He wore a sheen of sweat, and nothing else above his waist. His clothes, ruined from his attack, had been replaced with Gypta clothing, the loose, colorful pants allowing him to do his movements without obstruction. He was thin, but he still showed wiry strands of muscle through his torso and arms. There did not appear to be any fat at all on the boy. She wondered if that would change if he kept eating as he had been.
He also had scars, many of them. Shoulders, arms, some across the chest and on his back. Fahtin was glad he didn’t have any on his face. She had heard that the clan savages liked scars on the face, but his sweet, smooth, boyish face would not wear them well, she thought. She pondered that face as his pale eyes met hers.
He smiled that boyish grin he sometimes wore, and she was grateful that his attack did not knock out any teeth. That was a wonder to her, with how much damage there was to the rest of his body.
“You do those exercises without fail every day, at least since you were healed enough to do so,” she said to him. “You seem committed, so intense.”
“Aye,” he said. She liked his voice. It wasn’t deep yet, though she thought it would be in a year or two, but it was just…pleasant. And she liked that accent, so unfamiliar to her. “I am not fully healed yet, and the time when I was unable to train has made me slow and weak, but it feels good to do them again.”
“Why do you work so hard at it?” she asked.
“My father used to say, ‘If you’re going to take the time to do something, then you better do it well.’” As he spoke, his brows drew down and his eyes grew cloudy, almost liquid. He dropped his gaze to the ground. “Hmm.”
“What are you thinking?” she said. “What just occurred to you?”
His eyes snapped up to hers as if he had forgotten she was there.
“I just thought of something about what my father did. It’s nothing.”
Fahtin stood up and went to him, taking one of his hands and pulling him toward the log where she had been sitting.
“Aeden,” she said. “Tell me about it. Please. It’s obvious that it’s a painful memory. It helps to share things like that. We can talk about it, or I can just listen silently, but I would like to know.”
He looked at her dispassionately. He always seemed so calm and in control, not at all like the other boys his age in the caravan. What kind of life had he led that would turn him into a grown man inside at fourteen? Like most girls, she was more mature than her male counterparts, but he seemed…old. He seemed like an adult, with adult stresses and responsibilities. It broke her heart.
His eyes flicked to his hand, still clasped in hers, and back to her face.
“I will tell you.” He gently pulled his hand from hers and put it with the other in his lap.
“My father is the chieftain of our clan, a leader and a great warrior. He proved his valor and skill in many battles with the other clans and in hunts.”Aeden studied his hands for a moment, wringing them and turning them about. “That night, when I was cast from our clan and beaten, the responsibility was his to strike the final blow. He told us this himself. The other boy, Seam, and me. His father, Dor was also there, and was to strike the final blow on his own son.
“As I have said, my father is a skilled warrior. When he struck the final blow, it was to end my suffering, end the ritual beating. To kill me. It did not, obviously. But why? Why am I not dead?”
“Because he spared you,” Fahtin said. “Because he loved you.”
“It is not so easy a thing as that,” Aeden said. “If it was an accident, if he tried and thought he succeeded in striking that final, merciful blow to end my suffering, why am I not dead? If he tried but failed, then he is not as competent a warrior as I believed, and he is less in my eyes.”
“But—”
Aeden raised his hand to stall out her objection. “My second thought is this. If he is in fact a skilled warrior, controlled and capable and able to direct a blow that can kill, why did he not do so? Was it because I embarrassed him and our family so much that he wanted me to suffer longer? Even if it was because, as you say, he loved me, why did he put me before clan? To disobey a tradition as old as the clans themselves shows a flaw in his character that is wholly unworthy of a chief.”
Fahtin put her finger under his chin and raised it so she could look in his eyes. The pain swirling in those eyes made hers water.
“So you see my conundrum,” he continued. “Either my father hated me so much that he wanted to prolong my agony beyond what tradition dictated, he is an incompetent warrior, or he is not as loyal to the clan as he should be. All of these things are troubling.”
He blinked three times and the glaze that had come over his eyes cleared away. He looked into hers, focused on them, and forced a smile onto his face. “But his advice is still good. If I am to do something, I will do it with my whole heart and everything I can muster. So, my dear Fahtin, my savior and nurse, that is why I exercise intensely.”
It felt as if she had been staring into storm clouds, anticipating rain and thunder and lightning, and then they cleared to a bright blue sky. She smiled back at him and saw his transform into a more sincere one.
“I understand,” she said. “I know no one else like you, Aeden of Clan Tannoch. You are unique.”
“No. I am different than you in some ways, but the same as others of my clan. Within us, all people are the same, I think, even if you do have some ideas and customs that are strange to my mind.”
“We have strange customs?” she said. “This from a boy who was beaten nearly to death for failing a test?”
“Aye. Maybe we both have strange customs. To each other.” He got up from the log and put his hand out to her. “Let’s go see if your father needs any work from me. I am ashamed of the care I have received and the food I eat without repaying your family’s kindness.”
Fahtin took his hand and followed him toward the main fire pit. “You are unique to me, Aeden. I think you are probably unique even within your own clan.”
Chapter 15
Darun did, in fact, have chores for Aeden to perform. The next day, the caravan would be moving on again, continuing in the perpetual travels, so there were preparations to make. The clan boy was uncomfortable with what this might mean to him. Would they cast him out, or would they allow him to travel with them until they came to a settlement where he could live? He could no longer go back to his own clan’s lands, and if he tried to assimilate into another clan, he would be killed on the spot at the worst or cast out anew at the best.
His tasks involved mainly getting firewood and helping the old soothsayer Jehira gather herbs before they left the area. He knew many of the herbs, ones that grew around his home as well, so they were pleased with his help.
Fahtin, though she had work of her own, as all the young women in the caravan did, stayed with him for a few hours, helping to forage. He taught her about some of the herbs they gathered, and she was a quick student.
The day passed quickly. The family prepared an evening feast as a celebration of moving on to a new location, a new adventure. It created a lump in Aeden’s throat that, though they had never said so, it was for him and his healing that the caravan had stopped for so long. Even if only for that, he owed them a debt of gratitude.
“What is it to be tonight?” Darun asked the family gathered around him. “Who will tell a tale of daring, of adventure,” he looked to the young women in a bunch off to his left, “or of romance and undying love?” The girls giggled and some of them blushed. “Who will give us a story to start off the festivities?”
There were often stories around the fire at night, but this was the first time Aeden had seen the entire family gathered as one. Usually there were several fires and groups, simply because it was difficult for so many to physically fit around one fire. They were nearly two hundred strong. The problem was solved by digging four new fire pits in a location a short distance away from the one Aeden usually frequented. It was usually Darun who told the stories
around his fire, so the call for a teller surprised Aeden.
“Aeden,” a girl’s voice shouted. He thought it sounded an awful lot like Fahtin, but he couldn’t see her.
“What’s that?” Darun said. “You want our young visitor to tell us a tale of the clans?” He turned to Aeden. “What say you, boy? Do you have a story, one of your clan myths or histories? Something we have not heard before?”
Aeden felt warmer than the fire would account for. The sour taste in his mouth made him want to slink off silently. He had to answer, though. These people were his gracious hosts, had saved his life. He owed them at least that much.
“I am not much of a storyteller,” he said.
“Oh, come now,” Darun said. “Surely you must have something we have not heard. We are all friends here. No need to be shy.”
Aeden was not shy, exactly, but neither was he prone to long speeches. Or conversations. “I…”
Fahtin moved around some of the other girls and stepped up to him. “Aeden, would it help to pretend you’re just telling the story to me? We have talked about your clan and your homeland. It will be nice to hear something of that.” She sat on a folding stool in front of him, put her elbows on her knees, and laid her chin in her palms, looking up at him expectantly.
“I…can try,” he said. He had no recourse and tried to think of something suitable. When with the clan, he had enjoyed sitting with the other trainees or with his family and listening to stories of heroes and monsters, of great battles, and of quests for magic. He had never been the one telling them, though. Which one could he tell them? A short story, certainly.
He cleared his throat and looked out at all the faces cast in the flickering firelight. They were waiting patiently, but some eagerly, it seemed. “There is a story told by my clan, one about the hero Erent Caahs—” some of the younger boys and girls oohed at that, and it made Aeden feel a little more comfortable. Everyone loved stories about Erent Caahs, arguably the greatest hero in living memory, and the most famous.
“It is a story that you may not have heard, one about him early in his career, one that may have been solely responsible for the man, the hero, that he was to become.”
Jehira, the old soothsayer, hunched in what looked to be the most comfortable chair in the camp, a place of honor. Her eyes were fixed on Aeden, her wrinkled face emotionless. A young boy of no more than ten years of age came up beside her from behind to get a better look at Aeden. He sat on the ground, and his shadowed brown eyes also locked onto Aeden’s.
Aeden wasn’t sure how to start the story. He had thought about it many times, telling it over and over to himself, but a story in your own mind was different than speaking it. He paused and looked to Fahtin. She smiled warmly at him and nodded. It was probably best just to get it over with. He began.
“Erent Caahs had always been special, from the time he was a boy. He learned the bow at an early age, hunting with his father in the Grundenwald, at the far southern edge. Even then, he had an uncanny knack for being able to hit his target no matter how it moved. No one could match him.
“As he got older, his feet itched to leave his home and explore the world. He was not sure what he would do or what he would find, but the thought of the unknown excited him. So it was that he began to roam. As he did, he passed through areas that were less civilized, more dangerous. That is when he first got a taste of real battle and what it was like to be a hero.”
Aeden cleared his throat and took a gulp of water from the cup beside him. Why did he feel so tired, and why was he sweating? He looked to Fahtin, took a breath, and continued.
“There are stories of his first heroic acts and how he came to have the habit of helping those in need. I don’t need to speak of those. But few of the stories tell of his best friend and companion in those early days, a man named Raisor Tannoch, a Croagh Aet Brech, of Clan Tannoch. From Raisor comes this tale, as told around our fires at festivals. I heard it once from Raisor himself, and so I tell it to you.
“Erent and Raisor were traveling the land, on their way from one place to another, on a quest to help others, and they passed through a village called Delver’s Crossing. As they did, they noticed the villagers wore downcast looks, as if they had been carrying a heavy weight and could stand it no more. Some were openly weeping. It tugged at Erent’s heart.
“’What tragedy has befallen you?’ he asked a middle-aged man and woman sitting on a bench in the village square, weeping.
“‘It is our daughters,’ the man said. ‘Two days past, they, along with other young women of the village, were stolen away by slavers. They killed two of our men and injured others, snatching eight of our girls to sell as slaves. They were too powerful for us to stop.’
“Rage began to build in Erent Caahs. ‘Did you gather up your men and chase after them to bring the girls back?’
“‘Alas,’ the woman said. ‘We cannot. One of those killed was the constable, and there are a mere handful of men who have weapons, let alone know how to use them. There were at least twenty of the slavers, well-armed and experienced in fighting. We have sent to Villen for help, but it is two days’ travel, and even if they send aid, it will be several days before they arrive.’
“‘Which way did these slavers go?’ Erent asked through gritted teeth.
“‘To the north,’ the woman answered, turning her red eyes in that direction. ‘They didn’t seem concerned about being followed. They took the road.’
“Erent looked to Raisor. His friend nodded. ‘We will get them back for you, if it is possible.’
“The man sitting next to the woman laughed. It was a mocking, hurtful laugh, but Erent knew it was not meant to offend. The hurt was from the inside, not meant toward him. ‘You are only two. If you follow those men, you will be killed before you get within eyeshot of the girls. We appreciate your concern, but do not throw your lives away.’
“‘We will rescue them,’ Erent said. ‘You’ll see. When your help arrives from Villen, tell that Erent Caahs and Raisor Tannoch have gone to retrieve the girls.’
“At this, the man’s eyes became larger and he sputtered, ‘Erent Caahs, the hunter of men? Erent Caahs, the hero?’
“‘I don’t know about this hero nonsense,’ he said, ‘but yes, I have been known to hunt men who needed hunting. I will hunt these and I will give them what it is they deserve.’
“So, Erent Caahs and Raisor Tannoch set off after the slavers, the fire of his anger giving strength to his legs.
“Within ten miles, Erent stopped. ‘They left the road here,’ he told his friend. ‘Maybe they cared more about being followed than the villagers believed. They seem to be careful men. We must be wary of traps and ambushes.’
“‘Aye, but they better be wary of my sword and your bow.’ Raisor slapped Erent on the shoulder. ‘We’ll find the lasses and bring them back. And we’ll give those blackguards the drubbing they deserve. You can count on it.’
“Now everyone knows about the tracking ability of Erent Caahs. It is said that he can track yesterday’s wind over stone while fighting an army. It is not too much of an exaggeration. The trail through the Greensward forest showed him that his prey were accustomed to such travel. They moved quickly and left few signs, but he picked their trail out as if it was painted on the ground.
“The end of the first day brought them to the first trap. Raisor was walking beside Erent when the hunter put the back of his hand on his friend’s chest, stopping him. ‘Stay here for a moment,’ he said, and stepped carefully and slowly ahead.
“He bent down and gently moved a fern frond to the side. ‘It’s as I thought,’ he said, stepping back to Raisor. He directed his friend to follow him as he backtracked twenty feet. Then he turned, nocking an arrow and drawing it to his cheek. He let a slow breath out and released the shaft.
“There was a snapping sound and two large tree branches, one on either side of where they had been, rushed inward and met exactly where the fern was, where Erent had shot th
e arrow. Anything standing near the tripwire at the fern would have been impaled by a dozen sharpened spikes, attached to the branches.
“‘Let’s move on,’ Erent Caahs said, as if out for a stroll on a sunny afternoon. His friend shook his head and laughed.
“There were other traps, all of which were detected and disarmed by Erent. Over three more days, the pair tracked the slavers through forest and on roads, and then to a vast, grassy plain. Then it was that they finally caught sight of them off in the distance.
“Their enemies rode horses toward a structure on a distant hill. Erent knew he and Raisor would not catch their prey before they reached that hill, not with the pair afoot and the slavers mounted. He wondered where they had gotten the horses. The hoof tracks had started the day before at the intersection of two roads. Someone had either brought them horses, or they had left them there earlier to await their return.
“‘Do you feel like attacking a fort?’ Erent asked Raisor.
“The Croagh laughed. ‘Aye. It’s been a while. Sounds like just the thing for an evening’s exercise.’
“Late the next day, the duo reached the hill and looked up at the structure in the fading light of dusk. Sharpened stakes twelve feet high with a serviceable gate consisting of double doors made of logs attached to each other with ropes, almost indistinguishable from the wall itself, loomed in front of them. The two heroes lay in a depression just out of eyesight of any who might be watching and waited for darkness to fall.
“Two hours after sunset, Erent Caahs and Raisor Tannoch moved to the wall. It was roughly made, intended to be used to delay attackers so archers along the wall could strike at them. The two chuckled softly at it.
“They easily climbed over, using the gaps in between logs to wedge their feet and hands. The two soon swung their legs through the gap between two sharpened ends and landed softly on the platform on the other side.
“It was obvious the slavers did not expect attack. The torches set on the wall did not light the area well enough to spot intruders, and only two sentries patrolled the section of the wall where Erent and Raisor had climbed. Two well-placed arrows, and the guards dropped soundlessly to the platform without time to sound an alarm.
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