Panatha

Chapter One: The Prodigy of Death

The sword spun in his hand, seemingly a lightweight baton of mere plastic such was its speed; this of course was a lie, the weapon’s speed in skilled hands bellying its heavy weight and keen edge. Across from Zey, his opponent, a grim faced gray bearded master, similarly spun a blade himself. Zey, comparatively, wore his patented ever bored expression, a stoic face mixed with pensiveness equating to a distracted boredom that seemed to infuriate the old master across from him.

“Pay attention!” Roared the master, slashing once diagonally, before following through with the strike - spinning to slash horizontally.

But Zey was paying attention. At the same time as the master - perhaps a mere fraction of a second before - Zey moved with his opponent. The flat of his blade passing up before his eyes, he deflected the diagonal slash, before spinning himself, planting his blade vertically into the ground. As the master spun and slashed, the horizontal slash bounced off Zey’s own planted blade; consequently, the last conscious thought the master had was how disinterested Zey looked as he proceeded to head-butt the master into oblivion.

Slowly, the old master’s eyes crossed, and he crumpled to the ground. Zey, staring down at the man, envied him; that he would be spared from such boredom as performing for his father - he would welcome unconsciousness with open arms.

“What did I tell you!” Boomed a voice behind Zey. Idly, Zey turned to regard the speaker - his father - along with his sister, standing together just outside of the fighting ring. His father, Badric, was a short stocky man with tanned skin, balding head, and beady brown eyes, utterly disarming in appearance. Zey knew the appearance to be deceiving, as he had seen his father’s strong arms swing his axe with enough strength to fell even the toughest foes. “He’s the best in the family!” Continued Badric, ignoring Zey’s sister as she rolled her eyes.

“No one disputes that he’s good. The issue is that he doesn’t care. Who cares if he’s the best? He won’t lead. He won’t go on raiding parties. He doesn’t do anything.” His sister protested. His sister, Zala, was a tall statuesque woman with ample figure, green eyes, tanned skin, and dark brown hair. Many called her beautiful; many more still called her the most dangerous fighter in Izisqil, something that was exemplified by the head to toe light armor the woman wore at all times, and the array of deadly weapons on her person. “There’s no one in the city that he can’t beat. Hell, maybe the planet. But it’s meaningless if he doesn’t apply himself. I should be the one to lead the next raid. Why -"

“Even beat you?” Asked Zey, interjecting himself into the conversation. Walking over to the duo, leaning on his sword, Zey smirked as his sister bristled; her irritation turning to outright anger as Zey took out a piece of fruit from his pocket and began munching on it obnoxiously, juice dripping down and off his chin.

“Now, now.” Chided Badric, hands patting the air, attempting to keep peace between his children. Behind them, the old master slowly came to, shakily standing on wobbly legs.

“True. His fighting prowess is vast. But he has no passion.” Stated the old master, rubbing his forehead all the while. “There is no drive in his swings. No purpose. He does it because he can - because he was asked to. Not because he wants to.” Retrieving his sword, the old master sheathed it at his side, shaking his head hopelessly. “What do you have passion for, Zey? Tell an old man."

Flicking his sword up to his face in a mock salute, Zey dutifully recited the words that he had been told since birth. “Why, to fight and die for Izisqil; following in our ancient warrior ways, like our ancestor’s ancestors. What else is there for an Izisqil?”

The master sighed, waving a hand. “Yes, yes…I’ve heard the Izisqil Creed. Cut the drek, child. Tell us, what would you rather do? You would leave the duties of the family to your sister in an instant. What would you do, should you have the freedom?"

“Writing.” Replied Zey, without a seconds hesitation. Amidst the old master’s laughter, his father’s jaw dropped, and his sister slapped her own face in an openhanded face-palm.

“Writing!?” Roared Badric. Turning several shades of red before settling into a shade of purple.

“Our greatest warrior is a closet poet. It would be funny if it wasn’t so horrifying.” Zala said, deadpan.

“Ease your anger Badric; the warriors of Panatha have a long history of the written word - the stroke of a brush and ink is closely related to the subtle wrist movements used in sword play. It is said that ancient masters could tell ones battle ability by simply looking at handwriting.” Chastised the old master. Containing his mirth, turning to the uncomfortable looking Zey, the old master smiled slightly. “What would you write? Where do you go in the world of pages and letters?”

“Away. Away, to find whatever wishes to find me." Answered Zey, self-assuredly.

“Ah. Adventure and excitement…the death of duty and obligation. You are afflicted by wanderlust, no? A desire to leave Epicanth, your homeworld, and wander the stars, like so many young warriors before you?”

“No, not just that. I want to find…to find…” Zey trailed off, for the first time not having a complete answer.

“Purpose.” Finished the old master. After a few seconds, the old master shook his head. “I cannot train this boy. There is nothing I can teach him."

“Surely you jest!” Blustered Badric. “He’s the finest in a generation!”

“Indeed.” Assured the old master. “But until he is motivated, until he finds purpose in his actions and training, he cannot progress in ability.”

“Izisqil is at war with Grafft, is this not enough?” He asked the old master, before turning to address Zey himself. “Is it!? Your brethren die by the score, and you have no purpose!?”

“They die in a war that no one remembers why it is being fought in the first place.” Answered Zey, blandly.

“Grafft dogs attacked Kalzisqil!” Spat Badric, gripping the pommel of his axe on his belt. Behind him, Zala was uncharacteristically silent.

“And?” Countered Zey. “The Grafft Clan attacked Kalzisqil nearly a hundred years ago. So what? In Grafft history, we attacked Girroftin before their attack. And on it goes, they attacked this, we attacked that…there is no end to this senseless violence. When is the last time a child in Izisqil was trained as anything other than a warrior?”

“Because we are warriors, Zalaster.” Said Zala suddenly, breaking her silence. “That, is our purpose. To fight and live, and settle the feud.”

“Live? Live for what? To fight another day? What kind of life is that?” Countered Zey, bristling at his sister’s use of his full name.

“Are you afraid of death, then?” Badric interjected, his jaw working, his teeth grinding.

“Death? Death is release compared to this. I am afraid of life. For, what kind of life is this? If a warrior fights every single waking moment of his existence, is that truly life? A warrior fights for peace! Rather this is slavery…slavery to a bloody and futile existence!” Snapped Zey.

At the word ‘futile’, in near perfect unison, Zala drew her sword and blaster, and Badric drew his axe from his belt. Positioning herself between her brother and father, Zala leveled a blaster at one and a sword at the other. The old master, his face pinched, his lips a thin line, watched as father and sister brought arms against their kin. As if sensing the impending confrontation, Zey leapt backward, sword kicked upward by his foot, tumbling through the air, before the hilt slapped into his hand. Flourishing the blade with an impossible speed, he made both his father and sister pause.

‘…Come at me if you dare! End it!” Hissed Zey to his father, eyes narrowed, sword poised. A long tense silence followed, as father, son, and daughter watched each other. Slowly, Badric lowered his axe, but not before leveling a finger at his son.

“Do not, ever, ever in my presence…utter that our battle is futile.” Said Badric thickly, rage barely contained. "If you disgrace our fallen brothers again, I’ll kill you. As the Gods are my witness, I’ll kill my own son for uttering those words in my house! When you’re ready to stone, go to your ancestors tombs and pray for forgiveness!” Holstering the axe, turning away from the siblings, Badric practically stomped out of the room, loud curses echoing off the stone walls.

As Badric left, Zey relaxed, lowering his blade - a miscalculation as Zala swiped at his arm, drawing a line of blood across his arm.

“Kriff! The Hells Zala!” Snapped Zey, stepping backward from his advancing sister who moments before had put herself between Zey and Badric.

“Don’t provoke him! You don’t want to train, fine! But if you just have to provoke him, don’t you!” Snapped Zala crossly, taking a half-hearted swipe at Zey with her sword, who easily dodged.

“He started it!” Protested Zey. “He’s the one who brought the master here. He’s the one trying to get me to lead a karking contingent!”

“Because of your skill, young master.” Interjected the old master, semi forgotten by the pair. “In both single combat and group tactics. Were your wishes so, would you not simply play at being worse than you actually are?”

“Oh nooo!” Drawled Zala sarcastically. “Because Zey can’t just lose. He has too much pride, that he can’t let himself lose. Just because he has daddy issues, he has to stoke the fire!” Stabbing her sword at Zey, who easily parried the thrust, she stalked towards him, glaring daggers. “Why can’t you just be like us!? Why can’t you just fight! Fight, live like every day will be your last, and then die like the rest of us! Ugh!” With a final scream, Zala spun on her heel, holstering her weapons, before similarly stomping away like her father.

For a long moment, Zey was silent. His sword hand slowly lowering before his own blade clattered to the ground. Silence reigned in the training room, before Zey let out a loud sigh. Clearing his throat, the old master inclined his head towards Zey.

“…Is it always like this, young master?” Inquired the master.

“More so now than it used to be.” Replied Zey. “When I was a child, my ability with weapons delighted my father, so I trained as hard as I could, to make him proud. But it was just training, practice bouts and whatnot - as a kid I didn’t know any better. When I got older, he wanted me to fight in actual combat; and I did, for a time.” Zey trailed away, then, his eyes distant.

“It horrified you, the violence?” Guessed the old master.

“The violence itself? Not really. More the senselessness of it. There's no point; a war to spill blood, for the sake of spilling blood. That, more than anything, disgusts me.”

Turning, Zey stepped out of the ring, slowly walking out of the training room. The master, by himself now, silently shook his head.

"I sense nothing but trouble ahead for this family."