Without waiting for his friend's hand to fully drop, Littume lunged forward intending to end the duel quickly as he always did. They traded just a few quick blows, in those exchanges Boro learned everything he needed to win. Boro took a step and half spun to his left, avoiding a stab and followed it up with a quick slash using Plowing The Wheat to his exposed body. The young lord dropped his rapier and fell to the cobbled stone road. Boro's strike had left a shallow gash across Littume's finely embroidered shirt and chest. Blood slowly began to soak into the silk of the shirt, spreading over it, ruining it forever. It was the quickest duel Boro had ever been in.
So much for this Blade Master, Thought Boro, as he smiled internally.
Littume held his bleeding chest, wailing like an infant. His friends ran to him, one lifting him from the ground and carrying him off, making their way through the crowd and towards the center of the city, where the Lord's manor was. Two of his large companions, the largest two, stayed behind eyeing Boro, and his sword, with hate in their eyes.
"Yur gunna regret that, the Lord will hear about this and punish you" The larger of the two said. He made no move to attack Boro though, so Boro sheathed his blade.
"That was a fair duel, as anyone of these fine people can attest" Boro replied, arms spreading out to the people in the crowd. Those people, however, averted their eyes and began to leave the area. Boro had already sheathed his sword and was turning to go back in to the inn. However the two goons smiled menacingly at something Boro hadn't yet seen. When the crowd began to disperse Boro turned his head just slightly, and saw two guards ran up the street, halberds held out as if to run Boro through.
"You there, drop your blade to the ground or die!' said a woman's voice from behind her black helmet, two razor sharp horns protruding from the top. Boro sighed but unbuckled his sword and got to his knees.
As soon as his knees touched the ground, the other guard kicked Boro full in the face with his steel boots. He heard loud ringing in his ears, and a crunching sound coming from his nose; his head snapped backwards from the impact, hitting and bouncing off the ground. Both guards began beating on Boro while he was sprawled out on the road, kicking him wherever his arms were not blocking. He barely felt the blows, his mind preoccupied with making sure he didn't get his ribs, or the rest of his face, broken along with his nose. The beating lasted less time than Boro's duel with the young Lord of Helfa, but in those seconds he received ten times the injury he had caused to Littume. Barely conscious and unable to stand on his own, the two guards dragged Boro, with Littume's two friends following behind laughing, to the guards barracks where he was tossed into a cell.
Upon being thrown into the cell, Boro curled in on himself coughing and cursing himself for a fool for allowing himself to be provoked. His own pride had caused this more than Littume's. If he had just walked away none of this would have happened and he'd be eating that delicious smelling eggs and bacon. Instead he was in a cell, tasting the metallic flavor of his own blood. Covered neck to toes in bruises.
After a few hours of him stewing in his own emotions, thoughts and pain, he began to take stock of his wounds. His nose had surely been broken, blood had pooled on the ground where his face had pressed on the cold stone floor of the cell. The pain from the kicks he had gotten finally began filling his mind. He felt his ribs and luckily, didn't think any had been broken, but his torso was covered in growing purple bruises. His head and ears still rung hours after the kicks to the head and he feared he had a concussion. He felt his eye and lips swell up, his tongue running over his teeth felt one of his front teeth with a sizable piece chipped off, and turning his neck sent jolts of pain up and down his body.
It had been about a quarter of a moon cycle since he had left the Academy and began his journey. In that span of days he had killed six people, beat a Lord's son in a duel, and had been beaten soundly in return.
Quite the start to this adventure, He thought bitterly, wiping away tears.
It had been a long time since he had cried, even after he had killed those six men in the woods he did not cry for their lost lives. But now here he was in some lord's dungeon, weeping like an infant. From what he could remember the last time he had shed tears was when his mother had a nervous breakdown in the early days of their dismissal from nobility, when the reality of them living as poor farmers on her family's small farm had finally set in, and when his brother had died. Even then he only cried for his mothers losses, and for the loss of his younger brother. He had hardened his heart to the world then, and for a long time he had walled away his emotions; that was until he had met Nila and she had broken through that wall.
Boro could not help but recall that feeling, or that lack of feelings, from that time. His heart felt heavy as an anvil and yet, contradictory to that feeling, he felt like the place where his heart should be was empty, a void of space in his chest. He felt that again; he willed that wall back into existence in his mind. He would not let his emotions get a hold of him again, not in this way. He filled that void in his heart with his emotions, anger, fear, hate, sadness, love, happiness, all of it, went into that void, and instead of filling it, it dissipated till he felt empty of emotion.
Sitting up, he embraced the emptiness in his heart. Letting his mind wander he began to drift off into an uncomfortable sleep. He dreamed of those men he killed in the woods but their faces were all Littumes' and he grinned at Boro as the blood from their wounds caused the sword in his hand to slip away. The six men with Littumes' face all sported wounds that should have killed them and yet they kept going. When Boro dropped the sword they all pounced on him, hacking and slashing at him. Boro was in pieces, literal pieces, his head had rolled away from the rest of him and he watched as the undead men cut him up till there was nothing recognizable of his body left, then they all simultaneously turned and looked at his severed head. They stalked toward him, swords raised, and right before they laid waste to his head, he screamed in horror and agony.
He woke from the nightmare still screaming, sweat beading his body. There were no windows in the room, so he had no idea what time it was or how long he had been sleeping. He attempted to sit up; his whole body protested against the movement.
After some time Boro heard the echoes of footsteps outside his cell, followed shortly after by the sound of many keys jingling and the bolt of the wooden cell door being opened. A fat man with beady eyes pulled open the door, his chins vibrating with the effort of pulling the large door open. Behind the fat man, who Boro surmised was the prison guard, was a finely dressed man in a deep red surcoat. The coat was inlaid with small jewels and threaded with very fine gold fabric. He looked like a more regal, elder Littume. This must be the Lord of Helfa himself. His dark eyes, intelligent and considering, took in Boro and his current condition. Apparently unhappy with what he saw, he frowned and it was just barely noticeable in the darkness of the cell.
"What happened to this boy?" He asked, voice cold.
The guard looked quickly at Boro and then back at his lord. "I'm not too sure, me lord, he came in like this. I suppose it could have been your son, skilled fighter he is"
The Lord of Helfa let out a disbelieving grunt, "My son did not do this, that I can assure you, who brought the boy in?"
"Two city guards me lord, I know not what their names be" The fat man said, adding quickly, "and two of the young lord's friends as well"
The Lord nodded and then dismissed the guard.
"My son likes to claim to be the best sword in this part of the land, and though there is some sort of truth to this, it is not the whole truth." The Lord said, not talking to anyone in particular. " We are a small nation, and other than myself, my son's mentor, and my son himself, we have no Blade masters of renown."
"That was until today" The Lord said, a smile crossing his face. "You may call me Lord Jetir, what name do you go by young blade master?"
Boro opened his mouth to speak, only then realizing how dry his mouth had been. He coughed and attempted to clear his throat.
Lord Jetir noticed this and called for the guard to bring in some clean water.
"I am called Boro, my Lord, Boro Malus." His voice was raspy and dry.
Jetir nodded in confirmation, as if he knew already, "You have your fathers look in you, as well as his skill I think" he said, again with a smile on his face. "He was a great man, no matter what is said about him now, he was most certainly the greatest blade master to ever have lived, he was once a good friend to me, so I will return that friendship to you in turn"
Boro looked the Lord in the eyes, "You were friends with my father? Will you tell me about him?" he asked, his pain and thirst forgotten, he got to his feet.
"I will tell you all about it, but not here, and not for free" Lord Jetir turned and took the water from the guard that just arrived, handing it to Boro and beckoning him to follow him out.