The fire had burned low to nothing but embers as Brakkit finished the story, but somehow Issel didn’t feel cold.
“In your story, the boy named Marwynn…” Issel started, thinking of the towering man earlier.
“I know what you’re going to ask, and I don’t have the answer for you.” Brakkit shook his head, rising to his feet. “As you know, it’s a common Brykian name, it could just be a coincidence.” He turned to the boy. “However, I will say that it was him that I first heard the story from.”
“Hey Brakkit, why did you tell me all thus?” Issel asked as the Gravechaser turned again to leave.
He paused. “I just wanted you to understand the choice you stand to make. You have two paths before you, just like Philius and the rest did. Either option can be romanticized, but at the end of the day, it comes down to your decision, and nothing else. Make it wisely.” He nonchalantly strolled away into the gloom. “We plan to move camp at midday tomorrow. You have until then.”
*******
The noon sun beat heavily upon the Gravechasers as the last stragglers packed away their tents.
“Where are we headed next, Marwynn?” Brakkit asked, looking at their well-worn map. “Urbe’s branch are in the West Tysklands around Zvyorak last I heard, and Vantidaeo’s branch are headed South through Eiropa, probably in Althia or Viridia by now.
“I figured we’d head southwest towards the Alsium border.” He replied, stroking his beard. “it’s a bit early for our yearly pilgrimage, but Eldarth's lovely this time of year.”
“Southwest it is, then.” Brakkit nodded, passing the order on to the rest of the camp.
“Marwynn of the Gravechasers!” A shrill voice called out, drawing the attention of the assembled army. “I, Issel of Wyrdfast, challenge you for your services!”
Legs akimbo, holding a knife in front of him and trembling from head to foot, Issel stood his ground and awaited a response.
“Now that’s more like it!” Marwynn grinned toothlessly. “Make a ring, boyos!”
In a trice, an informal boundary was set up, marked by a worn length of rope, and lined on all sides by eager Gravechasers.
“Last chance to run, tyke.” Marwynn offered, gripping his broadsword.
“No retreat, no surrender.” Issel returned, bouncing on his feet in readiness.
“Well said.” Marwynn nodded.
“Fight!” Brakkit bellowed out, clanging a hammer against a shield like a bell.
Almost before the first strike of the hammer, Issel was off. Lunging inside Marwynn’s strike zone, the Gravechaser had no choice but to forgo his swing, releasing his sword with one hand and lashing out, catching the boy on the side of the face.
His ears ringing, Issel was flung to the edge of the circle as the Gravechaser regained his grip on his sword advancing.
“This ends it.” He growled, lifting his blade.
Issel moved on pure instinct. His face smarting, he dove between the man’s legs, plunging his knife into the man’s calf and dragging the blade viciously.
Marwynn growled in agony, while the crowed cheered. Issel gripped the dagger again, preparing for a second strike when one of Marwynn’s giant hands descended on him. Before he could pull the blade free, he felt himself lifted up by the scruff of his neck, feet kicking uselessly beneath him.
“Men!” Marwynn bellowed, nearly deafening the boy. “Leave your baggage and grab your weapons, we ride for Wyrdfast!”
Loud cheers rang all around, drowning out the sound of Brakkit hammering the shield, signalling the end of the fight.
“But…I don’t understand!” Issel blinked in shock. “I didn’t even kill you!”
“Kill me?” Marwynn guffawed throatily. “You hear that men? The little nipper was out for my head!”
General laughter ensued as the men prepared for battle, throwing down their packs and grabbing up their weapons and armour. A pair of younger Gravechasers ran to help Marwynn up as a third cleaned and bandaged his wound.
“The rules didn’t say anything about winning, Issel.” The Gravechaser explained. “It just said you have to fight. Did Philius, Brogan and the rest win?” The man shook his head. “No, but they had the courage to die trying, and that’s all we look for.”
Rising shakily to his feet, he held out his hand to Issel. “Now, are you ready to go fight for real?”
Issel grinned and gripped the man’s scarred and worn hand firmly in his.
“Ready!”
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