Lucky

Chapter 7

It was the heat that was making Deaglan sway where he stood. His entire body was ravaged and worn and his energy was such that he was all but ready to collapse onto his knees, then onto his face, close his eyes and be gone forever. And as he continued to sway back and forth, he couldn’t help but think that for a world with no sun, it was odd how his skin seemed to sizzle from the… well not the sun. But it felt as if it were frying. With red hair and pasty white skin, Deaglan had never been much for going outdoors. At least that hadn’t changed about him.

And if it wasn’t the heat that was doing this to him, it was the relentless beating he had spent the entire morning receiving. His arms and legs were both covered in bruises; like a peach that had been dropped and stepped on. He suspected too that his nose would be broken and his eyes blackened if it weren’t for the fact that his attacker had chosen to avoid those particular spots.

And if it wasn’t the beating that was near killing him, it was the fact that it was the fifth day in a row that he had been subjected to such punishment. From sunrise – so to speak – to sunset – again, a figure of speech – he was subjected to a level of cruelty he could not comprehend. And for what? All because he had nominated to do the right thing

“Stand up, straighten your back! Don’t cower!”

Deaglan glared at the man that was shouting commands his way. It was one of the Tuatha De Danann council members – Mac Loran. Like Mac Germait he was big, burly and fierce in just about every capacity. His head was completely bald, his body looked as if he had spent five lifetimes constructing it, and his face was so hard it could be used as an anvil.  Where Mac Germait at, least had a sense of humor, and maybe even a softer side, Mac Loran had none.

“I will break those knobby knees like bread sticks if you do not stand tall!” He wore nothing more than a blue tunic wrapped around his waist. His shoulders were barrels and his chest defied belief. In his hand he held a short sword constructed entirely of wood and it was solely responsible for the bruises now covering Deaglan – apart from those gained through falling.

Deaglan groaned as he straightened himself out, doing all he could to ignore the way his entire body throbbed and ached. He’d never felt such pain before and again had to remind himself he was doing the right thing. Although still, he found himself wondering at least ten times each day if the right thing was even worth it. When he had gone to Mac Germait and told the Tuatha that he would help, he had expected to be treated like the hero he was. His head had been filled with visions of grandeur; being spoiled with largess, gifts aplenty and showered in gold.

What a fool he was.

Instead, he had been beaten to within an inch of his life day in and day out. Being a hero was never meant to be this hard.

“OK, OK,” he snapped as he put his hand on his back and stretched out, feeling his bones crack as he did. “Give me one second.”

“The enemy won’t be so kind,” Mac Loran snarled. That was how he always spoke; a snarl, a snap, or a growl. When Deaglan had first been introduced to the Head of the Army of Falias, he recognized the large man as the council member that had shown him the most hate and contempt on the first day he had arrived Evidently, Mac Loran’s disposition toward him had not changed.

“The enemy?” Deaglan looked around the yard in which the two men stood. He did so in a way to imply that the suggestion of an enemy attacking was stupid. He did so to imply that Mac Loran was taking the training a little too seriously. He did so as a way to show his contempt for the situation as a whole.

The training yard – or cave as it was – was where the two men had spent every waking moment of the previous five days.. It was a small space located through the castle and built into the side of the mountain. The ground was packed earth, the roof and walls were bedrock and the weapon of choice was a wooden sword… although only Mac Loran had one of those.