The boy’s hair was auburn, neither true red nor brown. Just like his father’s. Sartan glanced down the hill at Miera, striding up past the grazing sheep, coming toward him, her red hair a dazzling shroud of flame. It was the color of the berry paste that the Croagh smeared on themselves before battle, and like the thrill of battle, seeing her made his heartbeat quicken.
Would his daughter have had her mother’s hair? Better not to think of that. He still felt as if part of his soul was missing. He understood tradition and had no choice but to adhere to it, but it was a cruel joke the fates played on him, giving him twins, one of each sex. He shook his head sadly. Two girls, or two boys, and it would have been a different story.
“What is it, my love?” Miera asked. “Do you not take pride in your son’s abilities?”
Sartan took her hand and pulled her to him, kissing her cheek. “Aye, I take pride in him. Look how he moves. At eight years old, he can best most of the boys in training and all of the girls. He will be a fine warrior.”
“And a fine chief, when it comes to that,” she added.
“Aye, that as well. I thought that very thing less than a minute ago.”
“Then what is troubling you? Dinna tell me ‘nothing.’ I know that face too well.”
“’Tis nothing. I was just thinking about the girl.”
“Ah,” Miera said. “Dwelling on it will not change the past. Our thoughts should be on now, on the living, and on the future.”
“You are wise, my wife,” Sartan said, kissing her again. “The future is right down there.” He pointed toward Aeden. “He has been introduced to his training partner, his Braitharlan, just this morning.”
Miera’s full lips turned down into a frown. “I know it is tradition, a way of testing and ensuring loyalty to the clan first, but it’s old and barbaric. Like some of the other traditions and rituals.” She gave him a significant look. “Creating a bond between two young boys, nurturing it, letting it grow, causing them to rely on and cherish it, only to make them fight until one is unconscious or dead, that I do not agree with.”
“It is our way,” Sartan said. “Warriors must be loyal and act without hesitation for the good of the clan as a whole. Personal attachments must come second. A distant second. You know this.”
“I know this. I still do not have to like it.”
“How is it that you have risen to clan chief’s wife with such a tender heart?” he asked, rubbing her shoulders and peering into her eyes as if the answer would be found there.
“Oh, that is simple. I merely exploited my beauty and trapped the man I knew would be chief. You men have your loyalty, we women folk have other weapons.” She winked at him and then pursed her lips provocatively.
Sartan laughed. “Yes, you do. You knew from the start I couldn’t resist you. I think perhaps when boys are training for battle, girls are taken aside and given lessons in stealing a man’s mind and heart away from him.”
The smile she gave him seemed to light up the hillside. “Such things could possibly be true. Who knows what secret powers there are in the world?” Her bare shoulder raised just a hair, pulling Sartan’s eyes from her face to her body.
“Woman, I have a mind to take you to someplace apart and search you for secrets.”
She raised her shoulder a bit more, tilted her head toward him, and formed a smoky smile that caused parts of him to tingle. “I have a mind to let you.”
With a last look at the skinny boy with auburn hair waving in the breeze, Sartan Tannoch wrapped his arm around his wife and headed for their home. He would think of his son’s training later. For the moment, other, more urgent thoughts occupied his mind.
Later that evening, Aeden sat silently at the table, eating the goat meat stew in front of him. His blue eyes glowed in the lamplight.
“Your father and I watched you fighting today,” his mother said, ladling up some stew for herself. Sartan was already sitting at the table shoveling his meal into his mouth.
The boy looked to her, but said nothing.
“We are both impressed with your progress. You have a natural talent with weapons and with unarmed combat. We have watched you at other times, as well.”
No one spoke for a full minute.
“Why are you so quiet, lad?” Sartan asked around a mouthful of his dinner.
“I speak when there is need,” the boy responded. He dipped a piece of bread in his stew and stuffed it in his mouth.
“Aye, you do that. But most boys talk constantly when they are your age.”
“Most boys my age have nothing important to say.”
Sartan chuckled at that. “’Tis true. I’ll give you that. Still, being so quiet, people might think you simple.”
“Oh, leave the boy be,” Miera said. “He doesn’t need to be a great orator. He will grow out of it. He is just shy.”
“Well, shy is fine, but timid is not.”
“He is not timid, Sartan. You have seen him fight. No one will think him timid.”
“Ach. Very well, I’ll grant you that.” He turned to his son. “It’s fine, lad. Just promise to speak to me if you are having troubles. Will you do that?”
“Yes, father,” the boy said, swiveling his blue orbs to meet his father’s paler blue eyes. Sartan was surprised—again—by the depth of those eyes, the intelligence. No, no one would think him simple, not if they looked into those eyes. The clan chief let the matter drop and continued his meal.
Chapter 2
The scream echoed like crashing thunder. The unearthly wail ran through Aeden and made him vibrate. He wasn’t scared. He knew it wasn’t something come to attack him, though it sounded feral, animal, to him.
He was trapped in the body of an infant, helpless to do anything but move his head toward the sound.
There was another baby, one he should recognize, he thought. A figure near him made an indistinct buzzing sound. Speech? Looking up, he saw a face close to his and he worked his eyes to focus so closely.
It was his father, his mouth moving and sounds coming out. The man’s giant face pointed toward the sound, which continued unabated. Aeden willed his neck to move, his heavy and oversized head swiveling so he could see a woman, his mother, holding the screaming baby. She spoke as well.
The sounds were foreign, as if he did not know how to speak their language. The crying concerned him most, though. What had they done to her—somehow, he knew the other infant was a girl—to make her so upset? A few stray raindrops fell on his face, and he thought maybe the problem was as simple as her being wet.
His eyes seemed to lose focus, and he had to force them to sharpen his gaze. He made no sound himself; he dared not. His two huge parents were agitated at the sounds the girl made, and he knew that if he made them, too, bad things would happen to him. He watched and remained silent.
Other words were exchanged, and his mother walked away, out of the light of the nearby fire.
Aeden grappled with understanding, trying to think through what had happened but finding his mind unable to grasp the simplest thing about the situation. He only understood that the girl cried and made sounds, and then they took her away.
Where did she go? He had no concept of distance or time or anything else. Just that crying made bad things happen. It was clear and simple to him. He would not cry, would not make a sound, and he would be safe.
The wind carried an echo of a scream to his infant ears, and the sound disappeared quickly in the patter of the coming rain and loud booms that shook the world.
Aeden sat up in bed, his breaths coming in gasps. The dream was nothing new. He had been having it periodically for as long as he could remember, for most of his nine years of life. It never failed to make him uneasy, almost afraid. Crying and complaining, making sounds at all, were dangerous and invited disaster. That was the lesson of the dream.
It was almost dawn anyway, so the boy got up from his pallet and went to the larder to get something to eat. The other boys in the small room they sha
red were still sleeping, their breathing deep and regular. He could see the bruises scattered across them from their training. He had a few himself, though not as many as some. He normally gave out more than he received.
Aeden took a small loaf of bread, a cup of water, and a piece of cheese, then sat and thought about the dream he had so often. Would it ever go away? Why did he have it? Was it prophetic, or did it belong to someone else? He felt uneasy inside, as he always did when the scenario repeated itself in his sleep.
He had thought at times of telling his father about it, but always rejected the idea. It would show weakness, and he never wanted his father to think him weak. Maybe his mother? No, it would stop or it would not, but either way, such a trivial thing should not bother him. He was training to be a warrior of his clan. Dreams could not affect him.
It was no use going back to bed, so he took a last drink of water and went outside.
The sky was beginning to lighten, but it would still be nearly an hour before the others roused and dragged themselves to their positions in the training grounds. He started running around the grounds, his light boots thumping softly as his feet hit the tamped down vegetation. The training grounds were at the edge of the village, which was itself a large, flat area nestled amongst the highland hills. Boys and girls learned the art of war, among other things, at the grounds, and there they were tested constantly.
Aeden’s stride lengthened as he warmed up, his breathing coming in a regular rhythm. Twice around the training grounds, and he had a thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead. Once more around and he stopped at the practice weapon rack.
It was a sturdy rack, built mostly of rough wood, the bark still on. It held swords, long knives, staffs, spears, and other pole weapons, with one thing in common: they were made of dull-edged wood, meant to deliver bruises rather than serious wounds.
Aeden picked up a sword, hefted it in his hand, and returned it to the rack. He repeated the motion three times until he found a broadsword that was balanced well enough to suit him, its weight slightly heavier than he would have preferred, but still usable. If he practiced with heavier weapons, he would become stronger and faster than if he used one of the appropriate weight.
He snapped into a ready position, the sword held out in front of him, angling upward. His grip was loose enough for him to move quickly, but too tight to allow his opponent to tear the weapon from his hand. He dropped into a low stance, lunging with the sword, a penetrating strike. And then he began to move.
His arms and shoulders protested at first, not warmed up enough to move with his full range of speed and flexibility. They would get there quickly. Slash, guard, slice, lunge, guard, he went through the movements as he imagined his opponent in front of him doing similarly. He got caught up in the poetry of the movement, letting his mind dwell on nothing but the invisible foe in front of him. Unnoticed by him, the sky continued to lighten around him as he made his way across the training yard, parrying, blocking, striking, and evading.
“You see?” a deep voice boomed somewhere off to Aeden’s right, startling him out of his imaginary battle. He stopped and looked toward the voice. Their combat instructor, Master Tuach, was standing there with the other twelve boys and three girls who shared the same stage of Aeden’s training. “Aeden has the correct attitude. First to the training yard means first in skills. Take note and emulate him.” The master was a perfect specimen of a warrior, tall and muscular and without an ounce of fat on him. His gray eyes seemed to always be scanning for enemies to fight, and his rugged face was most often stern. Aeden had seen him smile only once, when one of the trainees tripped and hit himself in the head with his own weapon.
Some of the other boys smiled. Others were still wiping the sleep from their eyes, but one or two glared at Aeden, obviously jealous of the attention. One, a boy nearly twice as large as him and two years older, had such hatred in his eyes that Aeden wondered what else he had done to insult the boy.
For his part, Aeden simply walked to the weapon rack and put his practice sword back. He went to stand amongst the other boys, waiting for instruction from Master Tuach.
“Good,” he said. “Now then, let the rest of us warm up. I want you loose for our combat trials today. Your bruises have mostly healed by now, and it is time for the level three bouts to begin.”
Level three bouts. Some of the boys groaned. There were four levels of combat matches in the training, progressively more dangerous and realistic. The third level was more savage than those they had taken part in up to that point. An opponent must be thrown from the training ring or damaged in such a way that it would mean certain death had it been a real battle.
Level four was even worse. Even being thrown from the ring did not save a combatant. The foe could chase the loser out of the ring and continue to attack. Only loss of consciousness, broken bones, or death would end the bout. When they would actually take part in level four bouts was a secret. None of the boys were looking forward to it.
Maybe that was not true. One boy might be looking forward to it. Donagh, the boy who had stared at Aeden with such hatred just moments before. He seemed to enjoy causing pain.
The boys ran around the training grounds several times until the master called them back to the weapon rack.
“Select your weapons from the rack,” he said. “Aeden, since you are so conscientious, you may take yours first.”
Donagh glared at Aeden again, somehow making it contain even more heat than before. The master was not doing Aeden any favors in giving him special treatment.
Aeden nodded and took the sword he had used earlier. At a word from Master Tuach, the other boys swarmed the rack, choosing their weapons as well.
“We might as well get it out of the way,” Master Tuach said. “Aeden and Donagh, you two will be first combatants.”
The boy shouldered Aeden aside and walked out toward the center of the area, where a large circle was inscribed in the hard-packed dirt, compressed by generations of clan warriors-in-training. Donagh had selected a polearm, a wooden version of a long pole with a wide, curving blade at the end. The real weapon would have had more than two feet of sharpened steel, something like a broadsword attached to one side of the staff. He wore a wicked smile, obviously thinking he had the advantage because of the range of his weapon.
Aeden walked calmly to the circle, sword held loosely in his hand with the backside of the wooden blade propped against his shoulder.
“You’re going to cry like a little girl,” the boy taunted. “You won’t be the stupid mute you normally are. Just like a little girl, you will cry and scream. No, not like a girl. Like a filthy Gypta. I will beat you like a traveling whore.”
Aeden’s eyes flashed, the fire behind them enough to make his opponent blink and the smile on his face to slip a bit. Thoughts of the dream, the girl’s screams and the feeling of helplessness and confusion, rushed through his mind. This bitch’s whelp was poking fun at him without realizing how keenly his words cut. He would find out that silence was by far the better choice.
“Cuir aet biodh,” Aeden mouthed, but did not say it aloud. Most of those around didn’t understand enough Chorain, the language of the highland clans, but the master did. He didn’t want anyone to know Donagh’s taunts had any effect.
The two boys stepped to the center of the ring. Aeden looked up at the eyes of his opponent, many inches above his own, and saw that Donagh’s smile had come back.
As they were preparing to start, Aeden caught movement near the other boys. His father and mother stood at the edge of the ring, their eyes intense. Master Tuach nodded to them in greeting and then turned back to the ring.
“Level three,” he said. “Show us what you are made of.” He met Aeden’s eyes, and shouted. “Go!”
Chapter 3
Aeden barely sidestepped the butt of his opponent’s weapon as it whistled, rocketing up from the ground with lightning speed toward his groin. His reflexes saved him as he shifted left and swung his s
word down to parry. A sharp clack reverberated around the training grounds.
Aeden transformed the downward motion into a tight circle and struck out at Donagh. The other boy got his weapon up in time to prevent Aeden’s from striking him, but Aeden could see he was off-balance, weight shifted too far backward and too much on his right foot. He had not expected his stealthy strike to fail.
They stepped back, gauging each other. The larger boy feinted, the darting blade of his spear tempting Aeden to respond.
Aeden didn’t. He looked into his opponent’s eyes. Those orbs darted, watching every time the smaller boy flicked his sword, every time he made any movement that could indicate he was going to attack. Aeden smiled inwardly. His own eyes shifted and remained locked on the bigger boy’s waist, but his peripheral vision caught beads of sweat beginning to form on Donagh’s face.
Donagh rushed in with a flurry of attacks, trying to strike with the butt of the spear, then the blade, then further down the shaft. He even tried to create an opening to land a kick. He was fast and skilled, but Aeden parried some of the blows, shifted to evade others, and jammed the kick with one of his own to the thigh. At the end of the exchange, no blows had landed, and Aeden still hadn’t attacked. His opponent’s eyes darted even more quickly, anticipating movements that never came. He was ripe for the taking.
Aeden smirked at his foe. It caused the other boy to stumble as he swung his blade in a long arc, trying to take advantage of the extra reach of his weapon. This was what Aeden was waiting for.
As the blade came down from above, a diagonal downward slash, Aeden calmly stepped toward the other boy. Donagh’s eyes widened.
The sword blade made contact with the wooden polearm blade, a deflecting blow. The spear skipped off Aeden’s weapon and the other boy’s strike overextended, putting him off-balance and redirecting the tip of the spear out of range.
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