Rory dragged himself out into the open field, the Circle of Swords as it was called, though it more accurately resembled a gigantic oval of grassless dirt to the right of the Red Castle, near the royal stables. Across the field, a couple dozen large, muscular men rallied with one other, raising swords, axes, maces, spears, and even clenched, bloodied fists in the air like flag-bearers. Old and young alike were trembling with excitement and vigor, and Rory shuddered at the sight of their sun-burned bulk, noticing, through the glint of steel in the sun, a tinge of bloodlust in their eyes, despite being comrades and brothers.
He stood a little ways off, in horrified observation. His eyes searched silently for his sparring master, hoping not to find him, until he caught sight of the grimacing head and bulky, broad shoulders, swinging a thick sword—Rory sharply remembered the weapon’s name; “Brute”, as if of all elegant titles, a troll’s choice proved best—at the ribs of a sparsely-moustached youth a little ways off. Sunlight glistened on their brows like diamonds.
The young man parried a descending blow from Brute, the bulky sword of his master, but the weapon was so superior in size and weight, and it’s weilder so greater in strength, that he could no longer pull his own blade from beneath it. The two swords remained locked in that position, the youth’s wrists burning with pain to preserve the pose and not have his blade knocked from his grip. His brows were scrunched fiercely, his biceps shaking, but his master stood firm and still, pushing down with the advantage of gravity, and showing no sign of fatigue or weakness.
Then, in a sudden, unexpected moment, the youth’s sword shattered at the middle. Its owner stumbled backwards in shock.
“Never treat your sword as you would a sorry animal, Selmar. If you cannot trust your blade to be the greatest of all blades, then do not wear your heart on its tip and expect it to perform miracles.”
He bent forward and picked the pieces of his trainee’s weapon from the ground, holding them out on his palm. “You see this?”
The young man nodded.
“No. No, you don’t. All you see is a piece of broken steel. Look at them.—look closer. These are the bleeding fragments of your arm, son.”
Selmar blinked, and reflexively clenched his sword-hand to his side.
“If your sword shatters, then you, not your opponent, have killed yourself. The shame of suicide will linger on your brow even if you live. Now go. This lesson is over.”
Selmar bowed and departed. His mentor motioned to a light-haired boy on sidelines of the fighting, who was handing a heavy sack of chainmail to a servant.
“Take these to your master, boy. God knows, I have no knowledge, but perhaps a smithy might make use of a broken sword.”
The boy bowed, taking the fragments and bending to gather what remained on the ground.
Rory watched from a little ways off, and as the prior pupil’s lesson came to a close, he slunk to the side, wishing in vane not to be seen or noticed.
He watched his teacher turn his head from one side to the other, perhaps looking for him, but never once looking in his direction. For a split second, Rory thought this was strange. But the thought was severed abruptly.
Rory yelped and jumped back as a sword came swishing towards his face.
It clattered at his feet loudly, perhaps too loudly. Rory felt all eyes turn to stare at him in silent laughter, but when he looked at the sparring fighters, saw that this was untrue, as they were all preoccupied with their own little war.
“Excellent reflexes, if I do say so myself.” came the mocking voice of his teacher, Tauror mindless whether others were within earshot, and speaking boisterously. He sauntered over, his thick, large sword pointing to Rory’s flat chest.
