg to bring some life back into it. “Gone are the days when I would barely tap you for fear of hurting you. Now you best me as often as I best you. You are a skilled swordsman, my brother’s son.”

Taris felt pride at his uncle’s words as he helped him over to a bench at the side of the barn. For many years now his uncle Fen had been teaching Taris how to wield a sword and he had been a good teacher. Taris’ father disapproved of these lessons, adamant that they were a waste of time. Time that would be better spent learning to wood-crafting, ready to take over the position of Carpenter of Farmstead Hills at his father’s bequest.

“Come, lad. Sit,” said Fen as he lowered himself onto the bench. Taris did as he uncle wished. “Your quick feet and quick mind are an asset to your swordplay, Taris. You duel in a way not many people can. Your style may be rare, but it is not unique.” Taris sat forward, facing his uncle as much as possible. Fen had a passion for stories of places far from Farmstead Hills. Stories of deeds great and foul. Tales of heroes in times of darkness. How Fen came by these stories and whether they were true or not, Taris could not tell nor did he care. The great battles of Providence and Gorgath, Balamore, Rathern and Humberland were so far removed from the safe, quiet life Taris knew.

At length, Fen spoke again. "Antoin was a young man of Providence - the captain of the Arkanothian knights. They say his speed and agility had never been seen before or since. When defending Arkanoth against the barbarians that frequently raided, Antoin moved like a whirlwind, quickly dispatching many, many foes." Fen paused, smiling. "He once stood alone against Xsarcon, the great Dark Mage of Balduin, who was believed to be the walking incarnation of Dark Magic and had defeated whole armies before. The two men fought for hours, some say days, Antoin's speed kept him away from Xsarcon's magic. Finally, Antoin struck him down, driving his strong sword through the Dark Mage." Fen looked at Taris, who was listening intently.

"What become of Antoin?" asked Taris, after a moment. He looked at his uncle, and noticed his expression becoming solemn. Fen replied after a deep intake of breath.

"He was... cursed." Fen realised that maybe this was not the best story to be telling. "With his last breath, Xsarcon cursed Antoin, entwining their souls. Now Antoin is bound by the Dark. A slave to the will of the Mage whom he bested."

Taris’ brow lowered. “That is a grim tale, uncle.”

“Proof that even a victory can sometime be a defeat, my boy.” As Fen spoke, the huge door to the barn was cast open and in the doorway stood the tall, imposing figure of Taris’ father.

“Taris!!” he yelled. Taris stood up immediately and faced his father, spluttering and stumbling over words to explain himself. “What are you doing here when you have chores at home to perform?” continued his father. Taris opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off. “No doubt my brother has been filling your head with his absurd notions and stories. Get home, boy. Your mother requires you.”

Quickly, Taris placed his wooden sword on the bench where Fen sat. He glanced at his uncle, but dared not say anything. Fen, in return, offered a smile and a gentle nod of the head. Taris removed his metal plate before making his way out of the barn, head bowed as he walked past his father, who never relented his glare toward him. It was only when Taris was out of the barn and headed to the road that his father turned his attention to Fen.

“Save your lecture, Sabien,” Fen pre-empted as he gingerly got to his feet. “I have heard it before and I tire of it.”

“Then why must I continue to tell you?” retorted Sabien, through gritted teeth. “Why do you bring my son to this ridiculous shack to teach him things he need not know? Why do it when he should be at home doing his chores or learning his trade?”

“I do it because his father does not!” There was a brief silence, as Sabien contemplated answering, but decided not to get drawn into the same argument he and his brother have had on many occasions. It was Fen who spoke next, “When are you going to tell him, brother?”

Sabien let out a long sigh. This was another conversation the two men frequented too often for his liking. “I will tell him, brother, when I am ready.” The words were slowly, but harshly, spoken and every syllable was emphasised.

“Before the summer wanes, Taris will turn eighteen. He has a right to know who he is. And a right to know how to defend himself. They will be looking for him. And you.”

Slowly, Sabien walked over to the bench where Fen and Taris had been seated. “Tell me, brother, when last did you speak to the old man? When last did you hear of them?”

Fen was angered by the words “old man”. Sabien knew who the man was - he even knew his name. To call him “old man” like he was some crazed beggar was disrespectful. Fen moved away, contemplating, before turning to face his brother again who, much to Fen’s surprise, had picked up Taris’ wooden sword.

“I have not seen him in a long while. A season... maybe longer. Truth be told, I fear for his safety.”

“I would wish ill on no-one,” Replied Sabien, studying the training weapon, “but I would not be upset if you never saw that old man again.” He let out a disparaging snort of laughter. “If they are coming, there is nothing you can teach Taris to stop them.”

Fen chose to ignore Sabien’s words, instead turning his attention to the waster held by his brother. “You were quite a swordsman yourself, once, Kalsabien.” Fen recalled, “I remember when you first came to our family. Your skill with a blade was greater than I’d ever seen. And not just wooden ones, either.” He looked up, into Sabien’s eyes. “Come, little brother. Come at me. Let us fight.”

Sabien just looked at the wooden sword in his hand. He sneered and cast it aside. Tin-like echoes sounded around the barn as the weapon skipped along the floor, before coming to rest near an unused water trough. Sabien gave his brother a sharp glare, before turning towards the barn door, his tan cloak floating up before resting again as he did. Before he reached the door, Fen called out.

“The old man, as you call him.” Fen’s words did not halt Sabien. “He bears a gift for Taris.” Still, Sabien marched toward the door. Fen had to shout to make sure his brother could hear him. “You know what it is, brother.”

Abruptly, Sabien stopped. From where Fen stood, at a small distance, it appeared Sabien’s breathing became heavier. He was unmoved apart from his shoulders gently rising and falling. At length, he turned his head, peering sideways over his shoulder. He spoke, filled with anger. “I will tell him, brother, when I am ready.”

Sabien continue on his way, his cloak flapping wildly in the wind as he exited the barn.