The Broken Realm

Chapter 4

LUCIUS

Lucius smirked as he swung his longsword waster. The wooden practice sword whistled through the air, catching Damien in the ribs. The waster was weighted with lead, mimicking the weight of a real sword.

"That hurt..." Damien winced, dropping his weapon. As he rubbed at his bruised ribs, he gave Lucius a glare that promised retribution.

Lucian shrugged in amusement. "You've simply got to be faster. And never lose your weapon."

"Remind me again why we're doing this? There are far less painful ways of relieving boredom." Damien asked sullenly. They were practising, or so Lucius called it, as they always did when they had the free time. Damien called it a beating instead for Lucius was a trained guardsman whilst he had sparse experience with the blade.

It was a glorious day, with the sun shining its warmth upon their skin. They stood by the river bank, wasters in hand, the roar of the rampaging river in their ears. The great river ran like a silver artery laid across the land, feeding fields and supplying the inhabitants of Windred with the water they needed to survive in the harsh northern lands.

"Brigands. Evil creatures that lurk in the night. Theodore. Need I go on?" Lucian replied. "You might need to use a sword soon. It's dangerous around Windred. Also, it's fun beating you." He grinned and motioned for Damien to lift his blade.

"I'm no good with a sword. I'm a woodsman, not a swordsman," Damien retorted stubbornly.

"You'll learn. Again." Lucius attacked once more, sweeping his blade towards Damien.

Damien blocked the side swing clumsily, stumbling from the force. "Watch your feet!" came a cheery voice as Lucius pressed the attack. Downward cut, frontal stab, forward lunge, right cut. Damien struggled to defend against the attacks that came unceasingly. Sweat poured down his face as he blocked with his waster, attempting to prevent even more bruising.

"If you wanted to block, a shield might have been a better choice," joked Lucius, "After all, a sword is meant for attacking."

His waster was knocked from his hand once again. "This thing feels awkward. I'm not meant to wield a sword, I know it." Damien objected again. His fingers were callused, the hard bark-like skin forming from gripping his practice sword. His body ached.

"Well, keep trying. You might change your mind." They sparred for hours, until the sun began its descend behind the Crags and the light of day drained away. A chill had already crept its way silently into the air, like a thief in the night.

"That was a good workout, wasn't it?" Lucius said enthusiastically, moping at the sweat that lined his forehead. "We ought to do this again more often."

"I'm unlikely to agree," grimaced Damien, inspecting his bruises. "I'll be sore for days!"

"Well, I'm heading off," said Lucius, "Greggor has called for the guardsmen to assemble in the morning. Some drunk wiped the floor with Theron and his boys."

"Theodore's group?" Damien stood painfully, tossing his practice sword to him. "Who did it? I'm inclined to buy him a drink. They've become insufferable as of late. Or perhaps even more so with Theodore's absence."

Lucius snatched it out of the air. "A wanderer that came in late last night. Think his name was... Hardon... or something of the like. Took on the lot of them and left them drooling on the floor of The Flying Tankard. He's locked up in the cells, awaiting the judgement of Lord Belascus."

"They probably did something to deserve it."

"They probably did." agreed Lucius.

The morning sun roused more hues from the dark monochrome that pervaded the night. The skies were now flushed with the faintest red and gold, sending rays of light to warm the inhabitants of Windred.