Lust for battle ate at his soul. The sorrow of past defeat weighed down his heart. Wet clothes clung to his body. Lightning ripped across the sky. Rain rushed down from the dark clouds that loomed overhead. Water pooled in the mud on the training grounds.
Bryvan Bacach stood there. He held a dull training sword in his left hand. Dull metal braces protected his forearms. Leather gloves covered his hands. The fingers of the glove on his left hand were all firm, his fingers fitting in perfectly as they wrapped around the sword hilt. The thumb and two fingers on his right hand hung limp beneath the rain. It was his curse.
Another man stood across the training ground. He held his sword with confidence in his right hand. The rain splashed off his black, broad brimmed hat. The water from his hat fell unto the shining golden badge on his chest. The wind pulled at the base of his black, soaked cloak.
Two other men stood outside the training ground, leaning on the fence. One, his beard long and white, spoke. “It’s his third time.”
“A pity,” Answered the other. He had small eyes and a carefully trimmed mustache.
“You don’t think he will win?”
“His last two times were terrible failures. It is only his position that allowed him to live past eighteen. Failing at the age of sixteen was bad enough.”
“The chief doesn’t show favoritism. Not even towards his son.”
“Well,” the mustached man said, pounding his chest, “If I were chief, he would have been killed after failing the first test. And I have made sure he dies today because he will fail. He is crippled and weak, unworthy of life.”
“If you were chief, Dratal, all the children would be dead and the clan full of old men.”
Dratal scowled at the old man, but said nothing. He returned his attention to Bryvan, staring at him.
This time Bryvan would not lose. He could not. He knew his life depended on victory.
“Are you ready, young Bacach?” The man asked.
“Aye,” Bryvan answered, twisting his sword into a backhanded position. He spread his feet, taking on a stance all his own. His people taught very specific fighting forms, but they were all for the right hand. He had invented his own form in the three years since his last test.
A vague feeling of fear tickled Bryvan’s spine as his tester approached him. He watched the rain run down his enemy’s blade. The dark eyes under the black hat rested on either side of the sword. Lightning burst into the forest nearby. Splinters flew as the lightning cut a gash down the side of a tree. Flame ripped out from the gash. With a crash equaling thunder, it fell to the forest floor.
Bryvan’s opponent charged. Sword upraised, he slid through the mud.
Standing perfectly still, Bryvan waited. His left hand tingled. Timing, he had to wait for just the right moment. The enemy’s blade rushed down. Bryvan countered it, sliding his right foot back, and spinning on his left. He stabbed at his foe’s side and missed. Terror seized him. He had made a mistake.
His enemy jumped, spun, and renewed the assault. Bryvan countered and stepped back. The eyes beneath the black hate burned with fury, measured, precise fury. Bryvan felt pain in his side. He placed his crippled hand against the wound. Blood stained his glove.
The ring of metal on metal drowned out the roar of the thunder overhead. Bryvan’s ears rang as he desperately fought for survival. The eyes, he stared into them. Lust rose in him. It was the lust for victory. He would not lose. Blocking an attack over his head, Bryvan spun, back-stepped, locked his sword hilt to hilt with his foe’s, and then head-butted the man.
The hat fell off, sinking halfway into the mud. Bryvan glanced at the black combed hair of his opponent. He noticed the small scar running across the forehead from eyebrow to dark eyebrow. He paused in shock of recognition for a moment too long. His opponent recovered and threw him into the mud. Bryvan’s sword twirled through the air and sank into the mud, hilt up.
“You are a disgrace.” The man said.
Bryvan stared up into the man’s face, eyes on the scar. “No, Father, you have fallen.”
The man guided his sword point to rest on Bryvan’s throat.
“Can you do it, Father?” Blood trickled down Bryvan’s throat as the sword pricked it. The blood mingled with the mud. Bryvan wondered how soon it would be before more of his blood turned the mud a copper color.
“No,” Bryvan’s father said. He threw his sword away. “I cannot.”
Bryvan grabbed his father’s outstretched hand and began to haul himself from the mud when a sword cleaved his father’s flesh. Bryvan screamed in rage as he fell back into the mud. With wide eyes he watched as Dratal cut his father down.
“And now you die, cripple.” Dratal turned toward Bryvan, sword upraised.
Bryvan rolled to the side, covering himself completely in the mud, as Dratal’s sword came down. It cut into the mud and then struck a rock. Bryvan kicked Dratal’s legs out from under him. The man fell into the mud with a roar.
Scrambling to his feet, Bryvan grabbed his sword. He jumped through the air and brought the sword down at Dratal’s back. The man jerked and the sword, dull as a round stone, only left a long bruise along his side.
Dratal swung at Bryvan’s head. Ducking, Bryvan swung his sword against Dratal’s ribs. Several cracking sounds broke the calming air. The storm was passing, but Dratal still stood. And the storm was in his eyes. It was a storm of hate.
“I will kill you, cripple.”
“Catch me first.” Bryvan answered. He fell to one knee and backhanded his sword into the side of Dratal’s knee. The man fell once more, clutching his shattered kneecap.
“Just kill me now.”
“No.” Bryvan looked down at Dratal. He had won the test. But his victory was sour. “You can live with your shame.”
“I killed your father!” Dratal shouted. He winced and rolled in the mud as pain shot through his body.
“I know.” Bryvan’s voice possessed a frightening edge. “But I am not going to judge your rash actions.”
Bryvan walked away, casting a glance at the old man. The old man nodded solemnly, a hinting smile of delight on his face as he watched his chief walk off into the woods. It would be six years before the old man saw him again.