Wanderer's Song

by P. E. Padilla

  “Ah, I see then.” Sartan turned his gaze from Miera to Aeden. “And how are you feeling, lad? You’re a bit torn up. I can’t wait to hear the tale of how it happened.”

  “Oh, Sar, leave him be. Let the boy heal a bit before you go demanding stories of him.”

  “I must have tripped and fallen down,” Aeden said, smirking at his father. His head still felt like it was full of rocks and jolts of pain shot through him with every movement, but he would heal, and that made his mood better than it should have been. “I’m clumsy that way, always bruising myself for no reason.”

  “Ha!” His father’s laugh boomed. “Clumsy. Aye, that must be it. You tripped and fell, tore open your shoulder and your arm, then rolled around in the dirt until they became infected. I’m sure it happened exactly that way.”

  “Okay,” Miera said, “enough of your japes. Aeden, you must eat some broth and then sleep again. Tomorrow, the fever and infection should be gone all the way and then you can joke with your father and tell him the tall tale of your exploits. For now, Eimhir has charged me with keeping you undisturbed while she tends to the others, and I take my responsibilities seriously. Begone with you, Sartan. Tomorrow is soon enough for your prodding.”

  “Ach, woman,” Aeden’s father said. “If I didn’t love you so fiercely, you would sorely try my nerves.” He leaned over and kissed her gently on the mouth, swiped a stray lock of hair off Aeden’s forehead, and turned to leave. “You make me proud, boy, truly you do,” he said as he left.

  Aeden found his eyes filling with tears, and he was glad his father had already passed through the doorway.

  “Aww,” his mother said. “He loves you dearly, as do I.” She kissed his forehead and put a cup to his mouth for him to drink. He was soon asleep again.

  When Aeden had rested and was thinking clearly, he told his father of his trial. The clan chief nodded as he listened, eyes widening at the account of the battle with the highland cat. He smiled that his son had remembered not only the healing herbs that undoubtedly saved his life, but also how to dress the hide of the beast he killed to provide himself clothing. He also commended Aeden on the right choices, first staying in camp to try to treat his fever so he wouldn’t return early to the village, and also for leaving when he did.

  It was a close call. Eimhir, the healer, said that if he had been a few hours longer, the fever would have taken him and he would have gone unconscious, then slipped into death. The others sitting around Aeden’s bed listening to the tale, several warrior men, a female clan warrior, and Miera, were astounded at the ordeal.

  “We try to pick locations where there are no major predators,” Dor, one of the clan warriors and father to another of the trainees, said. “The trial should be more about foraging and hunting small game than a life-or-death struggle against powerful adversaries. You did fine, though, Aeden. Better than fine. You survived where it is doubtful any of the others could have.”

  “True,” Sartan said. “We lost three to the trials this year. One became lost and starved. One was attacked by a few of the leapers. The last was stung by prickle flies and was allergic. Two others came back early—including Donagh, and so will not continue in their training.”

  “What of Greimich?” Aeden asked.

  “He passed,” Sartan answered. “He met no dangerous animals and was able to catch enough fish that he actually gained a little weight during the week. He has been asking about you. We will let him stop by later today so you can tell each other all about it.”

  Aeden let out a breath, not realizing he had been holding it. His friend was safe. That was good.

  9

  The time of the Trial of Combat was upon them. Aeden was thirteen years old and nearly a year had passed since the Trial of Survival. He had grown, taller and heavier than before. Most of the additional weight was muscle. He would still never be bulky, but he looked less skinny than before. Sleeker, more developed. His abilities had grown, too, with his training.

  The Trial was designed for each trainee individually to challenge them, but not make it impossible to succeed. For some, it was to fight the one just above them in the combat rankings. For Aeden, it was to fight four of the trainees in the upper middle of the rankings. More, his opponents would have weapons and he would not.

  “Four?” Greimich said to Aeden after the announcements were made. “I don’t think anyone has ever had to face four in the Trial.”

  “There was one,” Aeden said, “maybe twenty years ago. My father.”

  “Oh.”

  “But he was allowed to choose a weapon. He told me he has never heard of four against one, with the one unarmed. I’m just lucky, I guess.”

  “Yeah,” Greimich said. “Lucky.”

  “You know how this works,” Master Tuach said. “This is level three combat, so you do not have to try to permanently harm your opponents. If that is the only way to succeed, then it will be on your conscience if you decide to take the more violent approach. Know that we will judge your honor as well as your fighting ability.”

  The combatants nodded. It was still early on the first day, and those who would be fighting Aeden would have their own Trials the next day so they could have adequate time to rest in between.

  Aeden looked at his opponents. They seemed to be as nervous as he felt, fidgeting, eyes darting. Their lives were not on the line, of course, because they were only the tools to test him. Their own Trials were the ones that mattered.

  He didn’t like it that his Trial was the first on the first day. He would rather watch a few other bouts before fighting, but it would probably be better to get it over with. This way, he would succeed or fail, and then he would be done and able to enjoy watching the others. If he succeeded. If he failed, he could still watch the others, but he doubted he’d enjoy it.

  Aeden squared off with his four opponents in the center of the training ring. He was familiar with their fighting styles—as they were with his—because they had seen each other fight for years at that point. All the smarter fighters paid close attention to the others’ bouts. These four were in the top third of the class; they were smart as well as skilled.

  Carbry was tallest of them, thick and strong and weighing more than Aeden’s other three opponents. He held a great war hammer, its head made of hollow hardwood so it would not crush bones as the real weapon would.

  Next to him was Cinaed, his long red hair rippling in the wind. His weapon of choice was a spear, which resembled his thin, straight body. Morag, the only girl of the quartet, was almost as big as Carbry, and she could wield the greatsword leaning against her as well as any of the boy trainees. She nodded to Aeden, her black hair falling into her face.

  Finally, there was Ruadh, his hair even brighter red than Cinaed’s, almost orange. He had an average build, not as muscular as Aeden was becoming, but not thin as Cinaed, either. He held a broadsword in one hand, much like the one Aeden usually used. Looking closer, Aeden saw that it was the exact sword he normally used, the telltale chip on the blade just above the hand guard confirming it. Ruadh noticed Aeden’s recognition and smiled.

  Aeden himself was not allowed a weapon, so his first order of business would be to take one from one of the others. They would think he would go for the broadsword, since it was his chosen weapon. That meant he could not. They would have laid a trap for him and he dared not fall into it.

  The combatants saluted each other and turned to Master Tuach to do the same. He started the match as he always did, simply shouting, “Go!”

  The four came at Aeden in a rush, not letting him isolate them. They had been in the same lessons as he and knew he was familiar with how to fight multiple opponents. They coordinated their movements and came in together, or at least as closely as possible without striking each other.

  Carbry swung his great hammer from Aeden’s right side with a speed he could not have achieved with a fully-weighted hammer. At the same time, Cinaed lunged in with the spear to stab Aeden with the wooden point an
d Morag took a wide swing at him with her sword from Aeden’s left side.

  Aeden batted the spear to the side, contacting the shaft just below the blade with his open hand, and stepped forward. The tock sound his roughened hand made on the wood mingled with the whooshes from the other weapons coming after him. He had stepped inside the range of the hammer and was able to jam Carbry’s arm with his other palm, causing the boy to overextend his arm as his elbow locked painfully. The greatsword was still in motion, coming in for a horizontal cut to Aeden’s head.

  He dipped under the sword and as it passed—the momentum being too great for Morag to turn the trajectory aside in time—and kicked out to strike her hard in the kidney. She cried out and stumbled into Carbry, their limbs tangling for a moment. Aeden caught the movement of the broadsword out of the corner of his eye as he turned, and he was barely able to throw his right shoulder at the ground into a roll. Ruadh’s sword missed him by inches.

  Aeden knew he couldn’t dodge all the weapons for long, so as he came to his feet, he dove toward Cinaed, who had started to bring the spear back around to strike at him. He grabbed the shaft of the weapon, twisted it in Cinaed’s grip, and kicked the other boy in the abdomen so hard his feet left the ground. Cinaed did not let go of the spear, though.

  Locking his arms and using the leverage of his rotating hip, Aeden moved the spear to block another blow from the broadsword; Ruadh had recovered faster than the others because of his lighter weapon. Another kick to Cinaed, this time to the ribs, and another twisting motion, and the spear came free in Aeden’s hands. He spun it and struck its former wielder on the side of the head with the butt of the weapon. Cinaed dropped to the ground instantly.

  Aeden turned, lashing out with the blade of the spear where he knew the broadsword to be. The clashing hardwood thudded, and the shaft vibrated in Aeden’s hands. He leapt back to gauge his opponents.

  The three remaining attackers circled him warily. He had a superior reach with his new weapon, and they would proceed carefully.

  At least, Aeden thought they would. Instead, all three charged him, obviously willing to sacrifice one of their number to defeat him. He flicked the spear left to block the broadsword again, then right to deflect the greatsword. Carbry dashed straight toward him, hammer swinging downward with all his might at Aeden’s head.

  Aeden did all that he could think to do. He flicked the flexible shaft of the spear at Carbry’s neck, first on the left side and then the right. The smack of the wooden blade made the larger boy cough and sputter as if being choked. He dropped the hammer mid-swing and put his hands on his bruised throat. Aeden whirled, striking both of the Carbry’s legs behind the knee, and swept them out from under him. He landed flat on his back, still gasping.

  Aeden’s two opponents looked briefly at each other. He could almost hear their thoughts. He has already taken out two of us and now he has a weapon. A long weapon. He resisted the urge to smile at them. It would not do to become overconfident.

  Morag moved first, charging him with her greatsword, Ruadh only a step behind. Aeden danced to the side, swinging the tip of the spear at the boy. The clack of wood echoed through the training yard as his opponent blocked the strike. Morag was on the other side of the broadsword wielder and could not complete her strike without hitting her ally.

  She turned just in time to see the spear coming straight at her face.

  Aeden had laid his weapon along his shoulders behind his neck and propelled the shaft along the length of his left arm and shoulder, controlling it loosely as it zipped through his left hand. She was not able to get her sword up in time, not able to evade it. The point, though dull, would puncture her eye and blind her permanently.

  Aeden closed his fist on the shaft and stopped it just short of blinding the girl, a hair’s breadth from her pupil. She didn’t have time to fully exhale before he stepped forward while spinning the spear to strike her in the temple with the butt of the weapon. She dropped to the ground bonelessly, just as Cinaed had done seconds before.

  Ruadh, not waiting for Aeden to turn his attention to him, lunged in with his sword, striking Aeden’s left arm hard near the elbow. Lightning shot up and down the arm and Aeden almost dropped his spear. Instead, he shifted his shoulder to move the sword upward, away from his head and face, and connected a perfectly-timed side kick that lifted his opponent off his feet and landed him a few feet away.

  Aeden couldn’t control the spear with his numbed left arm, so he grasped his weapon further up the shaft with his right hand and jabbed at Ruadh. They danced around the center of the ring for the time it took for each to attack four times. Lunge, parry, jab, deflect, slice, evade; they moved so quickly the spectators probably couldn’t follow the blurred weapons.

  Ruadh committed himself to a powerful downward stroke toward Aeden’s head. Bracing the spear under his right arm, Aeden swung inward and slapped the oncoming blade toward his left side. In the same motion, his left foot arced outward in a crescent kick that connected to Ruadh’s cheek, upsetting his balance. A right inward crescent kick followed, staggering him even more, Ruadh’s sword still far to the right of the kicks.

  Aeden left the ground, jumping and spinning to harness the motion he had already built up. His left foot came around so rapidly, the dazed Ruadh couldn’t even focus his eyes on it as it contacted him in the side of the head. The force was enough to nearly flip the boy sideways. He landed in a pile of flaccid limbs outside the ring.

  The clan chief’s son landed on the balls of his feet, balanced with the spear held steady in his right hand, the tip pointing at his opponents and the other end behind his arm, protruding out behind his back. There was no need for his ready stance, though. The others were either unconscious or out of the ring.

  He had passed his Trial.

  Master Tuach shouted “End,” and Aeden rushed to his fallen opponents to make sure they were not seriously injured. They regained consciousness a few minutes later, and though Carbry had difficulty breathing and speaking with his throat so bruised, none of the four would suffer lasting effects of the battle.

  “You did not use maximum force or technique on your opponents,” Tuach said to him as the others were helped or carried out of the ring. “You did not strike first and hardest to eliminate your opponents as quickly as you can, as you have been trained. Is this becoming a habit for you, Aeden?”

  “I didn’t need to,” Aeden answered.

  “If one of them had gotten in a lucky strike, you could have lost. Once committed to battle, we must engage with every bit of ferocity we possess.”

  “Master Tuach,” Aeden said. “I know that is the truth, but this is not real battle. One, or all, of these may someday save my life in a real battle. Why would I want to cripple them now? When the stakes are real, life or death, I will not hesitate. But I will also not cripple or kill my family if it is unnecessary.”

  The master looked at him, searching his eyes, then nodded and put his arm on the boy’s shoulder. “Good. That is good. Just don’t go telling the other lads that. They wouldn’t understand and would use it as an excuse to shirk.”

  “I will keep silent about it,” Aeden said.

  10

  The trainees who were successful in their Trials of Combat paid a visit to Dubhach, the tattooer. In general, clan warriors each had a few tattoos, some many more than a few. Perhaps the art commemorated important battles or quests, or at times they would indicate something special, and Dubhach was the one to make the designs come to life with needle and ink.

  The tattoos for the successful completion of the Trial of Combat, though, were a sacred thing and must be applied exactly as they had been for the last thousand years. It was an intricate design, but one that the tattooer could do in his sleep. It took hours of detailed work and was always on the left wrist for all to see. It looked like a continuous band around the wrist, swirls and maddeningly complex curves, but was actually two copies of the same art, one on each side and meeting in the middle.


  “This marking symbolizes that you have passed your Trial of Combat,” Dubhach told Aeden as he finished the tattoo. “There is another that you will receive when you pass your Trial of Magic, but that one is not the work of any such as I. It is applied to your skin magically, a product of the spells the clan chief and the clan elders cast upon you.

  “These two tattoos announce to anyone who knows our ways that you are a warrior of the Tannoch clan and that an attack on you means they attack and insult everyone else in the clan. You are halfway there. Succeed in your Trial of Magic, and you will truly be a warrior of Tannoch.”

  Aeden nodded respectfully to the tattooer and inspected the marking on his wrist. It stung still, would do so for several days according to Dubhach, but it was a beautiful thing to behold. He followed the swirling lines around, trying to see some pattern in it, but he could not. Perhaps it symbolized the ever-flowing and circular nature of life and the world.

  He laughed, thinking that maybe he had been reading too many of the old philosophy books kept in the village safehold. His father always joked with him that he acted twice his real age. Aeden figured the hard training was responsible, causing him to put away boyish things much earlier than he otherwise would have. It was a puzzle for wiser heads than his.

  The boys and girls who did not pass the Trial of Combat to earn their tattoos had one other chance to prove themselves worthy. Once they healed fully from the previous trial, they were allowed to face the Trial again.

  The elders of the clan knew that not everyone would be the best fighter of their peers, so the Trials were designed to push them, to force them to go beyond their normal abilities, to grow as warriors. It was rare that anyone failed the second Trial of Combat. Those who did, however, were cast out of the clan, given a waterskin and a knife and forced to flee. If they were ever found within clan lands after their banishment, they would be killed on the spot. There was no one who received such punishment in Aeden’s class. He was glad of that. He could think of nothing worse than banishment from the clan.