Old Yehoum’s garden was a cozy place. Dwarf trees and trimmed bushes grew at the sides of narrow stone paved walkways. In its heart resided a disturbance. The disturbance was visual: a round empty area twenty steps across carpeted with sand, looking as a wound amongst the green grass. It was audible: clashing weapons, grunts, heavy breathing carving through the silence of the yard. The disturbance was human in nature: ten boys sparring in pairs, swinging wooden axes, covering with wooden shields.

Yehoum himself was stepping slowly among them, observing. He was bent by age and shrivelled, with one eye turned white by blindness, and little of hair left upon his head. Yet his movements displayed sharpness of a seasoned warrior. He remembered the blade art well. He already taught his students a lot, now they were to display the fruits of their training.

Ymdaton was trying to outwit his opponent desperately from the beginning of the duel. The boy his was put against, Sysbir, did not seem to fall for any of his feints. Every swing met a perfect parry, every counterattack met an inevitable block. For so many moons that Ymdaton struggled, honing his skills, there was still someone evenly matched with him.

He performed a risky move. When making a swing at the opponent’s neck, he pretended to misplace it, striking too far forward. At the same time his side was open, the shield turned slightly to the left. The foe did not hesitate to exploit his weakness.

Before the enemy could land a hit, Ymdaton pulled back his blade, hooking boy’s neck on the way. Sysbir’s head was tossed forward, hitting his nose against the edge of his own shield. The opponent became dizzy. Ymdaton seized his opportunity, making a powerful swing at partner’s face, venting all his frustration. Had not teacher’s hand stopped his axe by the haft midair, he would have messed the boy’s visage even further.

“That is enough,” said the old man, “You have fought well. You will not prove yourself by mutilating your comrades.”

As the evening descended upon Isary, boys were returning to their homes. They were walking on the street named Fulfilment Road, where their teacher lived. The avenue was special in a sense, for it was situated outside the city walls. Warriors of poor families who acquired wealth in the battles built their mansions there, since getting the land inside the city proper was nigh impossible for all but the richest men.

Sometimes in the future a second line of fortifications was going to encase Fulfilment Road, but at the moment it would be a waste to protect only several dozen houses. The street started at the western city gates and ended in the open wilderness.

The exterior of the houses was talking loud about their inhabitants. Walls and fences were adorned in a barbaric manner: there hung trophy shields, weapons, banners, pieces of armour, sometimes even skulls. That kind of decorations was undoubtedly vulgar, yet for teenage boys who were aspiring to become warriors it was a pinnacle of awesomeness. Every time that they passed spoils of war on display, boys began to discuss them with passion. Every time they were finding something unnoticed before.

“Look there!,” pointed one of young trainees, “Do you see the jaw of a sea demon on that wall? It is the house of Barekdahy. I’ve heard that once he and his crew were escorting a trade expedition when corsairs attacked. They were outnumbered so that their ship could not maneuver in time to help merchants who were being boarded. So Barekdahy jumped in the water, swam in full armour to the attacked vessel, climbed on it and stood there on a boarding plank repelling the onslaught single-handedly until reinforcements came.”

“But have you heard the latest story?” cut him off another boy, “During the battle at Perusna tyrsenoi champion known as Hylalryk delivered a great punishment upon forces of Isary. He was a giant of a man and no one could escape his six cubit long spear. King’s crewman Adonisum engaged the foe in a grueling duel. When Hylalryk tried to poke him over a fence, Adonisum grabbed it and forced down, sending the enemy flying into the air. That was the end of tyrsenoi warrior, since in his confusion Adonisum slain him.”

“I know this story,” said Ymdaton with upbeat notes in his voice, “It happened just two moons ago. But you have confused names, because it was my father who slain Hylalryk.”

“Then your father is a cheat and a liar just like you, daring to claim other’s deeds to be his,” said Sysbir.

Ymdaton’s elbow connected with the back of his head before Sysbir could understand what happened. They boy spent several moments regaining orientation before looking at the furious attacker towering over him. Others were simply standing dumbstruck.

“You see,” coughed Sysbir, “He does not fight fair. Let’s teach him a lesson, guys!”

What was going to happen next became clear to Ymdaton. He decided to act first and suddenly turned, knocking out the closest boy with a fist to the chin. He ducked low and hurled his whole body at the legs of the next attacker. The trainee tumbled down, Ymdaton gave him a kick in the ribs as he jumped upwards again.

He managed to sidestep the next one and deliver an elbow to the temple. There was a boy called Urandahy in the group. He was a year older than Ymdaton, a head taller than him, and more than twenty pounds heavier. Too late Ymdaton did understand the crucial mistake of forgetting about that fellow.

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Urandahy grasped him from behind around the chest, then simply lifted him and tossed to the side. Ymdaton’s short flight was stopped by the nearest fence. The impact did hurt a lot. He fell down on his right side and in this very moment everyone was upon him. He tried to block kicks as quick as he could, yet the onslaught was too intense.

A sudden yell from the other side of the street made boys cease their attack and run off. Ymdaton got up and saw a tall grizzled man approaching. Strangers nose looked as if it was broken more than once.

“How did you upset them so much?” asked the stranger with a dry smile.

“None of your business,” spat Ymdaton, while shaking off the dirt from his tunic. He instantly felt guilty and added, “Thank you.”

He then ran off without waiting for the man to say anything more.

Ymdaton did not hurry to get home. He wandered the city in its general direction, being gnawed upon by various unpleasant thoughts. At the crossroads of the Royal Street, which led to the residence of the king, and Trader’s Row an unusual sight caught his unfocused attention. He certainly did not remember a pile of rubble in the middle of the crossing. Upon the broken stones stood a half of a broken statue. After examining it closer, the boy realised he was mistaken.

Armoured legs and the pelvis made of bronze were not remnants, but rather a monument under construction. The body above was only suggested by a skeleton of metal rods which reached almost forty five cubits of height. A feeling of awe grew in Ymdaton’s heart. Despite the statue being incomplete, its present parts made his mind draw a clear image of what it was going to be: a warrior with a blade raised high in salute, victorious, dynamic, powerful, majestic.

“Wonderful, isn’t it? He is not yet revealed to the world, but his power could be felt already,” heard he a voice to the left.

He turned his head to see an old man with long whiskers, standing nearby with his hands behind his back.

“Who is it?” asked Ymdaton, returning his gaze to the statue.

“It is a monument to celebrate the victory of Isary over Perusna. Trophy tyrsenoi arms were melted down to produce this bronze. It will be an image of Sumiaton, the servant of house Abeneewy. He was the one who breached the walls,” explained the old one with a passion.

“You seem to know much about it.”

“I’ve sculpted it. My name is Umilles,” said the man.

“I’ve heard about you,” the boy looked at him with respect, “You’ve created statues in temples of Mahandahy and Nisirask.”

Umilles nodded.

“But what with this rubble?” asked Ymdaton.

The man’s face displayed an expression between annoyance and disappointment. He quickly got hold of himself and smiled.

“It is not a rubble. That is the postament that I’ve designed for the statue. It symbolizes the defences that mighty Sumiaton broke.”

The boy looked at the statue for some more moments, then bid farewell to the sculptor and left, to avoid awkward silence.

As Ymdaton returned home, he was met by an old maid.

“Your father awaits you at the backyard, young master,” said the woman.

Without changing clothes or washing the street dirt, the boy followed the request. He found his father hammering at the wooden life-size figure of a man with a weapon made similarly of wood. It was a common exercise, Ymdaton himself did it many times. One was supposed to hit the dummy a thousand times to complete it. Hamysbir noticed him instantly.

“What happened?” asked the man, glancing at many bruises and grazes blemishing boy’s body.

“I climbed the tree, trying to catch a squirrel. Stepped on a weak branch and, well...”

His father was silent for some moments.

“Anyway,” said he finally, “How was your mathematics class today?”

“Kind of boring, as always. I did well though,” answered the son with a caution. He suspected that the father knew something.

“That is interesting, because I’ve visited master Sikarhy today and he told me that he saw you two moons ago for the last time. I also know that you are visiting Yehoum, taking the lessons of blade art. Did not I forbid it?”

“You did,” mumbled the boy, looking at his feet.

“The old fool only accepts you without payment because he taught me before. He thinks that he is doing me a favor. I will repeat myself again. I order you to never again come to his place and take a weapon in your hands. Study disciplines which will teach you to think and make a coin. Swinging an axe will not get you far,” the man’s intonation became harsh and allowed no protest.

This indisputable manner raised a fire in boy’s heart. He felt a sudden urge to cry out, to oppose father’s decision.

“Oh and why so?,” shouted he in a cracking voice, “Because you know that I am more talented warrior than you ever were? Because you fear that I will perform real deeds of valor and ascend into songs, unlike you?”

He spewed his defiance and expected an instant retaliation. It did not come: no hits, no yells, no insults, no persuasions. His father simply stood there and looked at him with a slight disappointment in his eyes, not saying a word. For Ymdaton that silence was more of a pressure than any action. His resolve broke and he fled into the house, hiding in his room.

On that warm evening coldness thrived between the father and the son, to persist for years onwards.