Mirror of the Past

Bray 3- Sparring partners

The sword whistled towards him with all the power the man behind it could muster. One final attempt, all or nothing. What would look like a lightning fast strike came to Bray slowly, at a crawling pace as he watched it come for his neck.

Bray dropped to one knee and twisted his body, kicking one foot out. He felt its impact with his opponent's shin and the man's legs buckled from under him, the man dropping onto the straw covered stone below him with a thud.

The man looked up dazed and flinched as he felt the point of Bray's own sword brushing his jugular, sweat on his brow mixing with the light drizzle that accompanied almost every dawn in Parrah, or simply the North in the common tongue. A round of applause echoed from a hundred hands and men cheered and shouted and laughed at the finale of the duel.

Bray sheathed his sword against his back and offered his hand to the beaten man, who with a grunt took it and hauled himself up. They looked at each other a moment more, each of them catching their breaths after sparring for almost a hand's breadth of the sun. The man moved suddenly and enfolded Bray in an embrace and clapped him on the back, being careful not to get his hand tangled in Bray's scabbard. More applause rang out and Bray joined them in, giving his opponent the respect that was due for keeping up with him for so long.

Captain Vent walked from the crowd towards the pair, gave the standard military salute, a little sloppily but it still looked the part, and shook Bray's hand. "Well done, as always Sir Bray. It is a pleasure to see you train with us." Vent turned to the other man. "Sergeant Tullhorn, congratulations to you as well. Your extra training has definitely paid off. To stand against one of the King's Guard and even Sir Bray at that, is a feat to take to heart." Tullhorn nodded his thanks, breath still coming in quickly. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and flicked the sweat down onto the straw below.

"Thank you, Captain." Bray said, returning the salute. "I enjoy training with the men of the army." He looked up at the Palace of the Citadel, looming large and dark in the distance. Truth be told, Bray felt the Palace to be suffocating, and dishonest. The nobles up there always scraping for more money, more land, more power. The barracks were more honest. With soldiers earning their keep and their food to survive the never ending Winter.

Most of the men disbanded, moving to train on their own or get their breakfast from the mealhouse in the barracks hall. A dozen or so of the newer recruits stayed behind, eager to talk to Bray or Tullhorn about how they fight, but Vent started speaking first. "This man, Sir Bray is the finest fighter in the whole circle of the world. He showed up at our door some years ago with nothing but a wooden stick and the clothes on his back. Now look at him, a member of the High king's own guard, the finest body of veterans you will find, and Bray the youngest of them by at least a decade or two." Bray awkwardly shuffled, not used to his being praised. "When the High King was still sorting out his peace and power he left one fight for the last. Way up North, a few tribes of men had banded together and were proving troublesome, our king wanted them gone. We embarked and travelled for weeks, in the snow and rain. Three thousand men against their two thousand, one final push and we will have secured the world, all our other soldiers returned for home down south, just us Northerners left. We met their army in a deep mountain pass, the only ways to go forward or back. When we clashed I have to give those men their credit, they pushed us back a bit with their ferocity, axes and swords swinging like demons held them. Bray, myself and a few others were on the left side of the pass, we were ready to push forward in the men in front of us fell. They did, but this is where it gets interesting."

Vent gave Bray a look, pride filling the older man's eyes. "Bray, sprinted forward, fast as a lightning bolt I almost couldn't see him and he carved a path through them with a borrowed sword. We ran to fill the gaps and were able to flank the enemy from the left, but I do say Bray took out at least fifty of the men by himself. I didn't think it was possible, but after the Contest, no one could doubt his natural ability." The recruits looked to Bray in awe, eyes wide with fear, disbelief and admiration. Bray himself still shifted awkwardly. Tullhorn grinned black beard and short cropped hair dripping with the rain. Having heard the story before, it was said the man trained late into the night every day in order to win the next Contest and earn his place in the King's Guard, the man had certainly improved since the last time Bray and him had trained. "But my boys," Vent continued. "Stories of the Contest is for another time. You have duties to attend to. Go, check on the horses and feed them. Then train with sword and shield until your high noon meal." The recruits gave their salutes and swiftly left to complete their tasks.

Tullhorn spoke next when the recruits had left. "Captain, I've letters to write to the men down south." Vent nodded, and Tullhorn strode off, heading to his quarters no doubt to have a warm bath and rest for a moment.

"Sir Bray, if you have another moment, walk with me." Captain Vent said.

"Of course, Captain." Bray said and the pair walked towards the gates, leaving the practise yard behind them. Although Bray now outranked his previous commander, he always felt the subordinate. In fact, Bray often found taking orders far more enjoyable than giving them. It was easier to get along with the common soldiers of equal rank than it was with the nobles who put themselves first only. "How is the state of the Palace?" Vent asked, his once black hair turning grey, having served for almost three decades in the Northern army.

"The nobles are pressing the High King for more land and money than he is prepared to give out. Some have pulled their troops back into their own lands instead of loaning them to the King. He isn't too pleased about that and threatens to take back their land as a tax." Bray said, thinking back to what Sora and Meera had told him. Sora always was forced to listen to her fathers' rants when he couldn't shout at the members of his council, and she always cried to Meera or Bray about it afterwards.

Vent scoffed. "He should take back all the land and keep the nobles on a tighter leash, those parasites don't do anything honest unless it's to help themselves."

"Some aren't too bad." Ventured Bray, always trying to bridge the gaps.

"They're all bad Bray, just in different ways." Vent said, before realising himself. "I mean Sir Bray, of course."

Although it was protocol, Bray thought about telling Vent to simply call him Bray like all the times before in the practise yard. "It's fine." He said. Protocol meant too much to him, to let it slip. They walked a moment in silence, reaching the outer walls of the barracks, looking over the Citadel from the high parapets. Rows of buildings stretched out before them, all covered in light dustings of snow. The walls of the Citadel could just be seen in the distance, standing taller than any others in the world, impenetrable and almost twelve feet thick at the weakest parts. Forest lay beyond, surrounding them, the whole of Parrah was covered in forest, only cleared for villages, towns and the Citadel. Trade all coming in on the roads that the High King's advisor ordered built, cutting across the country like a spider's web. The harbours to the south brought in coin and exotic clothing that the High King placed orders on or demanded be brought to him to keep his cold seat warm in the constant winter.

"Oh, look at that." Vent said, indicating with his eyes a heavily armoured rider galloping up towards the barracks' gates. "One of your respected brothers." The man's armour was pure white, and he had a heavy helm covering his face, no features visible. "We may as well go down and see what he wants." Calls came from the man demanding that the gates be opened on orders of the king. Moments later, one of the soldiers could be heart cranking the levers and the heavy gates were opened and the sound of hooves trotting along the hard floor resounded of the barracks walls towards them.

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"Sir Bray, the king demands your presence in the Citadel." The man said, holding out a scroll of royal decree. Bray nodded and rolled it up, and gripped it firmly. "Take my horse, I know you walk here most mornings. It's urgent and you should not tally." Sir Graff, one of the younger members of the King's Guard, at about four decades old. He found the man pleasant outside of the confines of duty, often talking and sparring together in the evenings just before their set meal with the rest of the King's Guard. "Sir Bray, I'd advise you to leave now." No trace of their friendship was evident from the solemn voice hiding under the heavy helm.

"Sir." Bray said, and gave a perfect salute. Sir Graff matched it. "Farewell Captain Vent, until tomorrow." Bray nodded and Vent gave his own salute, perfectly rigid as Graff was watching.

Bray took the reins in one hand and jumped into the saddle. With a flick he let the horse begin its gallop up the large streets of the Citadel, towards the Palace. The rain falling remained constant, the dawn sun fighting for light through the dark grey skies. Bray wished the High King had a task for him. He wanted to be useful.

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