An Axe in the Flames

Rikart

The past, after the invasion of Red Sands

"Pick up your sword, and strike me."  Growled Cross, standing over a bruised and bloodied Rikart. His lip was split, and he had a knot on his head that had begun to bleed as well. His arms were mottled with purple and yellow bruises, but from his back he he reached for his wooden long sword. Using it to help him up.

"Your enemies will not care if you're disarmed, or tired, or anything about you. They will look to end your life as quickly as they saw you." Cross calmly told Rikart, as he took a step back and readied his own wooden long sword. A tool used for training the fighters of the Long Swords division of the Flame Sect.

"I understand, father." He said as he spit a wad of blood to the ground beside him.

Being the son of the Battle Master, Cross, he had to earn his respect through years of training and showing no fear or emotion. His father was relentless in this discipline and expected no less for his son. A title had to be earned rather than given.

"Then show me you've retained some semblance of training this time, otherwise, I will ship you off to the scholars and make another son to carry my name."

Rikart's blood boiled at the sentiment. He loathed his father and the countless insults he hurled his way on a daily basis. One day, he would have sons of his own and they would know what a good father was. Cross was not it, and Rikart wanted more than anything to over throw him one day.

Being Battle Master in the Flame Sect was second in line to the High King. You didn't earn your titles through bloodline necessarily, you earned it through challenging the ones above you. It's how the Flame Sect always ensured they had the strongest warriors and men leading them. Rikart was only sixteen, but he knew he was smarter than his father. He knew he was faster as well, and had the potential to one day be stronger too. If only that day would come soon, he thought. Steadying himself and taking a breath before taking his battle stance.

Cross was a man of average height, but built like the trunk of a tree. Massive forearms and broad shoulders built on the base of thick muscular legs. He was an ugly man, scarred from his countless battles and had a flattened nose from his many bar fights. He rolled his shoulders and hefted his sword to eye level, in an offensive attacking stance. Rikart was taller than him already and had to begun to develop his muscle, compared to Cross though, he was obviously fighting above his weight class.

The two circled each other before Cross charged in, his deceiving speed almost catching Rikart off guard. Parrying three cross swings, Rikart was already reeling before stepping back with his strong foot and setting a base to launch a low and wide arching cut at his father's knees. He caught the knee of Cross and felt elated for a moment before noticing his father had actually stopped the swing short with his own sword. Rikart tried to roll to his right but his father had begun an upward swing in that direction. He stumbled over himself and Cross brought the sword down hard on Rikart's exposed side. With a sharp crack, the wind left his lungs burning as he gasped for air. His father stood over him and grunted a laugh, "I might as well give you a shield and have you train with the Shield Sisters. I will take your mother tonight, and have her bore me a son who makes me proud."

Rikart lay crumpled on the hard, cracked desert ground, struggling for breath. Pain coming in waves as he tried to fill his lungs. Had he broken a rib? He thought, when he was hit in the face by his father's spit. "You are worthless boy. You sleep outside tonight." Cross said through clenched teeth.

Rikart's vision blurred as everything turned to deep red, he screamed a bellowing sound, pushing himself back up and swinging wildly in cross cuts and overhead strikes. His father parried the first of the wild swings, but as Rikart continued, the swings became more controlled and precise. Catching his father in a back pedal, he continued the onslaught. Cross couldn't keep up to the speed of the swings and finally Rikart connected with his temple. The sound was like a thick tree branch cracking and he watched his father drop like a sack of potatoes. He didn't stop swinging, raining down the wooden sword over and over upon his father's unconscious body. His thinking gone, filled with a rage he had never before felt but also filled a razor's edge clarity.

He swung one more time, bringing the sword down on his father's midsection. The air escaping through Cross's bloodied lips. "You will not speak to me in this manner any more, old man. I am no longer your son. I am only Rikart." His breath coming in heavy heaves, as he stood over the unmoving body of his father, sword tip resting on his father's neck.

"That is enough, Rikart!" His mother's voice bringing him back from the red filled haze of his rage. She had been watching from the porch of their log home and came running over to Cross. Quickly examining his father.

"He has gone too far this time, mother. He.." Her gasp cut off his words as she picked up Cross's head and bits of brain matter fell to the desert floor.

He had gone too far. He had killed his father in what was supposed to be only training. He had lost himself and killed the Battle Master, his father. He had hated him and wished him dead for so long, but the actuality of it all, hit him like a punch to the gut. His lunch came up from his stomach and spilled on to the desert floor that was their training grounds. He had never before seen an actual death and here he was. Looking it directly in the ruined face and it was his father.

His mother cried out, an anguished and broken sound that tore through the stone walls of Rikart's heart that his father had made. What would happen now? His mother was a Shield Sister to his father and now she had no companion to protect. She had loved the brute of a man, no doubt, and her son had just taken everything away from her. He was still in shock when she screamed, "You are no son of mine! Leave! Go!"

He stammered for words, "But mother, he, he,"

"Go!" She screamed again, tears running down her face.

What was he to do? He had no where else to go, this was his home. The Flame Sect was all he knew. "Mother. I didn't mean to." He cried.

She dropped the lifeless head of Cross to the ground, where it made a sickly thud, and she stood up. Her eyes blood shot and pain filled, "You go to the military orphanage, you go to hell, I do not care. But you will leave at once and never speak to me again."

He didn't understand what had happened, but the seriousness and brokenness of his mother's words hit home. He had to leave, this home was his no longer to live in. He dropped the sword, clattering to the ground at his feet as he turned away. He had killed the Battle Master in training, he had killed his father....he...had...killed....his...father. Did this make him the Battle Master now? Had he taken the title from his father? He wanted to ask, to know, but he didn't dare turn around and witness the hurt on his mothers face. He had loved her, as any boy should love their mother. Whatever happens now, I will not become him, he thought as he walked away hearing his mother sobbing behind him.