Cambolton's Fall

Chapter Nine

Be patient. Wait for it. Brin parried the next overhand strike. The next one, here it comes. His eyes focused, watching the other man's body language. Just as he did previously, his opponent pulled back from the downward strike, shifted his weight and went for an aggressive left hand slash with his weight behind the swing.

Now!

Brin leaned to his left, into the swing, bringing his own sword level with his eyes. He used both hands on the handle and hilt, sliding lower in his stance. At the last moment he used the swords angle to glance, rather than stop, the other man's slash. The sword slid along his blades length, passing a mere inch above Brin's head.

With his weight already to the left, he cemented his left foot. The man stumbled past Brin, unprepared for the lack of resistance. Bracing all of his weight there, he lifted his right foot and kicked downward on the man's calf. As his opponent fell to his knees, Brin quickly reversed his grip on his the sword handle. Lifting the upsidedown sword handle far above his head, he placed the tip in the small groove between the man's shoulder muscle, collarbone and the base of his neck. Should his sword pierce this spot, it would be a direct route to the heart.

"What the fu-" Price exclaims in aggravation.

"Bravo!" Warrel cheered from a fallen pine tree not far off. He rocked backward and raised his clay container.

"I don't get it boy. You've got a gift."

Brin closed his eyes and exhaled, letting the tension fall from his muscles. He released the sword, allowing its magical form to disperse in a small puff of smoke. He took a swift stride backward from Price and offered his hand to help the man up.

"You say the sword is your worst practice?" Callused hands clasped and Brin hauled backwards, using his weight to help him to his feet. "You must be a frightful sight with that bow of yours."

Brin just smiled and gave a small nod in response. It had been five mornings since Brin's nightmare. They had traveled for three more days before they found the meadow from Bard's vision. Each sunrise Brin and Price had begun sparring, Brin insisting that it was needed to keep his reflexes sharp. Brin was extremely surprised at his skill with the sword.

The meadow was exactly as Bard had explained it to Brin that morning. Somehow the ground was green and dry, despite the falling snow. The trees even kept it shielded from the increasingly harsh winds.

There was definitely magic swelled in this small clearing. Everyone, including Price, could feel the difference in the air as soon as they entered the meadow. Gavira and Bard had been wandering around the surrounding area and studying everything from top to bottom in an attempt to find something that would trigger the event that Bard was waiting for.

Brin was starting to get restless, stating that they were starting to waste time by waiting there. Despite this, Bard continued to reassure Brin and the group that this was something important. They needed to continue to search for whatever caused the event.

"Again?" Price asked. "Use something else this time, I could use the education." He winked at the younger man.

Brin shrugged, "Why not." Not like there's anything better to do.

He used his right hand to push the loose strands of his black hair back, then continued the motion down from his head to his neck. The top of his spine began to prickle in anticipation. He began releasing the appropriate amount of magic while his hand fell into place. Within the span of a breath deep breath in and out Brin gripped loosely onto the long handle of his scythe.

In a flick of his wrist the long heavy blade swung in an arc. Brin smirked as Price whistled and involuntarily took a step backward. The blade came to rest close to the ground, Brin gripping his left hand at the butt end of the handle, his right hand low by his hip gripping closer to the head. The long blade curved from its connecting point up, almost reaching his lower back. This was Brins melee weapon of choice, and how he received the title of Deathson amongst the northern clans.

"Ready?" Brin asked, lifting his right arm and pushing it backward, placing the blades tip so that it curved around his back and just over his left shoulder. He crouched much lower into his stance than normal, tapping his left hand to the ground before regripping the scythe.

"No. I don't think I am." Price said nervously.

"The blade is dulled, though it'll hurt when you get smacked by it." Brin smiled broadly. This was one of the few things in life that brought him genuine joy. A good fight.

"Why do you do that?" Price asked, lowering his sword. "You've touched the group with your left hand before each bout. Every time over the last two mornings."

Brin relaxed slightly, standing straight form his fighting stance. "It was something my master always did. I'm not sure when I started doing the same. It's to show respect for those rivals you have previously defeated - as well as the one you're about to defeat."

"Well that's a bit cocky isn't it?" Warrel called from nearby. He was now sprawled out across the fallen tree, watching the exchange.

Brin just shrugged, "It's just how it is." He looked back to Price then, resuming his low crough and beginning to loosen his shoulders for the broad movements needed to wield the over sized scythe.

"I've got it!! I've got it!" Bard's voice could be heard from across the clearing before he could be seen. He came crashing through the treeline a moment later, disturbing the peaceful surroundings. "I know what needs to be done! Come, follow me." He immediately turned and ran back into the woods, almost tripping over his own feet in excitement.

Brin groaned at the waste of magical energy spent to create the scythe. He released his hold and it vanished before it hit the ground.

Price stood in the middle of the clearing, waiting for Brin to meet him on their way into the woods. As Brin drew closer, he sheathed his sword and smiled nervously. "So how am I supposed to win a fight like that? Those sweeping movements and long reach would be hard to get through."

Brin looked at him seriously as their footsteps fell noiselessly on the grassy floor. There was only one answer to give. "You shoot me with an arrow."