The Sword of Light - Chapter 6

Ferin stood opposite his father on the field of battle, gripping sword and shield with white-knuckles hands. The winds were fair so they fought in the open. The sun was bright so they fought in the shade. The grass was soft, so they fought without shoes or shirts. Nothing could save them from each other’s blades but their own skills. If one was to die that day, it would be of their own merit.

Friends and family crowded around them, pleading for reason where there could be none.

Ceridwyn was wringing her hands, fighting back tears. Trembling. Afraid. Rowan stood beside her, offering what support he could with a steady hand on her shoulder. Finbarr, Volstan, and Hjorin stood to their left, equal part disquiet and excitement. Faolan and Saoirse stood to their right, the anger radiating from them both was palpable in the air.

“This is foolishness,” Faolan murmured, and yet he couldn’t bear to take his eyes off his brother and father. They had been at odds for as long as Faolan could rememberalways squabbling, bickering, but this was something beyond the petty differences they had quarrelled over before. Faolan wanted to walk away. He didn’t want to support this madness, and yet he knew he could not move. He knew he had to bear witness to whatever was about to happen.

Other from the tath were gathered around to form a wide circle around the two men. They watched with amusement as father and son squared off. Few realized the gravity of the situation, and even fewer cared. They had come only to have their bloodlust satisfied.

Feilim regarded Ferin through narrow, disapproving eyes. An unexpected sense of nostalgia brushed the edges of his thoughts, but he could not think of where it had come from.

No, he thought as he met Ferin’s gaze. I do know. His eyesthey’re just like they were on that day.

The time had come to test the boythe tool Feilim had moulded from the mewling remnants of his dead wife. Ferin stood across from his father in the training yards. Wooden swords had been forsaken for live iron. Feilim could not help but grimace at the unworthy way Ferin held his sword. At ten years-old the boy was the size of a child two years his senior and twice and strong, and yet he couldn’t even grip a real sword properlythe weight was awkward and untested in his hands.

Feilim would change that.

For years he had put time into only one thing where this boy was concernedmoulding him into a weapon, a tool that would serve only one master: Feilim. It was all the boy was good for, all that made him deserving of Feilim’s attention.

Faolan watched on anxiously from between Grandmother and Birg as the fight begun. That one, at least, had been a worthy successor. There was little to do in the way of moulding Faolan. Such a dutiful son. Not like the wild thing before him. Undeserving. Unnecessary. He was an echo of Feilim’s furya reflection of all Feilim had failed to do. Even if he wanted to love the boy, he could not. He was too like his father.

Ferin rushed at Feilim with a roar. Too slow. Feilim batted him aside with his shield as though he were an annoying insect. Ferin fell, dropping his sword to avoid impaling himself on the blade, and releasing a cry of pain and alarm as the wind was driven from his lungs.

“Get up,” Feilim demanded of him, and Ferin obeyed. He recovered his sword and came at his father again, trying to flank him. Feilim made to block the blow, but Ferin feigned to the side and struck his Feilim across the back. The blow was shallowthe timid strike of a child.

“No!” Feilim roared, rounding on Ferin and batting him to the side with his shield once more. A gash opened along the boy’s hairline, leaking crimson down the left side of his face. “You must not hesitate, boy! If your opponent leaves you an opening, you must exploit his weakness to the hilt!”

“I don’t want to hurt you, Da” Ferin whined as he got to his feet, searching for his sword through a haze of blood. A flash a rage turned Feilim’s blood to fire. “Insolent brat!” he heard himself shout before the words had finished forming in his mind. He kicked out, catching

Ferin in the chest and sending the boy spiralling to the ground. “As though someone like you could hope to hurt someone like me.”

Ferin gave a sputtering cough, breathless. “Someone like you” Ferin echoed in a strange voice. Feilim advanced, but the next thing he knew Ferin was on his feet again, springing forward, leading with his blade. Feilim hardly had time to turn the blade aside before it would have sunk into his exposed stomach. He’d been a fool to drop his guard so easily, even

against a child such as this. Ferin roared hoarsely as he came at Feilim with everything he had. His swings were wild, erratic, unpredictable. Even if there was no structure to them, it was all Feilim could do to fend him off. Even if the blows were too weak to do much, the ferocity of the child set Feilim on his heels, retreating.

He laughed. A feeling almost like pride began working its way through Feilim’s blood, tempering the fire there. “Yes,” he cried, elated. “That’s it, boy! That’s it! Keep it up! This is why you’re here!”

There is a fury belonging only to children who have been untampered by the experience of maturity, a fury that goes beyond what adults are capable off. It is a raw, horrible emotion that they feel with their whole bodiesa fury born of helplessness, of navet, of pure

untainted rage. It was with such a fury that Ferin cried out as he came at Feilim and sunk his blade deep into the upper thigh of his father. Feilim cried out in pain and surprise, instinctively batting Ferin aside with his shield. The boy lost his grip on both his sword and shield, careening through the air. He hit the ground, hard, and rolled to a stop some feet away. Feilim watched him, bleeding, his leg immobilized by the iron in his thigh. He was equal parts anger and

pride. The boy had struck him and struck him well, just as Feilim had told him to. He’d followed his word.

“You’re ready,” Feilim chuckled darkly.

Birg raised a hand to call off the match as Faolan rushed forward to help Ferin up. Ferin waved him off, shaking as he fought his way to his feet with limbs too heavy with pain to move. Blood ran from his brow, his nose, his mouth, and a series of cuts and scrapes along his

forearms. “You” he growled like a beast. He lifted his gaze to meet Feilim’s, the fire of indignation, of defiance burning brightly in his amber eyes. Feilim’s smile faded from his face, twisting into a grimace as Ferin brandished a fist at him. “Someone like youhas no place saying those things,” he said.

“What?” Feilim snarled. “How dare you? I am your Chieftain and Lord”

“You’re nothing to me!” Ferin interrupted him with a hoarse cry, voice cracking with youth and emotion. “I reject you. Do you understand?” he spat the word as though it sullied his mouth to speak it. “I reject you and everything you stand for. You’re notyou’re not going to use me anymore. You’re not going to hurt me anymore. I’m not your tool, or your dog!”

“You dare!” Feilim gasped, his blood simmering at the boy’s insolence. “I made you! You’re mine to do with as I please! You think this fight proves you can best me? Bah! Someone like you”

“Shut up!” Ferin screamed. “Stop saying that! One day, I’ll surpass you on my own! Do you hear me? I’ll surpass you!”

Feilim was speechless. Not for the force of any rambling coming from the child as he trembled and bled. Not for any dread at the boy’s promise. He was struck dumb by the hate and fire in Ferin’s eyesat the utter and complete abhoration and loathing to be found there. It was a flame born of defiance that burned too bright to extinguish. If Feilim had not known better, he would have thought that those amber eyes were glowing just then.

Yes, Feilim thought as he moved into a readied stance, his eyes are burning just like back then. Time to put them out.

Birg, the druidess of Loch Coill had been summoned as arbiter. She stood between the two men now, speaking blessings upon them both. Neither Ferin nor Feilim paid her any heed. They glowered at each other, their eyes ablaze with hatred and pride. When the druidess had finished, she moved to stand beside Grandmother, who sat on a stool someone had brought for her, ready to offer aid where aid was needed. The two venerable women exchanged a knowing, if grave, look.

“Begin,” Birg’s raspy voice called.

Ferin wasted no time. He lunged forward on his uninjured leg and came in high, trying to take advantage of his superior height and reach. It was to no avail. Feilim brought up his shield to block the swing, and Ferin’s sword glanced off the metal and wood. He changed direction, hoping to catch Feilim off guard. His sword went back, slashing horizontally, but Feilim was ready and blocked the blow.

Bearing his teeth in a growl, Ferin drew back, shifting his weight and lunging forward again, leading with the point of his sword, seeking to slip between Feilim’s defences, but Feilim turned Ferin’s sword away with his own, and letting Ferin’s momentum drive him forward and off balance. Feilim gave a holler of victory and changed the direction of his blade to cut at Ferin’s abdomen. Ferin managed to block the blow with his sword, but only just.

He shifted his weight as Feilim pushed him back, and came back at the older man with another overhead swing. He was enraged, erratic, dizzy from drink and weak from his injuriesbut he would not yield. He couldn’t. He pride would not allow it.

Feilim blocked Ferin’s blade with his shield and returned with an overhead swing of his own. His reach was not that of Ferin’s, but there was strength behind the blow that staged Ferin backwards under the protection of his shield.

He winced as a spasm of pain arched up his injured lag. He hopped backwards on his other leg, trying to reorient himself. Feilim saw Ferin falter, but rather than rush forward and take advantage of him, he stayed back and raised his guard.

“I can’t watch this,” Ceridwyn said, turning her face into Rowan’s shoulder.

Father and son circled each other, guards raised, sizing the other up as they looked for an opportunity. Feilim dodged in low, sweeping his blade at Ferin’s leg. Lame as he was, Ferin’s couldn’t get away from his father’s sword in time, and had to bring his shield down to block the blow. The force of the strike sent him reeling backwards and off balance. Ferin spun on his good leg, using his momentum to turn and bash his shield into Feilim’s knocking his father back several paces.

Roaring, Ferin went on the offensive. He rammed his shield into Feilim’s again and brought his sword down in a fierce swing. He alternated between sword and shield, hammering Feilim back, back, back. Ferin had reach and strength to spare, but Feilim was sturdy, experienced. He’d fought and won over a hundred fights like this. He widened his stance, lowering his centre of gravity so he could take all Ferin had and more.

Ferin could not break him.

He swung his sword, the blade catching the rim of Feilim’s shield and shattering. Gasps and murmurs moved through the crowd as Ferin stared, dumbfounded at his broken blade. Feilim did not hesitate. He moved, slamming his shield into Ferin’s, shattering the wood. Ferin went flying, falling onto his back with a thud that drove the wind from his lungs. He gasped, helpless, body spasming in pain.

Feilim stood over his son, sword poised to strike. Ferin looked up at his father, vision blurring in and out. “Do it, then,” he snarled.

Feilim raised his sword.

Ceridwyn screamed.

Feilim’s sword bit deep into the Earth beside Ferin’s head, missing his flesh completely. Ferin stared up, wide-eyed at his father. Feilim’s face was set in a hard, expressionless mask and he leaned over his son.

“Let this be a lesson to you, boy,” he said gravely.

He straightened, leaving his sword and son where they lay. The crowd parted for him as he strode towards Hallame, his head held high and eyes forward as though there was no one and nothing worthy of his attention at that moment.

Ferin’s friends were on him in a moment, helping him to his feet and offering him words of encouragement and condolences. Ceridwyn was crying silent tears. Faolan was red-faced but forced himself to speak in pleasant tones. Saoirse and Rowan were tight-lipped and brooding.

Ferin did not trust himself to speak as they ushered him away.

Twilight hung over Loch Coill, casting it in shadows of purple and grey. A few brave stars glinted in the darkening sky as the sun and moon shifted the balance of the heavens. The cool night winds caught the coiled mass of Ferin’s auburn hair, making it dance like a tail of fire behind him. He sat cross-legged in the centre of the practice arena where the warriors trained younglings and practiced their strength against one another. The shattered remnants of his sword and shield lay before him. He stared down at the hilt of what was once his sword, cradled in his sword hand, and frowned.

A strange emptiness filled him, leaving him hollow. Alone.

“I thought I’d find you here,” said a familiar voice behind him.

“And so you have,” Ferin said dully. He did not need to look to know that it was Rowan who stood beside him. His bond-brother sat beside him in the grass, his long, lanky legs stretched before him and crossed at the ankles. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Ferin did not look away from the hilt in his hand.

“I am no longer a warrior,” he said at length, his voice dark and brooding. “My spear is gone. My sword is shattered. My shield is broken. My Da” Ferin’s voice faltered as a wave of emotion threatened to overtake him. He wanted to say that his father had dishonoured himstripped him of the only thing that Ferin had to be proud of, but he could not speak the words.

Ferin had dishonoured himself that day. Even if Feilim had been wrong, even if he had been cruel, it was Ferin who had opposed him and allowed this to happen.

Rowan hesitated, as though licking his lips, as spoke. “Is it a sword and shield that makes a man a warrior?” he asked.

Ferin’s mouth became a hard line.

“I have both,” Rowan went on almost nonchalantly, “but I don’t know how to use them. Put a bow in my hands, and I can fell any man or beast within a hundred feet, but the bow is not what makes me a hunter. I do that. Just as you make yourself a warrior.”

Ferin said nothing. Though he understood the wisdom in his bond-brother’s words, it was a difficult truth to accept when the tools of his passion lay broken before him. “I know,” he said at last. He spoke in a quiet, small voice that seemed almost impossible for a man of his size. “It’s just” he trailed away, knowing his words would sound petulant and needy.

Rowan did not try to draw an explanation from him. Instead, he placed a silent hand on Ferin’s shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. There was nothing more that need be said.

They sat like that for a time, Ferin frowning at the hilt in his hand until Rowan’s words could sink in past the feelings of remorse, anger, emptiness, and a strange loneliness, to find a space to settle and grow. Bit by bit, the words grew and filled him, until at last Ferin set down the hilt next to the fragments of iron that had once been his sword and released a long, slow breath.

He blinked past silent tears he hadn’t realized he’d been crying, sniffled, and wiped his eyes. He nodded to Rowan without looking at him. Rowan gave Ferin’s shoulder one last squeeze, two quick pats, and got to his feet.

“Come, now,” he said, hands on his hips. “I have a surprise for you.”