Free Mordraud, Book One by Fabio Scalini Page B

drove him to sweep Mordraud up in him arms and take him outside. It wasn’t such a bad idea, he considered. Just the sort of experience a father should share with a son. At least he wouldn’t have to strain to pretend he was more educated than he was, as he had done so many times with Dunwich. Making himself look like a fool.
    Varno took his weapon and showed it to Mordraud, with him sitting on his lap opposite the door. It was a chilly but pleasant evening. The moon bathed the yard in pale blue shadows.
    “ This is the hilt. It’s the part where you grip the sword. Instead, this is the guard. It helps shield from the enemy’s blows.”
    “ And is this the blade?” Mordraud inquired, stretching out a hand, but Varno blocked it at once.
    “ Be careful! It’s sharp! You know, I’ve had this sword with me since I met your mother. It’s a good sword.”
    “ And why’s it good? Isn’t it made for killing? How can it be good?”
    “ It’s good because it kills well. And it’s never let me down.”
    Mordraud wasn’t sure he’d grasped the meaning of those words, but he said nothing, attracted only by the hypnotic gleam of the moonlight on the steel edge of the blade. “How do you use it?”
    Varno glanced around to find something suitable. He took a long-handled axe he usually used for chopping the wood. Eglade watched the scene from the kitchen window, worried but glad to see father and son together at last.
    Varno put the sword in Mordraud’s hands, and placed himself opposite, showing him how he had to support it. The child tried to hold it up with one hand, but couldn’t. Huffing and whining in annoyance, he squeezed the hilt in two hands and lifted the tip, exactly as his father was instructing him to.
    “ It’s too heavy for you... You still need to build up some arm muscles!”
    Mordraud looked barely four. It was already a miracle he could hold a piece of metal of that weight without crumpling to the ground.
    Varno entirely failed to react when he saw Mordraud lift it above his head and charge.
    “ MORDRAUD!” Eglade yelled through the window. Varno felt the steel brush his shirt. The tip tore the fabric and reached his skin. He touched his chest in amazement, his face taut with a dumb smile.
    Blood between his fingers.
    It was just a scratch, one of many.
    The fear came later, when he saw Mordraud hadn’t even realised what he’d done.
    “ It’s so long!” he blurted, with unexpected satisfaction in his voice. He was staring at the weapon lying on the ground. It had fallen from his hands, due to the thrust.
    Varno had fought many battles in his lifetime. He tried to keep himself away from the front ranks, and avoided the bloodiest clashes by beating a retreat. He’d witnessed various shocking scenes. But he had never felt so disturbed by something as he did that night observing his son.
    A monstrous might.
    Like Dunwich’s intelligence. Like Eglade, who’d learnt how to speak his language before he understood a single word of hers.
    And like Aris’s punches. That still rang in his head when he recalled those blows that had almost slaughtered him.
    “ Never touch it again!” he yelled viciously, unleashing two violent smacks to the boy’s face.
    “ But... I...”
    “ NEVER AGAIN!” Varno repeated, in terror. Another slap was dealt.
    Eglade ran outside, seized her son and embraced him to automatically protect him. Mordraud was crying. He’d done something wrong, he knew he had. But he didn’t know what.
    He merely wanted to learn how to use a sword. And to spend some time with Varno.
    “ Mummy... Why’s daddy so cross with me?”
    “ It’s not your fault...” she murmured. “It’s not your fault.”
    Varno didn ’t return home that night. Before Eglade could say a word, he’d fled along the path leading to the village. His pockets were empty, but that didn’t worry him. He’d cope one way or another.
    He reached the inn and drank until he felt ill. On credit.
    “It can’t