23 Summer 502 AV
"Ye say ye don't like killing lad? What are ye: a man or a mouse?"
The Bard was sitting close to the fire, leaning up against a shattered tree trunk. In his lap was his lute and in his free hand was a greasy leg of chicken. He wolfed down a huge bite and wiped the grease from his chin with the back of his hand. The smile on his face was dangerous; the glint in his eyes even more so. Around the fire the band's chatter had died down. They were all watching how The Bard would handle his son's perceived insolence. Owan's mother walked from the other side of the fire and placed a hand on her "husband's" shoulder. The look in her eyes was just as dangerous.
"Answer me boy, and answer me well," The Bard said, leaning forward and taking another bite of chicken. Owan nodded. His mouth was too dry to speak. The Bard smiled and tossed the bare chicken leg into the fire. He handed the lute over his shoulder to Owan's mother and stood up. Owan dry swallowed as The Bard stepped forward. Quicker than he could think, The Bard slammed a heavy fist into the side of his head. He fell backwards and landed hard on the forest floor. He tried to jump to his feet but his father was quicker, kicking his hands from under him and dropping him back to the dirt.
The band looked on in silence. Even the crackling of the fire seemed subdued. The Bard kicked out again; this time connecting with his son's ribs. Owan tried to roll away but found his way blocked by the fire. He tried to crawl forward but he felt The Bard's hands in his hair, grabbing him harshly and slamming his face into the ground. He yanked his head up quickly before slamming it down again. Owan could feel hot blood dripping from his nose but he refused to cry out. If he cried out his father would only beat him that much harder. He felt himself being rolled over, and through the tree tops he could see the stars before The Bard dropped down on his chest.
His father was a big man. His long brown hair -normally held back by a leather headband- was hanging down, some plastered to his face by sweat and chicken grease. Owan imagined he could smell his rage, thick and heavy on his breath. He lost the thought when his father's fist collided with his head again. He tried to get his hands up to protect himself, and managed to stave off one or two of the man's blows before he slammed through his defenses. He felt his lips split as his father hit him again. Still the band looked on in silence, watching their leader teach his son the lesson of life and death.
Owan jerked his knees up, trying to force The Bard off of his chest. He felt them connect with the man's back but they seemed to have a minimal effect. He bucked his chest and jerked his head from side to side, trying to avoid as many of his father's blows as he could. Finally -when Owan felt himself drifting away from consciousness- the blows let up. His father stood up and made his way back to his seat. Owan rolled onto his stomach and tried to stand when he felt the sting on his back. He looked up and saw his mother standing over him; her right hand wrapped around a thin branch.
He held a hand up to beg for mercy but pulled it back when he felt the sting of the switch tear his palm open. He bit down on his split lip to keep from crying out, causing another rivulet of blood to trickle down his chin. He could feel heat on his back, but he wasn't sure if it was from the fire or from the switch. His mother continued to lash out at him, striking him wherever she could with the switch. He felt the skin on the back of his neck open up and blood begin to trickle to the ground. He thought about trying to squirm away into the darkness, but decided against it when he felt the switch cut into his back.
Instead of escaping he dropped from his hands and knees to his belly and pressed his face into the ground as the blows continued to fall. He opened his mouth to scream but instead found himself inhaling dirt and detritus. He bit down on the spongy refuse of the forest to contain his howls, tasting the mixture of earth and blood on his tongue. He wanted to vomit and scream. Deep inside he could feel a blinding rage building. His breath was short, and his eyes were filling with a red haze. He wanted to strike out and hurt those who hurt him.
"That's enough love. Let the boy catch his breath. You two, go grab the boy we took earlier and bring him here. Let's have a bit of sport."
The Bard's voice sounded far away, and the laughter that followed his command seemed even further. He heard his mother's light steps as she went to rejoin her lover. Slowly, he made his way back to his hands and knees, coughing out the bloody gunk in his mouth. He'd been laying in a puddle of his own spit and blood, and the sight made him feel sick. Every part of him hurt, but he pushed himself to his feet nonetheless. The world swayed in front of him and for a moment he thought he'd lose his footing and pitch back into the father, but the moment passed. He looked up at his mother and father, both of them glaring down at him from their position by the tree. His father's face was entirely cold, but he believed he saw a flash of sympathy in his mother's eyes.
The Bard motioned for him to come forward and he did so, albeit unsteadily. Every step made his back hurt, and the feel of the blood and dirt on his face made him want nothing more than a good cold swim. That'd take the pain away, for a moment at least. He took another step toward his father, who had pulled a dagger from his belt. He tossed it through the air and Owan grabbed it by the hilt.
"Take yer shirt off lad. Drop yer ax," The Bard commanded. Owan did as he was told. He took the bloody rag that had been his shirt off and tossed it to his father. He did the same with his ax. "Ye'll hate me for this tomorrow lad, but it's a lesson ye've got to learn," The Bard said, leaning back against the tree and retrieving his lute. He began to pluck at the strings and hum to himself. Owan heard commotion from the far side of the camp and turned to see what was going on.
The two men that The Bard had shouted at earlier were dragging a prisoner between them. He was a boy maybe a year older than Owan, that they'd taken from the last caravan they'd attacked. He was meant to go to the slave markets in Ravok with the rest of his family, but The Bard apparently had other uses for him. The two men tossed him roughly to the ground next to Owan and returned to their seats by the fire. The band had gathered close now, hoping for a good show. The youth struggled to his feet and stood in front of The Bard with eye's full of defiance.
"A brave one eh? I like that lad. Take yer shirt off," The Bard said, not looking up from his lute. The boy refused at first and stood with his arms crossed, daring the mercenary with his eyes. The Bard simply motioned for one of the men from earlier to tear it off of him. Owan's mother gave her dagger to the youth and sat back down next to her lover. The Bard sat his lute aside and cleared his throat.
"Now here's what we're going to do. If ye manage to strike Owan down, ye and yer family will have their freedom. Owan, I suggest ye defend yerself well. If ye die tonight, it's no one's fault but your own. Now face one another," The Bard said. The two boys acquiesced. Owan studied his opponent. He was a few inches taller than Owan, but his body wasn't quite as well-muscled. He had a slightly soft look about him, like he wasn't used to much physical labor. The feral glare in his eyes said otherwise. He'd scratch and bite and spit; he'd do anything for his family's freedom.
The pain flared in all of Owan's wounds and he entertained the thought of letting the boy slip his knife between his ribs and end it all, but the moment the thought crossed his mind he forced it away. Instead, he pictured his father's face on the boy's body. The pain seemed to melt away, only to be replaced by the rage that he'd felt as he'd lain defenseless on the ground. He let the rage engulf him as he stared the boy down.
"Well lads. We don't have all night. Get on with it," The Bard said, before picking his lute up and dropping back down to a sitting position. Owan dashed forward, hoping to tackle the boy and make quick work of him. His wounds left him slow though, and the boy managed to jump out of the way. He slashed halfheartedly and a thin line of blood appeared on Owan's bare back. He roared and spun around, slashing up toward the boy's neck. He aimed to high and cut a broad slice of skin out of the boy's cheek. Blood began to pour from the wound, and Owan couldn't help but smile. Imagining his father's face cut open by his hand made the prospect all the more appealing.
The two squared up once more, each looking for an opening in the other's defense. They jumped forward simultaneously, daggers clashing in the firelight. The band cheered at the spectacle, all except Owan's parents. They simply sat in silence and watched their son at work. They had trained him well, but he needed to be tempered. He was brittle and strong, but he was still naive and that could cost him his life.
The two continued to trade blows, each time slamming their blades against one another and lighting the night with sparks. The boy landed a blow on Owan's shoulder, cutting through the skin and causing blood to spray out through the firelight. Owan screamed and slammed his left fist into his opponent's stomach. The youth doubled over in pain, but before Owan could jam his dagger into the base of his skull he recovered and jumped away.
All the while The Bard picked at his lute and watched the combat with impassive eyes. The sound was maddening in Owan's ears, and he charged forward, trying again to bull the youth over and pin him to the ground. Then he could go about his butcher's work with relative ease. The youth sidestepped again and Owan received another long cut on his back. He could feel the new blood mixing with the old and knew that he'd have to end the fight soon. If he didn't, he'd bleed out and end his short life on the forest floor. He turned to face his opponent again, and the two rushed forward to battle. In the back of his mind, Owain recalled something The Bard had told him about sacrifice and pain. It was a lesson that hadn't made much sense until that very moment.
The boy struck hard and fast, swinging his dagger in a dangerous arc that would leave it jutting from Owan's throat. Knowing that his lfie was in danger, that there was no way he could block the blow with his own dagger, Owan took his father's lesson to heart. He reached up with his left hand and caught the dagger, howling as he felt his pinky finger leave his hand. The blade dug into his palm, and blackness threatened to overwhelm him. The pain was immense, but Owan fought through it. The rage caused his heart to pound and gave him the strength to do what needed done. He pulled with his mangled left hand, drawing the boy close, and plunged his dagger deep into his chest.
The boy shuddered and leaned his head forward, resting it on Owan's shoulders. He opened his mouth and a gout of blood poured down Owan's bare arms, mixing with his own. Owan pressed his mouth against the boy's ear and whispered something, before pulling the dagger out of his chest and jamming it in a second time. The band cheered, but Owan heard nothing. He was lost in thought, standing with his mangled hand still wrapped around his opponent's blade, and the boy dying on his shoulder. He could taste blood in his mouth and feel as the life left his opponent's body. All the pain was coming back now. His hand screamed and his back roared, and through it all his father watched, with a pleased grin plastered on his face.
Finally, he released his grip on the pair of daggers and stepped back. The boy fell forward and Owan fell shortly afterward. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, and when the darkness called for him to sleep he answered.
"Ye say ye don't like killing lad? What are ye: a man or a mouse?"
The Bard was sitting close to the fire, leaning up against a shattered tree trunk. In his lap was his lute and in his free hand was a greasy leg of chicken. He wolfed down a huge bite and wiped the grease from his chin with the back of his hand. The smile on his face was dangerous; the glint in his eyes even more so. Around the fire the band's chatter had died down. They were all watching how The Bard would handle his son's perceived insolence. Owan's mother walked from the other side of the fire and placed a hand on her "husband's" shoulder. The look in her eyes was just as dangerous.
"Answer me boy, and answer me well," The Bard said, leaning forward and taking another bite of chicken. Owan nodded. His mouth was too dry to speak. The Bard smiled and tossed the bare chicken leg into the fire. He handed the lute over his shoulder to Owan's mother and stood up. Owan dry swallowed as The Bard stepped forward. Quicker than he could think, The Bard slammed a heavy fist into the side of his head. He fell backwards and landed hard on the forest floor. He tried to jump to his feet but his father was quicker, kicking his hands from under him and dropping him back to the dirt.
The band looked on in silence. Even the crackling of the fire seemed subdued. The Bard kicked out again; this time connecting with his son's ribs. Owan tried to roll away but found his way blocked by the fire. He tried to crawl forward but he felt The Bard's hands in his hair, grabbing him harshly and slamming his face into the ground. He yanked his head up quickly before slamming it down again. Owan could feel hot blood dripping from his nose but he refused to cry out. If he cried out his father would only beat him that much harder. He felt himself being rolled over, and through the tree tops he could see the stars before The Bard dropped down on his chest.
His father was a big man. His long brown hair -normally held back by a leather headband- was hanging down, some plastered to his face by sweat and chicken grease. Owan imagined he could smell his rage, thick and heavy on his breath. He lost the thought when his father's fist collided with his head again. He tried to get his hands up to protect himself, and managed to stave off one or two of the man's blows before he slammed through his defenses. He felt his lips split as his father hit him again. Still the band looked on in silence, watching their leader teach his son the lesson of life and death.
Owan jerked his knees up, trying to force The Bard off of his chest. He felt them connect with the man's back but they seemed to have a minimal effect. He bucked his chest and jerked his head from side to side, trying to avoid as many of his father's blows as he could. Finally -when Owan felt himself drifting away from consciousness- the blows let up. His father stood up and made his way back to his seat. Owan rolled onto his stomach and tried to stand when he felt the sting on his back. He looked up and saw his mother standing over him; her right hand wrapped around a thin branch.
He held a hand up to beg for mercy but pulled it back when he felt the sting of the switch tear his palm open. He bit down on his split lip to keep from crying out, causing another rivulet of blood to trickle down his chin. He could feel heat on his back, but he wasn't sure if it was from the fire or from the switch. His mother continued to lash out at him, striking him wherever she could with the switch. He felt the skin on the back of his neck open up and blood begin to trickle to the ground. He thought about trying to squirm away into the darkness, but decided against it when he felt the switch cut into his back.
Instead of escaping he dropped from his hands and knees to his belly and pressed his face into the ground as the blows continued to fall. He opened his mouth to scream but instead found himself inhaling dirt and detritus. He bit down on the spongy refuse of the forest to contain his howls, tasting the mixture of earth and blood on his tongue. He wanted to vomit and scream. Deep inside he could feel a blinding rage building. His breath was short, and his eyes were filling with a red haze. He wanted to strike out and hurt those who hurt him.
"That's enough love. Let the boy catch his breath. You two, go grab the boy we took earlier and bring him here. Let's have a bit of sport."
The Bard's voice sounded far away, and the laughter that followed his command seemed even further. He heard his mother's light steps as she went to rejoin her lover. Slowly, he made his way back to his hands and knees, coughing out the bloody gunk in his mouth. He'd been laying in a puddle of his own spit and blood, and the sight made him feel sick. Every part of him hurt, but he pushed himself to his feet nonetheless. The world swayed in front of him and for a moment he thought he'd lose his footing and pitch back into the father, but the moment passed. He looked up at his mother and father, both of them glaring down at him from their position by the tree. His father's face was entirely cold, but he believed he saw a flash of sympathy in his mother's eyes.
The Bard motioned for him to come forward and he did so, albeit unsteadily. Every step made his back hurt, and the feel of the blood and dirt on his face made him want nothing more than a good cold swim. That'd take the pain away, for a moment at least. He took another step toward his father, who had pulled a dagger from his belt. He tossed it through the air and Owan grabbed it by the hilt.
"Take yer shirt off lad. Drop yer ax," The Bard commanded. Owan did as he was told. He took the bloody rag that had been his shirt off and tossed it to his father. He did the same with his ax. "Ye'll hate me for this tomorrow lad, but it's a lesson ye've got to learn," The Bard said, leaning back against the tree and retrieving his lute. He began to pluck at the strings and hum to himself. Owan heard commotion from the far side of the camp and turned to see what was going on.
The two men that The Bard had shouted at earlier were dragging a prisoner between them. He was a boy maybe a year older than Owan, that they'd taken from the last caravan they'd attacked. He was meant to go to the slave markets in Ravok with the rest of his family, but The Bard apparently had other uses for him. The two men tossed him roughly to the ground next to Owan and returned to their seats by the fire. The band had gathered close now, hoping for a good show. The youth struggled to his feet and stood in front of The Bard with eye's full of defiance.
"A brave one eh? I like that lad. Take yer shirt off," The Bard said, not looking up from his lute. The boy refused at first and stood with his arms crossed, daring the mercenary with his eyes. The Bard simply motioned for one of the men from earlier to tear it off of him. Owan's mother gave her dagger to the youth and sat back down next to her lover. The Bard sat his lute aside and cleared his throat.
"Now here's what we're going to do. If ye manage to strike Owan down, ye and yer family will have their freedom. Owan, I suggest ye defend yerself well. If ye die tonight, it's no one's fault but your own. Now face one another," The Bard said. The two boys acquiesced. Owan studied his opponent. He was a few inches taller than Owan, but his body wasn't quite as well-muscled. He had a slightly soft look about him, like he wasn't used to much physical labor. The feral glare in his eyes said otherwise. He'd scratch and bite and spit; he'd do anything for his family's freedom.
The pain flared in all of Owan's wounds and he entertained the thought of letting the boy slip his knife between his ribs and end it all, but the moment the thought crossed his mind he forced it away. Instead, he pictured his father's face on the boy's body. The pain seemed to melt away, only to be replaced by the rage that he'd felt as he'd lain defenseless on the ground. He let the rage engulf him as he stared the boy down.
"Well lads. We don't have all night. Get on with it," The Bard said, before picking his lute up and dropping back down to a sitting position. Owan dashed forward, hoping to tackle the boy and make quick work of him. His wounds left him slow though, and the boy managed to jump out of the way. He slashed halfheartedly and a thin line of blood appeared on Owan's bare back. He roared and spun around, slashing up toward the boy's neck. He aimed to high and cut a broad slice of skin out of the boy's cheek. Blood began to pour from the wound, and Owan couldn't help but smile. Imagining his father's face cut open by his hand made the prospect all the more appealing.
The two squared up once more, each looking for an opening in the other's defense. They jumped forward simultaneously, daggers clashing in the firelight. The band cheered at the spectacle, all except Owan's parents. They simply sat in silence and watched their son at work. They had trained him well, but he needed to be tempered. He was brittle and strong, but he was still naive and that could cost him his life.
The two continued to trade blows, each time slamming their blades against one another and lighting the night with sparks. The boy landed a blow on Owan's shoulder, cutting through the skin and causing blood to spray out through the firelight. Owan screamed and slammed his left fist into his opponent's stomach. The youth doubled over in pain, but before Owan could jam his dagger into the base of his skull he recovered and jumped away.
All the while The Bard picked at his lute and watched the combat with impassive eyes. The sound was maddening in Owan's ears, and he charged forward, trying again to bull the youth over and pin him to the ground. Then he could go about his butcher's work with relative ease. The youth sidestepped again and Owan received another long cut on his back. He could feel the new blood mixing with the old and knew that he'd have to end the fight soon. If he didn't, he'd bleed out and end his short life on the forest floor. He turned to face his opponent again, and the two rushed forward to battle. In the back of his mind, Owain recalled something The Bard had told him about sacrifice and pain. It was a lesson that hadn't made much sense until that very moment.
The boy struck hard and fast, swinging his dagger in a dangerous arc that would leave it jutting from Owan's throat. Knowing that his lfie was in danger, that there was no way he could block the blow with his own dagger, Owan took his father's lesson to heart. He reached up with his left hand and caught the dagger, howling as he felt his pinky finger leave his hand. The blade dug into his palm, and blackness threatened to overwhelm him. The pain was immense, but Owan fought through it. The rage caused his heart to pound and gave him the strength to do what needed done. He pulled with his mangled left hand, drawing the boy close, and plunged his dagger deep into his chest.
The boy shuddered and leaned his head forward, resting it on Owan's shoulders. He opened his mouth and a gout of blood poured down Owan's bare arms, mixing with his own. Owan pressed his mouth against the boy's ear and whispered something, before pulling the dagger out of his chest and jamming it in a second time. The band cheered, but Owan heard nothing. He was lost in thought, standing with his mangled hand still wrapped around his opponent's blade, and the boy dying on his shoulder. He could taste blood in his mouth and feel as the life left his opponent's body. All the pain was coming back now. His hand screamed and his back roared, and through it all his father watched, with a pleased grin plastered on his face.
Finally, he released his grip on the pair of daggers and stepped back. The boy fell forward and Owan fell shortly afterward. He was exhausted, physically and mentally, and when the darkness called for him to sleep he answered.
