Free Victory and Defeat: Book Five of the Restoration Series by Christopher Williams

trees grew denser all around the edges and a few stumps were all that were left of a few pines that had tried to grow inside the meadow’s boundaries.
    A small cottage was set in the shadow of the pines on the western edge of the meadow. The cottage wasn’t much, it didn’t look big enough to be more than a single room. The walls were made of logs, and the roof was thatched. There were a couple of small animal pens on the southern side, but he couldn’t see any animals.
    The door of the cottage was open and a man stood there. He was far away , and it was hard to see much, but Flare could tell he was thin.
    Sighing, Flare jogged across the distance. In his experience, most masters did not like to wait.
    Flare crossed the meadow quickly, being careful though not to step in a hole. He didn’t want to meet this new master with a broken leg.
    He slowed to a walk for the last ten yards. His initial assessment of the man had been correct; he was thin, but that leanness showed a good deal of muscle. Flare guessed his age to be fifty or so. He had thick, blond hair that was well mixed with white. The man was clean-shaven, but he wore a golden earring in his left ear. His skin was dark and leathery, probably from many years in the sun, and he had a long, beak-like nose.
    Flare stopped short and cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure if he should speak ; his first two instructors had been informal, but he didn’t want to start off his relationship with this man by angering him.
    Flare was still trying to decide what to do when the older man grinned and spoke, “Well met! What’s your name?” He spoke in a friendly jovial tone.
    Flare returned the older man’s grin and said, “My name is Flare. Please forgive me my indecision, but I wasn’t sure how to address you.”
    “You may call me Byron,” he said. “Once I was known as a bit of a swordsman.”
    “Byron?” Flare repeated doubtfully, a suspicion growing within. After a brief pause, he asked, “Where are you from?”
    “Oh, I’m sure you’ve never heard of the small pigsty where I’m from.” He paused, but Flare didn’t say anything; he just stared at the older man. After a moment, Byron continued, “It was a small town called Dilmun.”
    Flare nodded, taking a deep breath. He had heard of Dilmun but only in that it was the birthplace of one of the most renowned swordsmen of all time. “Byron of Dilmun,” he whispered. Despite the quiet way he spoke, the words seemed to echo around the meadow.
    Byron sighed. “S o, my name is still known?”
    Flare, with his eyes wide, could but nod. As a kid , he had heard the most amazing stories about the great Bryon of Dilmun, and he couldn’t believe that he was now standing next to the fabled master swordsman.
    “I continue to hope that there will come a time when I arrive here and my student does not know me,” Byron said. His smile was gone, and he frowned at the way Flare was gawking at him.
    Flare shook himself and pulled his gaze away from Byron. “My apologies, but I’ve always heard about you and the amazing things you did.”
    Byron shook his head. “Nothing I did was amazing. Most of the stories you’ve heard are probably exaggerations, or outright lies.”
    Flare cocked his head to the side. “Lies?” he asked, confused.
    “Lies,” Byron repeated. “Did you ever hear the story about how I died?”
    “Yes!” Flare said eagerly. “Everyone has heard that story. You were in a castle defending the honor of a princess.” He paused, trying to remember the story. “At least I think it was a princess. Anyway, you killed over thirty men by yourself before they shot you through with an arrow.”
    When Flare finished, Byron just stared for a moment and then he threw back his head and roared with laughter. He continued laughing for a bit , and he even had to wipe a few tears from his eyes. Finally, his mirth slowly disappeared and he shook his head. “That story was absolute rubbish. Do you want to know