Wanderer's Song

by P. E. Padilla

  “No,” Aeden agreed and chuckled.

  “I’m going to go and see my family. I should be able to survive tomorrow. I’m second in the class in combat behind you. Still, I better go and see them.”

  “Me too,” Aeden said. The boys clasped forearms. “I will see you later, after dinner.”

  They split up and went their separate ways, Greimich to his family and Aeden to his.

  “Level four combat tomorrow,” Miera said with a frown. “I understand requiring the boys to be willing to follow orders even if they don’t agree with them, but I have never liked level four. Why injure or kill one of our own? We could use every man if one of the other clans—or outsiders—attack.”

  “Ah, Miera,” Sartan said, “ever the soft heart.” He pulled her into an embrace and kissed her. “It is a tradition from the first clan that grew from the Cridheargla. It will be fine. Aeden is the best of the class. He will be safe.”

  Miera didn’t say anything, but her face still showed concern. Sartan’s face, too, held reservation. His brow was slightly furrowed and his eyes wouldn’t quite reach Aeden’s. What was going on?

  “Father,” he said. “Is there something we are not being told about tomorrow’s trial?”

  The way Sartan flicked his eyes toward his son and how they opened slightly more told Aeden all he needed to know.

  “Why would you ask such a thing, my son?” the clan chief said. “It is the highest level of combat besides real warfare. Is that not enough for anyone?”

  Miera looked at her hands.

  “Yes,” said Aeden. “I suppose it is. I must get back to my bunk now. I want to be well-rested for tomorrow.”

  The look of relief on both of his parents’ faces when he changed the subject confirmed they were hiding something. Aeden thought he might know what, but he would be patient and wait for tomorrow. Knowing with certainty would do nothing but interrupt his sleep.

  “I love you, Aeden,” Miera said as she swept him into a hug.

  ‘I love you too, Mother. Father.”

  He hugged both of them, suffered through a kiss from his mother, and headed back to his pallet in the barracks where all the trainees were required to live. One thing was sure, he would have to hurt someone tomorrow. He hoped his hunch was wrong.

  Aeden and Greimich woke up at the same time the next morning, neither of them having slept well. They had nearly two hours before they were required to be at the training grounds, so they went to the dining hall and took their time eating breakfast. The large room was used by all in the village, everyone required to eat at least one meal a day there to keep contact with other clan members. For the most part, the trainees ate every meal there.

  Despite the very early hour, many of the boys and girls in training were already eating their breakfast. It must be normal to feel so nervous about what would happen that sleep eluded them before the level four fights. Aeden didn’t see Donagh, but whether that was because he slept well or because he was too nervous to be seen wasn’t clear.

  It didn’t matter. Aeden had no fear of fighting the other boy. In fact, he would prefer it. The bully had gone right back to his terrorizing ways after he had healed from their last bout. He stayed clear of Aeden himself, but he had obviously not learned a proper attitude. If there was one boy he wouldn’t mind beating senseless, it was that one.

  “How do they pick who we’ll fight?” Greimich asked.

  Several other boys and a girl at nearby tables cocked their heads to listen.

  “I don’t know,” Aeden replied. “I have asked my parents and others and no one will tell me anything. It’s like it’s a big secret or something. I don’t like that.”

  “Aye, me either.”

  They continued eating silently. Greimich looked at Aeden as if to speak a few times, but then apparently changed his mind and took another bite of food.

  When they had eaten as much as was wise considering the first bouts started in just over an hour, Aeden and Greimich left the dining hall and headed toward the training grounds.

  They started, as Aeden always did, with running easily around the area, warming their muscles and gearing up their breathing for the fight. Then, they chose practice weapons, the sword for Aeden and twin sticks for Greimich, and they sparred. They did so slowly at first, but soon moved at almost full speed, attacking, defending, and stalking around the area.

  “Enough,” Greimich called out, crossing his sticks in a salute. “I don’t want to be too tired for the actual fighting.”

  Aeden returned the salute by holding the sword vertically in front of his face. It was good sparring with his friend. The boy had become a fine combatant. He had almost struck Aeden a few times there. Aeden had tapped him with his sword, blows that could have been hard and—if he carried a steel blade—lethal, but it was by no means easy. His body was warmed up, and he was ready for the day’s trials.

  “I know I can take anyone here, except you,” Greimich said, “but I’m still nervous. If I have a bad day and my opponent has a good one, I could be hurt seriously. Or killed. I don’t want that to happen. I’m not a coward, mind you. Pain is part of life. But I wouldn’t want to be crippled before I have a chance to fight real enemies. Do you understand that?”

  “I do,” Aeden said. “I don’t worry about being hurt, but I wouldn’t like to kill one of my own clan, or injure them seriously.”

  The other boy’s eyebrows raised at that. “You are nervous about injuring your opponent?”

  “Yes. Aren’t you?”

  Greimich paused for a long minute, looking at his friend. “No. Master Tuach has told us we must follow orders above all else. If we must hurt our brother or sister to prove our loyalty, it is for the greater good. Right?”

  “As you say,” Aeden said.

  “Gather round,” Master Tuach said, entering the training grounds. “There will be thirteen matches today, so we must get started right away.”

  Aeden and Greimich replaced their weapons on the rack and went to stand with the others as the master motioned to several clan warriors, who moved into position around the crowd of trainees.

  “What you are about to hear you must never repeat to any who have not passed their trials. Violation of this rule carries a penalty of instant death. Do you understand?”

  The boys and girls all nodded. Aeden looked at Greimich, but his friend seemed preoccupied with something else, his face gone ashen. Aeden feared his suspicions were true. He didn’t like that the men surrounded them to prevent any from running. It didn’t bode well.

  “Today’s combat will be level four combat, meaning that the only way a bout will end is if your foe is unconscious, dead, or so severely crippled that he or she cannot possibly rally. Being thrown from the ring will not end that fight. Do you understand this?”

  He looked at each of the trainees to make sure they nodded their affirmation.

  “Good. We will not be drawing your opponent’s names. They have already been determined.”

  As one, all the boys and girls snapped their eyes toward the master. Some even leaned forward. The morning air was silent enough that Aeden could hear Greimich breathing next to him.

  “Combat will be with your training partner, your Braitharlan. Prepare yourselves.”

  Numbness washed over Aeden. It was as he suspected. Still, when the master said the words, they were a surprise to him. He blinked, not moving or making a sound. He heard a noise to his right as one of the boys tried to run out of the grounds. One of the men surrounding them caught the boy and threw him back into the group. There was even weeping from somewhere.

  “Daight daedos ist,” Aeden spat.

  He turned and saw Greimich looking at him, his face devoid of color. Aeden opened his mouth to speak, but Master Tuach’s voice boomed over anything he would have said.

  “Aeden and Greimich! You two are the top rated and also happen to be paired. You’re up. Choose your weapons.”

  With a final, forlorn look at Aeden, Gre
imich went to the weapon rack and retrieved the sticks he had just returned. Aeden picked up the training sword he had been using. Both of them trudged toward the center of the training grounds, to the all-too-familiar ring in which they would fight.

  “Let me remind you that this is level four combat,” Tuach said. “You will win or you will be unconscious, seriously injured, or killed. Those are the only options.” He turned toward the other trainees in a loose circle around the combat ring. “You have grown close to your partner, you have become friends, family even. This is a test of your loyalty. You must put the clan first, and the good of the whole clan above individuals. If you cannot sacrifice one, even a loved one, for the good of the clan, you are to be cut off. The clan is all. Any who refuse to fight will face the Daodh Gnath, the Ritual of Death.”

  The master glared at those around him, then nodded. He turned his attention back to Aeden and Greimich. “You are to be the first. Show these others what it means to be a clan warrior. Do not hold back. Fight for your life, for that is what you are truly doing. Begin!”

  Aeden looked at his friend. Greimich looked back at him. Aeden opened his mouth, but Greimich simply shook his head, set his jaw, and attacked.

  The ferocity of the attack surprised Aeden at first, but then it made sense. His friend knew that he could not defeat Aeden in a fair fight, so he would try everything to throw his opponent off-balance. It was a good tactic.

  With a scream, Greimich rushed in, sticks swinging independently, the left coming in with a horizontal strike to the right while the right came down diagonally toward Aeden’s head.

  Aeden lifted his sword hilt up and to the left side of his head, catching the stick and deflecting it downward. In the same motion, he allowed the sword to slide down with the stick until it was on his right side, blocking the other stick. In a blink, he reversed the direction of the sword and sliced downward from right to left, a vicious cut toward Greimich’s exposed neck.

  The other boy jerked both sticks up to block the strike. Barely. Aeden’s swing was so powerful, it battered the sticks against Greimich’s shoulder, forcing him to stumble away, off-balance.

  Aeden lunged and his sword tapped his opponent’s abdomen before a desperate twisting parry with one of the sticks forced the blade away from him.

  Two jabs with the sticks toward Aeden’s face and throat—which he easily deflected with his blade—and three lightning-fast strikes toward Aeden’s head, and Greimich had regained his balance. He tried to move forward, forcing Aeden to give ground, but the clan chief’s son would not yield an inch.

  Instead, Aeden moved a step to his left and transformed a block into a horizontal cut from the left to the midsection. He morphed that motion into another lunge to the belly. He circled his sword to deliver a downward diagonal strike from the upper left, and then quickly changed direction to strike from the upper right down to Greimich’s neck. It all happened in the blink of an eye.

  The other boy batted away or deflected all four blows, but Aeden hadn’t expected any to land. The true purpose of his attack became clear to all as Aeden used the rotation from the last strike to throw his right foot out and sweep Greimich’s left leg.

  Aeden’s friend’s eyes went wide in panic as his leg flew out from under him and he began to fall. As his opponent fell, Aeden continued his spin, brought his left leg out with all the momentum his turning had generated, and connected with a downward spin kick—like an ax chopping wood—right on top of Greimich’s nose.

  The other boy hurtled toward the ground and struck hard, one stick flying from his grasp. He expelled a grunt that sounded like all the air left his lungs.

  This was the tricky part. Aeden followed his opponent to the ground, lunging in once again with his sword. He grunted for emphasis as he drove it into Greimich’s neck, just below the jawbone under his ear. His foe’s eyes rolled up and he went limp.

  Aeden stood there in a lunge, right knee at a perfect square angle, left leg straight behind him, his sword making a clean line with the rest of his body. He didn’t move for two seconds, waiting to see if Greimich would move to get up.

  He didn’t.

  Finally, Aeden straightened, put his sword vertically in a salute to his opponent, turned and saluted Master Tuach, and waited, standing at attention with the back of the sword resting against his arm.

  The crowd was silent. Aeden could hear the labored breaths of some of those close to the training ring. A light breeze caressed his ear. There was a faint sound of retching and liquid splashing, but Aeden couldn’t see who the source of the sound was.

  “Done,” Tuach said, eyeing Aeden with suspicion. “Clear the ring.”

  Aeden dropped his sword and went toward his friend. Though Greimich was bigger than Aeden—by a little bit—the smaller boy picked up his friend and carried him out of the ring. As the spectators moved to allow him to go through, he caught sight of his parents. His mother had a horrified look on her face, almost as if she would cry—though Aeden knew she wouldn’t. His father’s face was impassive, but there was the slightest bit of surprise and maybe a little respect in his eyes. His barely perceptible nod as Aeden passed warmed the boy’s heart.

  His father knew. He knew, and he approved.

  5

  “What?” Greimich’s eyes snapped open as if he was having a nightmare. “What happened? Oh!” The whites of his eyes showed as his pupils rolled upward. He looked like he was going to be sick.

  “Take it easy,” Aeden told him. “You’re going to be dizzy for a while, maybe sick to your stomach. It couldn’t be helped.”

  Greimich closed his eyes and took a slow breath. “Aeden?” He spoke more slowly this time. “What happened? Did you kill me?”

  Aeden chuckled. “No, but I had to make it look like I did. I just knocked you out. Really far out. It’s been over a day. I was afraid I permanently injured you. It still remains to be seen if you are mentally damaged. More than you already were.”

  “Owww,” Greimich said, putting his palm to his head. “I feel dead. What did you do?”

  “The only thing I could think of on such short notice. You know how the practice swords are. They are heavy and hard, but the point is blunt.”

  “Yeah,” Greimich said.

  “Well, I’ve been looking at some of the old texts. You know, the ones on hand-to-hand combat, the way it used to be done hundreds of years ago?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well, the other day I found a book about pressure points. There’s one just here,” he pointed to where he had jammed the practice sword. The skin there was brown, yellow, and purple with bruises. “If you strike it correctly, it will instantly make your target unconscious. I kind of jabbed my sword into it. Hard. It’s meant for fingers or a thin rod, but all I had was the sword.”

  “You stabbed me in the neck with your sword?”

  “Yes,” Aeden said, feeling his face go warm. “I sort of had to. I couldn’t think of anything else that would satisfy Master Tuach but didn’t permanently harm you.”

  “Oh. I guess it’s good you read about that pressure point, huh?”

  “I think so. It was either that or hit you so hard I had to chance paralyzing or killing you.”

  Greimich was quiet for a moment. “Thank you, Aeden.”

  “You’re my friend, Greimich, my Braitharlan. Clan or not, you are my friend, closer than family. Rest now. I have to get back to training. I’ll see you when you get out of here.”

  Greimich waved his hand weakly at Aeden and closed his eyes. He was asleep before Aeden had even left the room. Aeden tried not to think about what his friend would have done if their roles had been reversed.

  Three of the trainees received injuries so severe that they would never fight again. Because of the manner in which they were injured, they were afforded some honor and allowed to take jobs they could perform—menial things, mostly—instead of simply being killed ritually in the Daodh Gnath. One girl had refused to fight and was executed. Tha
t brought the number of trainees to twenty-two, though nearly half of those were recovering in the healing tents.

  Aeden and Sartan never mentioned what both knew happened, but from what they did speak about, Aeden knew that his father understood what he did and he approved of it. There were no blatant outward signs of this, just a glimmer in his father’s eyes. After Sartan had explained it to his wife, though, she smiled at Aeden every time the subject of the combat came up. She didn’t hide her pride in what her son had done. She even whispered to him once that he had defeated a centuries-old tradition in the most honorable of ways. It was a beginning worthy of a hero story, she said.

  Life became a never-ending cycle of combat, education in other important aspects of clan life, and physical training. Aeden grew stronger and taller and his muscles continued to get larger. He would never be a bulky man, but he was beginning to take on the cast of an agile, supple warrior. He moved like he was dangerous, and he truly was.

  When Aeden was twelve, a group of the clan’s warriors, his father one of them, took him nearly a day’s travel away from their village. When they stopped in a clearing, he was made to strip off his clothes and give them to the men. They left him with instructions to return to the village in no less than a week’s time. There was no reason to blindfold him or obscure their trail. The test was not of tracking, but of survival in the wild.

  The highlands grew very cold in the winter, and in those months, snow covered the land. Fortunately for Aeden, the trial occurred in mid-summer. Or maybe it was not fortunate. Humidity and heat reigned, and the sun beat down on him relentlessly. Insects swarmed everywhere. Still, it could have been worse.

  His first priority was making a weapon. The warriors left him nothing, not even a knife, so he had to make do with what he found.

  He found what he needed at a nearby river. A hard, brittle piece of flint almost as long as his forearm and some other rocks he could use. It took him the better part of a day, but he crafted a primitive knife by striking the long piece of stone with the other rocks, chipping bits off. When he finished, he held up his handiwork. It was a long, jagged piece of gray rock. It wasn’t much to look at, but its sharp edges made it a fine tool.