The spring morning was glorious. It held that perfect blend. The sun shone bright in a deep blue sky and, though that was far from unusual in M’Dahz, the wind had turned north-easterly and was carrying a slightly salty but fresh and cooling breeze across the town and into the heartland of the desert. The meeting of scorching sun and cooling breeze was a welcome relief to the people and a note of positivity hung over the population as they went about their daily tasks.
The breeze was particularly strong up here on the tower of iron eagles, one of the more intact of the derelict turrets on the disused defensive walls of the town. The timber roof of the tower groaned under the load, but Faraj had assured the boys it was strong enough to take their combined weight several times over.
Samir squinted into the sun as he glanced along the line of the defences. He had dreamed more than once now of standing on these walls and fighting a heroic defence of M’Dahz. Fanciful, of course. From where he stood, the walls disappeared among the buildings of the city after the next two towers, where they had been used as the supporting walls of shops and houses. In the other direction the defences had entirely vanished after this point, leaving a long stretch of open land.
The clearing of a throat brought him back from his reveries. He turned to see uncle Faraj watching him with a raised eyebrow while Ghassan swept his wooden sword back and forth in practice swings.
Over the late winter and early spring, Faraj had quickly become an integral part of family life. The boys had almost forgotten what it had been like to have a father around, but everything had come flooding back with a welcome familiarity. The brothers had been as well behaved as possible for their uncle, reining in their more excessive habits. In return, Faraj had been thoughtful and kind and had begun taking the boys with him to interesting places and, when the occasion presented itself, buying them sherbet treats and fresh dates. But this was new and heart-stoppingly exciting. It was what Samir had been hoping for since that winter night when their uncle had first arrived.
It had taken only a few days after his arrival for Faraj to secure a position as a mercantile bodyguard, with reasonable pay and good working hours and, as the boys had watched him over the months, they had realised why Faraj had experienced no difficulty in finding worthy employment. One evening, as they had been returning from the late market, a slightly inebriated cutpurse had dashed out from an alley and attempted to rob them at knifepoint. By the time the boys had realised what was happening it was already over. Faraj had the man pinned to the wall by the neck with the flat of his sword, still in its sheath and attached to his belt. He had been that quick. Samir believed that it was this incident, when the boys would have been in grave danger without their uncle present, that had led eventually to the ex-soldier’s decision to teach them the rudiments of sword fighting.
Samir threw out his arm and shook it, freeing his muscles as much as possible. The wooden sword felt exceedingly heavy to him, but was excellently made. Had Faraj had a carpenter produce them or had he carved them himself?
Noting the glint of excitement in Ghassan’s otherwise sombre face, he stepped forward and hefted the sword.
“This is so heavy, if I swing it, I shall fall over, uncle.”
Faraj laughed.
“Then you will have to learn balance quickly. The sword is heavy, yes. Heavier than a real blade that size. What you have there is a replica Imperial short sword at one-and-one-third weight. Bear in mind that the curved desert sword on my back weighs more than twice that. But you’re right: you will find that the real Imperial blade is much lighter and easier to handle.”
Ghassan frowned.
“Then why practise with these?”
Their uncle smiled.
“Because you are lithe but not strong, either of you. Quick and supple, but without bulk. To hold your own in a real fight, you will also need power, and using this heavy sword will build your muscles. More than that; when I finally deem you ready for a real blade, you will find them so easy to use after the training sword that you will already have an extra edge.
Samir nodded. It made sense. He stepped forward once more and now the brothers faced one another across a short space. Faraj nodded.
“Very well. You are not armoured and these swords will hurt. If swung with enough force they will break a limb, so we are going to start light and slow. There will be no contact until I say that you are ready.”
He stepped between them and held out a long and sturdy stick.
“Swing your blades down and hit that.”
With some difficulty, Samir lifted the heavy sword, having to employ both hands as it neared head height. With some relief, he let it drop. Ghassan managed with one hand, his larger frame lending him extra strength, but the sweat on his brown told of the strain he was hiding. Neither blade connected with the stick as they fell.
“This may take some time,” Faraj laughed.
The sun rose slowly to its zenith and was already beginning its descent when the boys’ uncle allowed them to rest for more than a minute’s breather. Samir sat on the low wall at the tower’s edge. His arm ached more than he had believed possible and, though Faraj had made sure they had regular draughts of water, he found himself salivating at the thought of the water melon that he knew waited at home.
Ghassan was beginning to sag. Initially, his large build had lent him an advantage, but their uncle was no fool and had pressed the bulkier brother to reach higher and swing faster, thus placing a roughly equal exertion on both boys.
The man smiled as he watched the two boys’ faces while they ate their bread and now-warm cheese and drank their tepid water as would a man who had just crawled out of the deep, parched desert. He stood, leaning on his long stick as he watched them. In such a short time, he had grown very close to his brother’s family and had occasionally to remind himself that these were not his own sons, not that it made a jot of difference to how he treated them. He was firm when necessary, but generous and kind when the opportunity presented itself. Sword-training, though, was a time for firmness, not kindness.
Once the boys had finished and were leaning back on the stonework, breathing heavily, he cleared his throat.
“Now, my boys. Time to start the real work.”
Both brothers made an exasperated face and shared a look that they hoped Faraj would not see.
“Come on… I have here padded leathers. Now, I only have jackets and gloves; no helmets or leg guards, and it will be extremely warm work under all that extra clothing. But you’ll need it.”
As the boys staggered wearily to their feet and hefted their wooden blades as well as their screaming muscles could manage, Faraj dropped a heavy, padded leather jacket in front of them both.
“You need to be careful here. Your mother does not know that I am doing this and she would most certainly disapprove. If I have to take either of you home with a staved skull or a broken leg, we shall never get to do this again.”
The boys blinked and their uncle laughed.
“I do not mean to worry you, boys. The jackets are strong and the swords are blunt. So long as you keep your aim between neck and waist we shall all be fine.”
He smiled as Samir and Ghassan wearily hauled the heavy padded leathers onto their backs and fed their arms through the stiff sleeves before tying the thongs and donning the gloves.
“Very well,” their uncle nodded, “we shall begin this by proving it doesn’t hurt. I want each of you to take a swing at the other’s arm. Only the arm, mind… no leg or head blows.”
Gingerly, Samir pulled back his blade and swung, landing a light blow with a thud that shook Ghassan a little. Ghassan grinned and returned the swing.
As they smiled, the brothers turned to look at their uncle. Faraj had one eyebrow raised and looked distinctly unimpressed.
“Hardly a real fight, is it? Now swing again, but this time put a little effort into it.”
Samir nodded and smiled at Ghassan.
“Ready?”
Ghassan laughed.
“Hit me, brother.”
Samir pulled back and swung again. This time, the blow hit with a heavy thud that knocked his brother to one side. Ghassan laughed and swung back before he had even righted himself. The return blow threw the smaller boy aside. The two burst out laughing and allowed their swords to tip downwards.
Faraj sighed.
“I recognise that this is exciting for you, but I must remind you that it is not a game. You are holding back because you are brothers and, while I understand that, you need to throw yourself into this if you are serious about learning.”
Samir shrugged.
“We are doing our best, uncle.”
Faraj tapped a finger to his lips.
“I do not think that this is true. I want you both to try. Keep your blows in the torso region, but swing as though your brother is trying to kill you. Imagine that is not Ghassan before you, but some Pelasian soldier intent on rape, pillage and murder.”
There was a brief silence as the boys glared at each other and then Ghassan pulled a face and both burst into hysterical laughter. Faraj sighed.
“I am sorry about this, boys, but if you are going to learn anything more than fancy posturing, you need to be willing to strike at each other as though it was your deepest heart’s desire to kill him on the spot. And to do that, we’re going to have to stop you kidding around.”
The boys slowly recovered from their laughing fits and straightened, trying to hold a serious expression on their faces. Faraj shook his head.
“I need you to concentrate on something that irritates you about each other. There must be something you argue over? A toy? A piece of clothing?”
The boys shook their heads but, as their faces came up again, Ghassan saw something in Samir’s eyes; something dark; something worrying.
“There is nothing we argue over, is there Samir?”
The smaller brother shook his head.
“No, brother. Nothing.”
But Ghassan could not tear his gaze from those eyes. Something had cast a shadow over Samir’s soul moments ago and Ghassan, for the first time in his life, began to fear his brother. There was something in Samir’s gaze that he couldn’t quite define, and he would shun any attempt to name it.
The two continued to lock eyes for a minute and Ghassan was forced to turn away from that look.
Uncle Faraj, unaware of quite what had transpired between them, nodded thoughtfully.
“Good. Now that you have finished giggling like a pair of school girls, we will try once again.” He turned to Ghassan. “You first. Swing at Samir as though your life depended on it.”
Ghassan hefted the sword as Samir stepped slightly closer. He daren’t meet his brother’s gaze. Swinging the sword back, he let it go with as powerful a swing as he could really justify, looking up and meeting Samir’s gaze only as the heavy blade closed on its target. The result was a loud thud that knocked the smaller boy from his feet.
Taking a deep breath, he reached out and proffered his hand to help Samir up. The smaller brother shook his head and looked up at Ghassan, whose face was a mask of concern, close to panic. Samir sighed and looked back down at the sandy timber beneath him. Ghassan was his brother. They were family, and Asima could do as she pleased, but Samir would never again consider what he had just now contemplated in the darkest recess of his mind.
He smiled at Ghassan; the warmest smile he could manage, and almost laughed out loud at the relief that flooded his brother’s face.
“Is that all you can manage? I’d have knocked you to the next tower! In fact, I believe I will do just that in a moment.”
He grasped Ghassan’s hand and hauled himself to his feet.
“My turn, lumbering brother.”
He grinned at Ghassan, and the taller boy smiled back uncertainly. Despite the jovial face and voice, there was still something lurking beneath the surface of Samir that unnerved his brother.
“Uncle Faraj?” Ghassan propped his wooden sword against the low wall. “I’m not feeling very well. Do you think we could call an end to today?”
The weathered warrior raised an eyebrow.
“Perhaps it would be better to begin again on a morning when it is cooler. The afternoon heat is rather intense. Let us return to the house and see what your mother plans for supper.”
The boys helped Faraj gather the equipment and their uncle forced most of it into a huge bag that he slung across his back. With a last check that they had forgotten nothing, he set off toward the stair well at the corner of the tower. Samir hurried along behind, carrying the wooden swords. Neither of them was aware of the appraising look Ghassan cast at his brother’s back while he hauled the food bags onto his shoulders and set off behind them.
Something had passed between them on the tower top that day and, although he knew beyond doubt what had been at the root of it, he could not bring himself to ponder too deeply on the matter. Suffice it to say that, while he loved his brother beyond almost all else, eight years of trust had wafted away in the light breeze this afternoon.