Morning light was seeping in through the old oak trees, as three young warriors fought against each other, testing their individual skill. Despite the fact the sun had only just risen, the trio had been up for hours, working well throughout the early morning. Beams of light dappled their way through the leaves high above their heads, casting loomed shadows, stretching and distorting the warriors features. Clashes of metal were barely audible, because of the constant threat of attack. Risen were dotted around the forest, preying on the living, hinting for the three to stay as quiet as they could.
"Not cool, man. Not cool," Owain whispered to his friend, after an axe had been swung down, tearing part of his uniform. Gerome only half smiled, dropping the his weapon next to his side, then checking to see whether or not he had inflicted any damage on Owain. Inigo seized his chance to attack, cutting the air with his blade, ready to slice at the unexpecting Gerome. Swiftly, Gerome dodged, leaving Inigo's sword lodged firmly in the earth below their feet; the boy desperately trying to pull it out of the mud.
"You're too predictable," Gerome chuckled as he investigated a small gash on Owain's shoulder, which was now leaking out a small amount of blood, "Let's return back to camp, anyway. That's enough training for now."
Inigo's sword was still embedded in the ground, no matter how hard he yanked it, "We're not going anywhere until I get this thing out. Come and help me, Gerome?" He pleaded, looking up towards his two friends, who had now both turned their heads to present looks of pity. Owain still stood where he was, his 'sword' hand clutching a piece of torn fabric to stop the flow of blood. Gerome on the other hand, walked calmly towards his hopeless friend, who was still grasping the hilt tightly; marks had been etched in the ground from where he had been putting force down to try lift the sword.
When Gerome had reached his friend, he wrapped his fingers tightly around the handle protruding from the ground, and started pulling with all his might. However, it was no use: the sword was firmly stuck in the ground, and didn't look like it was going anywhere soon.
"Just buy a new one, Inigo. Or you could always find one from the convoy," Gerome suggested politely, dusting his sore hands off on his pants. Inigo looked almost hurt, his jaw dropping a few centimetres.
"Buy a new one? Haven't you noticed all the merchants are dead? " Inigo wept, saddening himself with his own words, "And most of the swords in the convoy are used. I don't want a used sword! I want that one," He pointed to the ground, where the glint of silver was.
"Stop acting like a spoiled brat, Inigo," Gerome sighed, placing two fingers in his mouth to whistle, beckoning out to his dragon. Inigo wiped a few tears on his sleeve, then gave the hilt of his former sword one last pull, which was all in vain. He then began violently kicking it, causing it to bend slightly.
"That's what you get for using an iron sword," Owain chuckled, as a dark figure cast a large shadow over the three boys, disturbing the trees surrounding them, as her wings sent strong gusts of wind. Minerva soon touched the ground, waddling over to Gerome to give him a playful nudge.
"Minervykins," Gerome began, earning snickers from Inigo and Owain, "Would you be a dear and pull out that piece of metal for me?" He said as he caressed her nose. The Wyvern twister her body towards the weapon, stretching her neck to reach it's hilt. Her powerful jaws clamped round it, and with one swift tug, it was out. Waiting for the sword to be dropped, Inigo beamed happily, thanking Gerome for his help. Minerva spat the sword out, revealing just how powerful her jaw had been; the sword fell out in two parts.
"What?! You destroyed it!" The boy called, picking up the two pieces of metal covered in Wyvern saliva. His two friends let out muffled laughs, as Gerome helped Owain onto his companions back.
"What did you expect, dummy, now come here or we're leaving you," Gerome chuckled, stretching out a gloved hand for Inigo to take. Reluctantly, Inigo grabbed the hand tightly, and was hauled onto the Wyvern's scaly back. Minerva let out a small screech, and took off, her leathery wings moving up and down, flying them back to camp.