2
Swords clashed. Rhys Frasier stood in the middle of the courtyard as his two younger brothers, Seamus and Sean, attacked him in tandem. Their blades came at him in a flurry, but with deft footwork and nimble agility, he evaded their strikes and struck back in a fluid motion, dealing with both their swords, trying to unbalance them. Rhys’s brow was covered in sweat. He was the spitting image of his father in looks, as tall and broad as a mountain, and as strong as an ox. His red hair came to his shoulders, and a thick beard covered the lower half of his face. Seamus and Sean’s faces were twisted in concentration as they tried to defeat their brother, a man who hated to lose. He was twenty-four now and had been ready to step into the role of a man for a good number of years. Never had he been defeated by his brothers, and that streak would not be ended, not on his wedding day.
When he decided that he had toyed with his brothers enough he flicked his wrist and disarmed Seamus. Moving in between the two, he shoved all his weight into Seamus’s body, knocking him to the floor. Then, he rolled around while Sean was still reacting. While his younger brother was striking at the air, Rhys had picked up Seamus’s sword. When he got to his feet he used his momentum and impressive strength to hit Sean’s sword. The impact made tremors run down Sean’s arm and the boy dropped his sword and clutched his hand. Rhys thrust two points against Sean’s neck.
“I think that’s enough for taeday,” Rhys said with a smug look on his face. He handed the sword back to Seamus and helped him up. Sean was still rubbing his hand, trying to ease the flare of pain.
“Ye didnae hae tae gae sae hard,” Sean complained, pouting. Rhys frowned.
“Dae ye think anyone is gaeing tae gae easy on ye in a fight? What happens if ye are caught in a war? There will be nae mercy shown tae ye on a battlefield,” Rhys warned.
“There will be nae war anymore, nae now ye are getting married. Peace is all anyone can talk about,” Seamus said, moving towards Sean to try and help massage the pain out of his hand. “Ye will never hae a chance tae win ye glory on the battlefield like Da.”
Rhys scowled. He was already bitter about having missed the last battle. He had been tasked to look after the land while Malcolm led the clan to war, although he had been promised that the next battle would be his. Malcolm hadn’t suggested that the next battle would be an entirely different form of combat. Rhys was built for war, and one day he hoped to wield his father’s war hammer, although that hope was diminishing since his father had made an arrangement for peace. It was three months ago that Rhys had learned of the treaty, and that he was going to have to marry a McClearey. His stomach twisted at the thought for the enmity between the two clans ran deep in his blood and had been a gift passed down from generation to generation. He had to put all that aside to wed this girl and take her as a wife. Not that he much cared about that. He didn’t think he was suited to domestic life and assumed that after he was married he would be able to continue with his interests. He was certain that his wife, Caitlin, would find some way to keep herself busy in his absence.
He knew little about her. Knowing that she was a McClearey was enough.
Although Malcolm acted as though it was a great honor to be wed to the house and bring peace to the two clans, Rhys was uncertain. War was a way of life and he had no idea how the Frasier clan was going to cope with peace. He assumed that his father had another enemy to target and he didn’t want to spread the dwindling forces too thin.
“I’ll get enough glory for all three of us,” Rhys replied angrily, “and if ye dinnae practice ye sword strokes ye are never gaeing tae win glory at all!”
He went to place the sword back. It was early in the morning and the sun was still new. There was a freshness to the world that gave him the sense that everything was going to change. He was not a man prone to nerves, but on this occasion, he did feel some unease about the future. He and his father had not talked about marriage for a long time when Malcolm had returned from battle. The proclamation of this peace treaty had taken them all by surprise. Three months hadn’t been enough to get used to the idea of the wedding, but soon enough it would be all over and Rhys would be a married man.
The McCleareys had always been seen as weak. There were no great stories of their lineage and they weren’t built as powerfully as the Frasiers. It was a wonder that they had managed to last this long, but then they were survivors, always managing to burrow away and find some way to live on, returning like rodents. Rhys was proud that his family had won most of the conflicts, although he knew they counted for nothing since the McCleareys still infested the world. Thinking about them brought to mind the hatred with which Malcolm had spoken about the enemy clan. It had been three months, but Rhys was still in a state of shock that Malcolm had agreed to such a proposal. He had always admired his father’s capability in battle, so for that to be abandoned now puzzled Rhys.
At the time, Malcolm had cited all the dead clansmen as a reason for why it was the right time for peace. The best days of both clans
