?Hey, redbird, what do you see?? his cousin laughed with the other midshipmen as they stood at the base of the tree cavorting their time away while on shore leave.

Ewan did not care to be teased for his hair, his nose wrinkled slightly, but he ignored his cousin. Across the fields to the main road that led into Seansloe, the banners of the warband could be seen. His father would be home. Nimble and quick as a five year old could be not being held back by fear that so often held back adults, he clambered down the tree and hit the ground at a run.

?Hey, Ewan, where are you going?? Gaerwyn looked astounded at his little cousin.

?The warband is home!? he whooped over his shoulder and made for home.

The rain of the morning had cast the fall colors more sullen to warn of the grey coming of winter. Ewan slid across the rain slicked stones of the streets of Seansloe as he raced home. Without care for the gate or its latch, he burst through the front gate of the house and nearly ran into the wheelbarrow that was across the path to the door. Instead he launched himself over it and tumbled up to continue his run up to the door and slamming his way inside, ?Mother!?

Maeve came from the kitchen prepared to be fully cross with her son and his condition. She had not seen him yet, but that was no matter. He always came home with some new tear of his clothes or damage to his body, and no doubt he was covered in dirt. ?What am I going to do with you, Ewan??

?Father?s home! He came home in time!? His bounce was high around his mother. He was too young to interpret that look on her face as relief that the warband, and she would hope her husband as well, had returned home yet again.

It was as brief look that was swiftly replaced with a warm smile for her delighted son. ?Go clean up so your father will be certain he has a son and not some two footed beast from the woods.?

Ewan laughed like a wild child and scampered up the stairs to clean up as he was bid. Father was home. It was harvest time. The world was right again.

?Really, father?? Ewan nearly hopped around his father who only watched the expression of his wife.

Maeve gave a warm smile and looked fondly and proudly upon her husband. ?So, Baron Logan has appointed you Master of Arms, or was it Lord Kieran??

Ewan did not care who it was, ?Does that mean we get to move to Seansloe Manor, father? Do I get to practice with the practice masters still??

Corin smiled upon his son, ?No, we will live here, but I will often be at Seansloe Manor if not traveling as my new position requires. I expect you to help your mother when I am called away. As to practicing with the masters, we will see.? Corin looked to his wife, ?It was Baron Logan that appointed me, yet I do not doubt it was with Lord Kieran?s advisement.?

Ewan looked between his parents and considered what this meant. He was something of ten years now, though age was not something his family was in the habit of tracking. People were to be treated based on behavior, not age, and Ewan was proud of all he accomplished with the practice masters. His time with them would decrease now that his mother would need him more and that his father would not be there with the warband as well. Maybe, though, maybe? ?Father, you will not be away often will you??

?I cannot say, but I will try my best to fulfill my promises to you, your mother, and our country.?

?Everything will be fine, then.? Ewan smiled convinced that all was fine. His father said it would be.

?This is not going as you intended, is it?? Maeve looked up at her husband, Corin.

?No,? Corin?s mouth stayed in a firm line as he watched his son, Ewan, approach the ring, ?it is not.?

Ewan was trying his level best to keep his mind on the task at hand. Anticipate the next move, but act in the now. Swordmaster Pelin said. He had to keep his mind on this final bout. The final bout! He went over everything he had been told and all he had observed in rapid unfurling images in his mind.

The Harvest Festival contests took up the entirety of a day. The archery and knife throwing he had won with ease. There had been a close time with the caber toss and the ax throw, but the points favored him in a narrow margin. By now Baron Logan thought it would be best to rotate out his daughters offering the prizes lest the young Ewan Corinsson get a swelled head with the attentions of his eldest girl. Many of the crowd had taken a keener interest in the games and none too few of the girls as well. Wagers were rising as Ewan defeated his opponents one by one in the ring. Through matches he was now facing one of the best fighters in the warband.

Conall Thianson was a good man and a good fighter, but there was no mistaking in his stance or his eyes that he would be taking this lad before him for granted. Ewan felt the nervous sweat rise and the armor started to feel confining and heavy. This would not do at all, and he called for a pause before the bout with the leave of his opponent and the judge. Both men looked puzzled but granted the request. Swift as he could, Ewan changed out the chain armor for a leather brigandine. He twisted and stretched making sure the fit suited him, and he took up the two blades again to return to the ring with a salute of gracious thanks to Conall.

At the call, the bout began in earnest without the prowling assessment most often starting off a match. Conall was a fierce competitor and no fool with the two handed fashion of fighting longswords. The jarring of muscles tired from previous matches cause Ewan to wince, but he saw the same expression upon Conall?s blonde bearded face and it gave him hope. The two called upon each others best defenses and sought purchase with their swift attacks. Cheers that rose from the murmuring crowd were barely heard by either man.

Doubt tickled the back of Ewan?s mind. Doubt that he could win this match. With a blow swift against Conall?s side, blocked at the barest moment, Ewan sliced that doubt away. Patience was his friend as was his stamina. All his life he had been running. With some chagrin he realized he had not been putting his skills to good use recently. Running from the law, from an irate father, from the Mother Abbess, were not ways to show his ability, nor a proper way to behave. He knew it. Why he had done it was beyond him at the moment, but he knew he could do better. He could be better. He was proving it right now.

Then he pushed everything in his mind away. He sought the trust of his body in harmony with his mind, that perfect blend he felt when in practice where he could almost swear to forseeing the next possible blow. Anticipating the next move, but acting in the now felt as a second nature. The bout became a dance with swords. The music the swelling chorus of the crowd, and the final notes the words from Conall?s lips, ?I yield.?

Ewan lifted away his swords that rested crosswise on the kneeling man?s collar around his neck. There was stunned silence at first until the judge declared Ewan the victor and the cheers rose like a high wave that dared not crash yet upon the rocky shore.

?There will be no living with him now,? Corin grumbled.

?Oh I do not know about that,? Maeve smiled and applauded her son. ?Perhaps he learned his lesson just the same.?

It was a high wind of rage whirling inside, feeding sinew and muscle with flames of action. Action directed in feral precision against the obstacles that kept him away. Obstacles that cried and grunted in their final pale calls of death. While battle raged around, Ewan embraced the call of his fury and sent its message into the slender arcs of his blades.

Blade met bone in grating confrontation, but ever did the metal win against the defenses of nature. He breathed in the dark taint of blood and churned earth. Had it been what his father smelled? The man's cry out came in a garbled spasm of blood as his throat gained an unnatural entry to the air. It was but another body to drop in the wake of Ewan's anger.

Anger ignited with the news his father had fallen in battle. The sharing of that news with him, just another scout of a warband, was unexpected by all, and the small, patient part of Ewan held its reserve to let the demon inside rage free against the enemy.

All around the shouts became as a chorus to take him down. Take down the demon for bright in the battle beneath the helm flamed out his long hair. His dual blades sang a song to beckon and destroy those that neared him, and the tried still.

The tide of battle against the foreign invaders, they sought this one triumph, to take the spirit slaying their man out at the last. A swarm of bodies, some no more than sacrifices to the wicked slices, pressed down. Pain flashed its warning to his left and in a hammering cycle of blows, Ewan swam in an enveloping crash of darkness.

Light as faint as a single star in the dark night grew and brightened until it formed the shape of a lady clothed in black flowing silk. Her hair shimmered the spectrum of hues and her eyes mirrored what was around her. She spoke soft words, "You come to early to me, Ewan. Your Mistress Death call for you, yet."