Two swords thudded against each other heavily, bouncing away again. The fight appeared to be ridiculously mismatched: one of the warriors was but eight.
“You were taught well.” The man smiled wryly.
The boy looked around at the bare clearing, trying to catch his breath. Thick holly bushes all the way around, except for a small break.
“I learned from the best.” He dodged over to the opening in the hedge.
“Thank you,” the older man said, nimbly blocking the path.
But the lad whipped around him, slipping a light tap with his sword between the man’s guard.
The swords were the only thing about the fight that was equal, each of the four (both combatants used two) being about four feet long, and curving as beautifully as the Moslem swords that would oppose the Norse Crusade just a few years later.
“What say we break? You did well.” The older man said, leaning his two wooden swords against a boulder in the shape of a hilt.
“I was happy to come here with you, father.” The boy beamed.
“You are very good for your age. Calm lad. Lightning fast, too. Never seen someone faster or more...” he stumbled over the right word, “graceful.”
“Thank you,” the boy said, beaming again at the compliment.
The father breathed in deeply. “I may have to leave you.” The old man sighed. “When the Duke captured your mother, he made his final move. He is ready for me. It’s planned.”
The boy’s gladness shredded into ribbons. He remembered the pains of just two days ago.
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The raiders, dressed in their blood-burgundy cloaks, broke into the house. His father just left to go hunting. He, left alone to defend the family, had grabbed the only weapon there-a length of chain and a dagger-and ran to defend the home.
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The boy fingered the scars on his chest, face, and arms. His bravery had availed them little.
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“Just take her!” The leader cried, pointing at the boy’s mother. “That’s all the Duke wants.” He turned to the young boy. “What’s your name, snot?” He kicked him with his booted foot.
“Skye.” The boy looked straight up into his eyes, calm and determined, despite blood on his arm and face. “My first name matters not. A knight’s history is the most important thing about him. I am Skye.”
The raider sneered and drew his sword. Skye leapt up clutching a chair.
The man behind the raider seized Skye’s mother.
“Help!” She screamed, trying to beat him with a chunk of firewood.
Skye leapt forward, slamming into the raider’s stomach, but he bounced off the armor, and again crunched into the wall.
The raider smashed the pommel of his sword into the boy’s head, careful to make sure the boy was conscious to feel the throbbing ache.
“Teach you, eh?” He kicked the near helpless boy’s body, and turned around.
“Careful, you lout!” The soldier cried, as the other man was roughing up on Skye’s mother. “The Duke wants her in pristine condition!”
“Eh, what about them, then?” the other raider pointed at two younger boys, about six and four. “I always wanted a slave.”
“Leave our mother alone!” The older one, Gervaise, managed to say. “Go away.”
The head raider sneered. “Go away? Why?” He looked at them closely. “And what’s behind that quilt? Why are you standing in front of it?”
He ripped down the makeshift door of the hovel, and threw it to the dirt. Another poor woman, sickly and thin, lay on a roughly hewn cot.
“And who’s this?” He turned to the other man. “Just get out the lady. I’ll be there in a bit.” The raider grabbed Gervaise’s head, and slammed it against a wall. “I know about you and your younger siblings. Your other sister and your two baby brothers. But who’s this?”
“I won’t tell.” Gervaise looked at his older brother, ‘Skye.’ His head was bleeding, and the splinters of a smashed table lay over him.
“I’ll make you! Maybe this is the lady the Duke wants.”
“What is it all about?” begged Gervaise, lying limply against the wall with his hand to his bloody mouth.
“Never you mind,” the raider kicked the six year old boy away. He strode across the room, to another poorly woven blanket, separating a room.
He walked in, ripping the quilt in half.
“Go away!” a girl, the same age as Skye, said, holding an old, rusty sword. Behind her lay two rough cradles.
“Just tell me who the lady is. My orders mean I’m forced to leave you alone. But that doesn’t mean I have to leave you totally without pain.” He grinned down at the cradles. “Who’s the lady in the next room?”
“She’s…our ill aunt,” returned the girl at last.
“Heh. No concern of ours, then. G’bye.” he turned, grabbed a hatchet, and hacked at the center post of the meager hut. It snapped, and the roof collapsed in a heap of hay and rotting wood.
Skye lifted his head. The two men stood outside, tying his mother to a horse. He feebly clutched a pole, and limped towards them. Inner fire blazing, the fight was still strong. Ignoring the pain, he whipped up the pole, and slammed it down on one of the men. The man fell to the ground, but in a moment was back up again.
“You’re getting very annoying, boy.”
“I’m defending my family…since my father…is away.” He stood up, and prepared to swing the pole again. The man clenched his mailed fist, and gave a straight punch to the boy’s forehead. Skye sank to the ground, the mail cutting into his flesh.
“I think we got her now,” said the raider. “Let’s go.”
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“Are we going to save Mother?” asked Skye.
“I’m going to,” said the older man. “I want you to stay with your siblings. Keep them safe. The Duke will want them. I’m going to go and fight him. Something must be done. While I’m gone, you’re going to be the man of the hut. I want you to act like a father.”
“Yes, sir.” The son said, as strongly as he could manage.
“Right.” The father smiled widely. “I’m coming back. I promise.”
Skye nodded. His father started to walk out of the clearing.
“Aren’t you going to want the family swords, father?” The boy asked.
“I’m going to leave them with you, just like my family. Protect your siblings. Keep them safe. The Duke will want them.” The boy nodded, knowing full well what that meant.
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His father wasn’t coming back.
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