by M. M. Whan
“I agree,” she said finally. “Though I do not doubt your estimation of his potential, what of Eferath? What if he decides to enlist in the military?” A long moment of silence passed before Eralon could find the words to reply.
“If that should come to pass, then we will have to cross that bridge when we get to it. He is almost old enough to be considered a man by any standard you choose to judge by. If he should choose to enlist, then we must respect his decision.”
“I was afraid you would say that.” Lillyan replied heavily, then she reached down and brushed off her dress at the knees. “When does his training begin?” She asked, straightening her dress. Eralon’s gaze met her own, and he smiled.
“Tomorrow.”
Chapter 3
AN EXPLOSION OF BRIGHT, VIBRANT COLOURS heralded the rising of the sun above the Dragon’s Maw mountains. The horizon lit up with pinks, and reds, and oranges. So beautiful was the blanket of colour, it would have taken the words from a poet’s lips. The grass and tree’s glistened and sparkled as if they were precious gems. Brilliant sunlight quickly burned through the thick blanket of fog that had swallowed much of the land between the frontier town of Tallonin, and the mighty warrior city of Escoran.
Houses became visible once again as the sunlight chased away the last of the fog. Cock’s crowed from several different rooftops at almost the same time and it was not long after did the first signs of life from the village spark to life.
Literally.
A series of sharp metallic impacts filled the air followed by loud grunts and shouts of “Parry!” “Thrust!” “Slash!” then there was a loud thud and a shout of anger and pain.
“Too slow!” Eralon scolded the young boy he was training. Eralon was once a general in Escoran’s armies, and lacked a soft touch despite the fact that he was training his son, and not an unorganized, undisciplined rabble. He had commanded the Elite Crystal Guard, the realm’s finest, and deadliest fighters to ever draw breath. And he trained every single one of them.
Eralon was in his early forties, but neither his face, nor body showed any sign of aging. His hair was dark brown and wavy, slightly curled and reaching past his shoulders. His eyes were a light blue, almost grey and were the only soft features on his chiseled frame. Even though he was retired, he kept himself in top physical condition.
“Too slow, my son!” Eralon said again in softer tones, noticing the look of disappointment on the boy’s face. It truly pained him to push his son so hard, but he had no choice. The boy was good, very good for his age, with raw talent and potential to perhaps become one of the realms greatest swordsmen.
Eferath still had a very long way to go, though.
“You must learn to anticipate your enemy. To let go of what your eyes tell you and trust your instincts.” Eralon could not help but smile as his son of barely 16 years closed his eyes tightly, his expression locked in a grimace of pure concentration.
A long moment passed, and then Eferath took a slow, deep steadying breath. He tried to swallow the frustration and the anger that he felt at his failures, but was meeting with little success. His father did not hesitate to remind him with a painful swat whenever he let his guard down after giving in to his emotions. His arms were sore, and his body was streaked with sweat from the rigorous sparring. He was tired, and sported a number of fresh and painful welts and bruises whereas his father hadn’t even been touched. No matter how hard he tried, no matter what kind of devious attack routine he used, his father remained untouched.
His blue eyes snapped open, fixed on his father’s eyes as the two began to circle each other. Without warning, Eralon suddenly thrust forward, his sword slicing in for his son’s weakness – the centre of his body. But Eferath shut the door with a quick pendulum-like sweep that picked the attack off cleanly with a reverberating clang. Eferath followed up by lunging forward suddenly into a headlong charge, the exact opposite of everything the war veteran had taught him. Eager to teach his young headstrong pupil a lesson, Eralon began a series of impressive feints, jinks, cuts, thrusts, and slashes. Not only did Eferath deflect or parry every single strike, he even managed a few surprisingly effective counters.
“Oh! Smart boy!” Eralon congratulated after one of his son’s counters forced him to dodge or received a nasty cut.
By this time, several townsfolk had gathered to watch the spectacle, and the crowd grew ever bigger as the impressive swordplay dazzled their senses. Metal on metal cried out as each blade connected then sprang apart. Sometimes, the ringing impacts sounded as one long, continuous note. Sparks flew wildly as each blade struck the other, or scraped the edge. Eralon suddenly realized that there were people watching them, their mouths hanging open. Fearful that one of the spectators would sell word of his son’s prowess, the general elite did the only thing he could.
Eralon came in hard, his blade whirling and darting like a deadly snake. His pace was frantic, and his inexperienced son’s arm grew weary, and his parries came later and later. The war veteran feigned a slash at Eferath’s left side, but immediately reversed direction and his son was too weary to even hope to parry.
A sharp clang rang out as the force of Eralon’s blow against Eferath’s blade tore the sword out of the young man’s grip. “Touch.” Eralon whispered softly as he touched the tip of his sword to Eferath’s right breast. Both combatants were breathing heavily, the older of the two not so much.
Applause erupted around them, whistling and cheering from every spectator as Eferath and Eralon saluted one another with their swords before sheathing them. Father and son, the pair walked away from the gathering, and headed back to their hovel. Eferath said not a word the entire walk home, he kept his eyes fixed on the path. He was aware of his father’s concerned glances in his direction, but his thoughts were not from anything Eralon had done. It was true that his skills had greatly improved over the past several months, but Eferath could not help but feel that it was not enough. After all, what good was all this skill for nothing but a mere farm boy? His father was the former general of Escoran’s most prestigious military brigades, Eferath wanted his father to be proud of him more than anything, and he knew that there was only way to get there.
“I wish to join the Academy, father.” Eferath said quietly as he and his father made their way down one of the side streets that would lead to their home. Eralon stopped walking almost immediately, and when Eferath looked at him, it looked as though the sturdy man had just been slapped.
“Are you sure about this, my son?” He asked, just as quietly after a long moment of consideration. The young man nodded solemnly.
“I want to honour you, father. I want to make you proud of me.” He said proudly, raising his chin to meet his father’s gaze. Eralon placed both hands on either of his young son’s shoulders, and looked him square in the eyes. For what seemed like forever, he said nothing, just studied the eyes of his son, then he smiled (something he very seldom did).
“Eferath, you do not need to go to the Academy to prove anything to me.” He said calmly, evenly. “In the past several months, you have progressed farther, and faster than any pupil I have ever trained. You have nearly unlimited potential, you have natural talent the likes of which I have never seen!” As soon as he was finished, Eferath didn’t know how to answer him. Never before had he witnessed his father be so adamantly against him going to the Academy.
“It is also you who encouraged me to follow my heart, to set my sights on a goal, and to never stop until I get there.” Eralon could only laugh at his son’s clever logic trap.
“You have put a lot of thought into this, haven’t you?” He asked finally, and Eferath nodded.
“I have thought of little else since the encounter with those orcs in the valley.” He replied without any hesitation.
“Do you think I am ready?” Eferath added, and Eralon smiled widely.
“Son, you are a far more skilled fighter than even some of the highest trained veterans.” He r
emarked proudly, and his son smiled widely.
“This has to be what you want,” he warned, “the Academy has the most rigorous and demanding military training system in the entire realm. It is not for the faint hearted.” It was an unnecessary warning, of course. Ever since his son was old enough to walk, Eferath demonstrated remarkable dedication, and stubbornness.
“I will not fail you, father.” Came Eferath’s solemn vow. Eralon smiled proudly, clapping his son on the shoulder.
“No, Eferath.” Eralon corrected him. “Do not fail yourself. Come, let us speak no more of this for now, your mother will likely have our breakfast ready for us, and if we are much later, I can assure you there is no more dangerous a foe than her when she is angry!” The pair shared a hearty laugh as they continued their walk, and with his father’s arm resting on his shoulder, he felt that there was no more comfortable place.
Not long after, they reached their home, and a cross-armed Lillyan met them at the door. Her frown stole their mirth, and stopped them dead in their tracks. Both of them were filthy, and sweaty from the early morning exercise.
“Tell you what,” Eralon quietly whispered to his son. “Go and get yourself cleaned up for breakfast, and I will try to smooth things over with your mother.” Eferath nodded, and hid his smile. He knew his father was being overly dramatic. Now standing in front of his father, Eferath clasped his closed fist with his palm in front of him, then bowed his head reverently. Eralon did likewise, then Eferath scampered off to go get cleaned up for breakfast.
Lillyan’s stern visage could not hold up to her husband’s wide, mischievous grin as he approached her. He held his arms out wide as if declaring his intentions to hug her. She stared at him incredulously, arching a brow before laughing softly.
“Don’t you even think about it…” She warned as she backed away to a door that she had closed behind her. His grin only widened, wiggling his fingers to ridiculously exaggerate his intentions. At the last moment, he rushed in, grabbing her to pull her into a tight hug. She screamed then laughed hysterically as he picked her up into his arms, and swept her about. She could not deny his boyish charms and she found herself kissing him eagerly, lovingly barely a moment later.
Eralon gently lowered her back to the ground, and moved her to arms-length, though he was still smiling widely, she could tell there was something bothering him.
“What is it, my love?” She asked, concern edging her voice.
“Eferath has surpassed all of my expectations in every way possible, even the Crystal Guard hopefuls weren’t this skilled!” He replied emphatically.
“If you think we can be together for this long, and you can still hide anything from me, you’re mistaken, dear husband. Tell me, what is bothering you?” She demanded softly, staring into his eyes.
“Eferath wants to join the Academy.” He answered after a long moment of hesitation. Lillyan just stared at him, with an expression that was impossible for him to read.
“That was not altogether unexpected, though.” She reminded him. “We predicted that he would show interest in joining the Academy to follow in your footsteps as soon as you began to train him.” Eralon nodded his agreement, but that did not stop a sigh from escaping his lips.
“What are your thoughts on the matter?” He asked her a moment later, and she looked away.
“I do not want him to go.” She answered simply before adding: “I have heard too many rumours of what kind of training goes on there to feel safe about him being there.” Eralon nodded, but before he could say anything, Lillyan quickly cut him off.
“But if it is something he wishes to do, then he must be allowed to follow the path that he has chosen.” Eralon’s ensuing smile told her that she had played right into his hands, and that her answer was exactly what he wanted to hear.
“Eferath is a very capable fighter, and he is surprisingly intelligent for someone his age.” He remarked, and Lillyan’s smile nearly took in her ears.
“You are very proud of him.” She stated more than asked, and nearly laughed aloud when her husband looked away embarrassed.
“When does the training season start?” She said a moment later to save his dignity. He thought about it for a long moment, tap-tapping his chin as he concentrated.
“There is a qualifying tournament for the hopefuls at the beginning of next week.” He answered while nodding to himself. “If only we had more time, he would be unbeatable.” Lillyan smiled, then slipped her thin, delicate hand into his.
“How do you think he will do?” She asked softly as they headed back to their home. Eralon sighed deeply, and shrugged his wide shoulders.
“I do not know.” He answered, just as softly.
Eferath had only been training for a few months, where most of the competition in the tournament he faced would be trained since they learned how to walk! Another problem would present itself in the form of personality. The competition was there to win, and nothing else mattered to them. But in Eferath’s case, he did not harbor any selfish greed of attaining power, or prestige. The young lad was fascinated by the martial arts, and the irony the peacefulness of the dance of blades could bring. Eralon feared that his young son did not have the stomach for that kind of competitive fighting. Still, there was no doubt in his mind that Eferath would do well. Very well.
Eralon let the thought drop at that, and leaned over and kissed Lillyan on the cheek before walking inside their home.
* * * *
Eferath stared into the mirror that hung on the wall in his bedroom for a long moment. He was studying himself, unsure as to whether or not he was proud of what he saw. His skills had improved much over the past few months, but he wanted more. Tallonin was an unremarkable town filled with even more unremarkable people. There was barely anyone close to his age around these parts, and the few that were, were too consumed by their chores and duties on their farms. A profound sigh escaped his lips then, and he ran his fingers through his shoulder length, slightly curly brown hair.
He stared into the mirror, and into the piercing blue eyes that stared back at him. Eferath could not deny the excitement in them ever since his father informed him of the tournament. It was a tournament intended to screen out potential applicants for the Escoran militia. He was naked from the waist up, and upon looking at himself in the mirror, he could see his finely-honed muscles twitching in anticipation. He was nervous, and anxious at the same time. He could not deny how far his skills had progressed since his father started to train him. Almost as an afterthought, the young man’s eyes lowered and settled upon the re-forged sword that he had killed his first orc with.
Eferath gingerly wrapped his fingers around the hilt of the weapon, keenly feeling the grip’s perfect grooves that fit into his hand. He lifted the perfectly balanced blade gingerly, feeling as though the inanimate metal was an extension of his will. Eferath twirled the sword in his right hand as he moved to the centre of his bedroom. He closed his eyes and started the exercise that his father had taught him to control his breathing, and to calm his mind. It was called “fighter’s meditation,” and it helped the young man control his balance and his thoughts to create a powerful fighting entity.
He went through a series of slow, fluidic movements, sweeping his sword arm in toward his left side. The sword dipped and weaved, spinning in his hand, moving as if it had a mind of its own. And in a way, it did. With his eyes closed, Eferath’s mind was one of pure concentration, of pure focus. His legs bent at the middle, one foot sweeping in front of the other barely brushing the floor. Soon, his momentum increased, slowly and steadily. He propelled himself in circles at the centre of his room while his arms worked independently.
Soon, his movements were so fast, they were blurred, his blade hummed and whistled through the air around him in his complex sequences. Through it all, even though his eyes were closed, Eferath could “see” everything going on in the room, knew without any doubt that his movements were perfect. His mind was s
o perfectly tuned to his surroundings that he knew his sister had stepped into his room as soon as her first step crossed the threshold.
Eferath continued his meditative sword dance, controlling his breathing through the movements; exhaling at every completion of a sequence. His upper body glistened with sweat from the effort, but he certainly was not tired.
“It is time, Eferath.” Squeaked a small, familiar voice from behind him, but the young fighter didn’t take any heed of it. She asked several more times, and though her voice seemed very far away to him, he could tell that she was getting increasingly annoyed with repeating herself. She hopped up onto his bed, and plopped down, keeping careful distance away from her brothers’ sword arm.
“Are you ready?” She asked softly, not expecting an answer. She cocked her head to the side as she watched her brother’s graceful movements. Watched as he spread his legs apart, then crouched down onto his left leg while he stretched his right leg out to the side. He raised his left arm above his head, angled in a slight ninety-degree angle, while his sword arm stretched out straight over his extended leg. A moment later, the young man straightened, sword spinning in his hand before he brought his hand in front of his chest.
Eferath sighed softly, and opened his eyes. He turned to regard his sister and noticed the stern look she gave him.
“What?” He demanded impatiently as he walked to his dresser to retrieve a towel.
“Are you done ignoring me?” She snapped angrily, eyes narrowing into a most pitiful pout. Eferath recognized her dramatics for what they were, but he just shook his head as he wiped off his forehead.
“What do you want?” He growled again, tapping his foot impatiently as she still took a long time to answer.
“I said,” she began slowly, “that it was time for you to leave for Escoran for the tournament!” She added sharply. Eferath didn’t answer her, he just slipped on his tunic, scooped up his sword, and headed for the door to his room.