Young Writers Society

Parry, cut, thrust. Duck, parry, slash. Jump, thrust, block. Razyck’s sword flew through the air. He blocked each swing of his foe’s blade. He jumped over lower attacks and ducked under the high ones. He made several attempts to strike his enemy, but each were blocked. Sweat poured into his eyes. His hands gripped the hilt tight. Razyck swung the heavy sword, putting as much force behind each blow as he could.

Parry, cut, duck. Thrust, block, cut. His breath came in heavy gasps. He was getting tired. Exhaustion wasn’t an option. Exhaustion made you slow, and slow reflexes made you an easier target. His arms were heavy from the weight of the sword. It was heavier than any other sword. Razyck tried another thrust but his enemy blocked it. He jumped too late over a low attack and stumbled. Before he could right himself he was struck, hard, in the back. He tumbled face-first to the ground.

Razyck rolled over onto his back and glared up at the wooden dummy used for practice by the trainees. He was training to be a blademaster. They were esteemed throughout the realm, considered to be the highest authority on combat. The greatest were direct consultants to the king. Lying in the dust of the compound’s training room floor Razyck ran a hand through his unruly curls, the color of dark mahogany. He was close to tears. This had been the fifth time he’d been knocked down by the dummy. He hadn’t even put a nick on his wooden foe, but his foe sure had put a few on him. Razyck had the bruises to prove it, and now he had a brand new one forming on his back.

He heard a soft knock on the door frame. Razyck tilted his head back to see who was there. It was Aundren, his only true friend out of all the other trainees. He was the only one who didn’t laugh at Razyck. Aundren appeared to be hanging from the ceiling, but Razyck didn’t make a move to correct his position on the floor. He was too tired.

Aundren looked him up and down. “You’ve been at this for hours,” he said simply.

Razyck returned his gaze to the ceiling, “I know. And?”

“And it’s almost time for dinner. I think you’ve practiced enough for today. I don’t think another hour will make you any better.”

He sighed, resigned, “I know.”

Aundren walked up to him and held out a hand to help him up. “Come on,” he said.

He shook his head, “No. You go ahead. I’ll see you later.”

Aundren looked at him with concern. “Ok. See you later.”

He left Razyck alone with his thoughts. He absently rubbed his arm, trying to dissipate the soreness. The wooden practice swords were heavier than the steel ones to build up strength in the arms. It was working at a painfully slow pace for Razyck.

He sighed again. He didn’t know if he could take it anymore. The grueling hours of training, the lessons on tactics and strategy, and the constant pressure of living up to his father’s legacy. His father was the greatest blademaster in a century. He had gone to the compound for training before him. He had been so proficient that he had graduated two years before his other trainees. He was the youngest to go into combat against the bordering nations. Soon he had risen in rank until Razyck’s father was personal consultant to the emperor. He had been killed a few months earlier by an assassin’s arrow.

Razyck hadn’t known his father very well. They rarely spent time together because of his duties. When he had died Razyck had found himself thrust into the life of the training compound. It had apparently been his father’s last wish. Since he had been there he had had to deal with the masters and his peers constantly holding him to the standards of his father. Razyck had tried to live up to them but no matter what he did he couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough, smart enough, fast enough, or agile enough. Razyck shut his eyes tight. He was going to quit. He wouldn’t let Aundren talk him out of it. He couldn’t take it anymore.

He had resolved to go to the Commander’s office and announce his withdrawal when he heard a familiar laugh at the door. It was a laugh he was in no mood to hear.

“Well, well,” Dragus snickered. “Has Razyck, son of the great Fenrien, lost once again to the wooden dummy, the foe to end all foes?”

“Go away Dragus,” Razyck said, rising slowly to his feet. He wouldn’t let Dragus see him on the floor defeated.

“Finally decided to give up?” he asked.

“That’s none of your concern.” Razyck placed his sword back on the worn rack next to the others.

“Oh so you did,” he could feel Dragus’ smile on his back, “I knew you wouldn’t last.”

Razyck did his best to ignore Dragus’ comments. He didn’t want to get into a fight at the moment. “Leave me alone, Dragus,” he said, an edge in his voice. But he didn’t. Dragus said the one thing he knew would cause Razyck’s blood to boil.

“You’ll never be your father. You’re not good enough. To be honest I don’t understand what was so great about him anyway. He wasn’t much of a blademaster if he was killed by an arrow.”

Razyck whirled around, fists clenched, to face Dragus’ sneer. “Don’t talk about my father like that,” he growled in a low, menacing voice.

“What are you going to do to stop me?” he asked, tauntingly.

Razyck spun around, whipped the wooden sword off the rack, and held it point-first towards Dragus. He laughed, “Oh really? You can’t even handle that thing, let alone face me with it. Besides practice swords are beneath me. To fight me you’d have to use real steel.”

A little voice in his head warned Razyck to stop and think. Fighting with actual swords without a master present was strictly against the rules, there were serious punishments for those who violated it. The little voice screamed at him but was drowned out by his rage toward Dragus and the lack of honor and respect he was showing to his father. Razyck pulled out the special red rag tied to his belt and threw it to the floor. The red rag was the official symbol of a challenge among blademasters. If someone were to refuse one they would be viewed as weak and cowardly. Razyck knew Dragus would never back down.

“I hereby challenge Dragus of Halen to a duel. The weapon: steel swords. The duel will end when first blood is drawn,” Razyck said, trying to look as dignified as possible.

“Good. I was hoping you’d fight me. This shouldn’t take too long,” Dragus walked over to the rack and grabbed a sword. He twirled it in his hand deftly and confidently. Razyck replaced his practice sword and took up one of the lighter, steel swords. Its blade was nicked but the balance was good. The grip fit nicely into his hand.

The two trainees backed away from each other, neither taking their eyes from the other. Razyck bowed to Dragus as was traditional and respectful but Dragus made no move to bow in return. He just sneered. “Let’s get this over with. I’m hungry,” he said and came after him.

Razyck lifted his sword to block his first cut. Steel clashed and the ring echoed throughout the small stone room. Dragus swung quickly trying for another but Razyck parried the blow. He continued to come at him. Razyck desperately tried to stay ahead of each attack. He was so fast. Razyck didn’t get the chance to even try an offensive move, he was constantly defending his body from the blade.

Dragus made sweeping arcs with his sword. The scuffling of their feet kicked up a cloud of dust around them, clogging the air. It got in Razyck’s eyes and nose. He tried to remember his training, the months of vigourous lessons. He couldn’t keep up. Already he was starting to slow. And finally, with one long sweeping arc of his sword, Dragus delivered a cut to Razyck’s exposed chest. A thin line of blood began to trickle down his skin and stain his clothes. The duel was over. Dragus had won.

He laughed as Razyck fell to his knees, palms flat on the cold stone, his sword sliding away. His head hung low. Above him he could hear Dragus placing his back on the rack. Before Dragus left the room he said, “Good thing you’re quitting. You wouldn’t last another day. Especially now. You’ll never live this down, Son of Fenrien.”

Tears welled in Razyck’s eyes. He felt suddenly very alone. His chest hurt from the cut. It wasn’t more than a scratch but it burned, it burned deeper than the eye could see. What would his father say if he could see him now? Would he be disappointed in him? His tears fell from his cheeks, turning some of the dust to little circles of mud. Razyck didn’t want his father to be disappointed in him.

As he knelt there, a realization came to him. His father had been a man of honor, of determination. Never once had he ever given up, not once. No matter the circumstance his father had tried his hardest. The outcome might not have always been easy to attain, or even in his favor, but he at least tried. His father’s last wish was for Razyck to become a blademaster. Razyck couldn’t deny his father that.

He rose tiredly to his feet. He wiped away the tears leaving smears of dust on his cheeks that stood out against his pale skin. Razyck picked up a wooden sword, feeling its familiar weight in his hand. He turned to face the wooden dummy. Razyck would be his father. He wouldn’t give up, no matter what, no matter the circumstance. He began to practice once again.

Cut, block, thrust. Parry, slash, duck. Block, jump, cut.