Loyal and True

by Laura Strickland

  Radoc answered, “Would you have us trust him without proving, Daughter? Allow him to sit by our hearth, where he might hear our secrets, give him leave to perhaps attack us in the night?”

  Wick added, “If you expect the rest of the tribe to trust him, Barta, he must be tested.”

  “I do not mind,” he told Barta. “The goddess will uphold me.” And he would suffer far more—anything—to remain near her.

  She studied him slowly, her gaze moving from his hair and down his body, lingering on his lips and chest, still avoiding his eyes.

  “May the goddess be with you then.”

  He bowed his head to her, even as he might to that entity. “I ask you only to grant me the name of ‘True,’ should I come through this trial victorious.”

  Still her gaze measured him. “That I will most surely do.”

  Chapter Seven

  He stood at the center of a circle made up of Epidii tribesfolk, all alone. They had taken back his borrowed clothing, save for a twist of fabric around his loins. That didn’t bother him; being comfortable since birth in his hide, he barely noticed.

  His separation from Barta bothered him far more. At least he could still see her, just across from him at the edge of the circle, beside young Master Tally.

  His weapons bothered him also. A warrior since a pup, he had entered countless battles at Barta’s side—but he’d fought with claws and jaws, never with cold iron. He had seen the tribesfolk employ knife, spear, and even sword often enough, but until now he’d never attempted to battle with those weapons in his hands.

  Never had hands, for all that. Now he would face combat, he felt almost certain, but not yet. Not before he survived the other two challenges.

  It would not be easy. Yet neither had it been easy persuading the goddess to let him cross back from the shadowy plain to be with Barta. He would do anything to retain this place.

  He—and the hushed crowd—watched as Master Wick and the warrior called Brude approached with objects in their arms. From the way they walked, he could see those objects must be heavy. He got a good look when they dropped the things at his feet.

  Rocks, each perhaps half the size of a large hound’s head, and woven vine sacks.

  No one made a sound as the two warriors thrust the rocks into the sacks. He stole a look at Barta and saw that her teeth worried her bottom lip.

  When all seemed readied, Master Radoc addressed him. “Take a stance, both arms extended straight out from your sides. The test is to see if you can hold the sacks up longer than our strongest warrior—Gede.”

  Ah, and he knew Master Gede well, though of course that young man did not recognize him now. Gede—half a head taller than his fellows and rife with muscle—stepped into the ring and took up a stance facing him.

  Doubt rushed his heart. How could he hope to outlast such a strong person?

  He stole another look at Barta and saw dismay in her eyes. He shut his own eyes for an instant.

  Great Lady, uphold me.

  And he nodded his head.

  ****

  Cruel. No one should have to endure such cruelty.

  The sun, now well up on a lovely morning, illuminated the scene all too clearly. The two young men stood facing each other with their arms outstretched, stiff as if made of iron. Both had been loaded with sacks of rocks, three on each arm.

  Barta had groaned inwardly as each sack was loaded. She never imagined the two men could last so long.

  Now they both sweated even though the sun had not yet grown warm. Barta sweated in sympathy, the moisture gathering to trickle down between her shoulder blades and breasts.

  Gede wore a frown that wrinkled his brow and grew heavier as the moments crept by. True—for so he wished to be called—kept his expression blank and set, his eyes wide. But not long since he’d parted his lips and begun to pant. And Barta had caught the merest tremble in his limbs, first the outstretched arms and then, almost imperceptibly, his legs.

  Barta directed another look at her father—had he come up with this punishing scheme?—who also appeared impassive except for a faint scowl.

  What if she spoke up, called on him to end this? Would it spoil the participants’ concentration? That would be the last thing she wanted to do.

  Unhappily, she examined her heart. She had no real reason to care for the young man who stood before them so courageously. No reason. Yet emotion burned inside her, and honesty bade her acknowledge she would do anything to aid him.

  Just then his arms quivered more violently—enough that several of the sacks suspended from them swayed, which must be agonizing. The onlookers murmured—a few hooted—and Gede fixed his gaze on his opponent as if willing him to fail.

  Barta found herself willing just the opposite.

  Stand. Endure.

  True’s gaze moved to her as if he caught the essence of her thought. Then he closed his eyes and reset himself, the muscles in his arms, shoulders and back bunching.

  Gede’s frown deepened. He too looked at Barta, his auburn hair strung across his eyes, wet with perspiration.

  A small breeze came from the east, threaded its way through the crowd, and caressed both men where they stood.

  Despite that welcome relief, it was now Gede who swayed where he stood. His great stumps of legs—which might make two of his opponent’s—began to shake, and he reset them, straining hard.

  Please, Barta said in her mind. True remained with his eyes squeezed tight shut, face pale and set in every line.

  She sensed he could not hold out much longer.

  Gede looked at Barta again—just a flick of a glance—his scowl now a prodigious thing. Abruptly his outstretched arms jerked, and he lowered them. The sacks of rocks fell with a series of thuds.

  The crowd gasped, as did Barta. Wick, who had stationed himself near her and Tally, swore bitterly. True opened his eyes, lowered his sacks, and sank to his knees.

  Barta, feeling someone should, cried out, “Victorious! The newcomer is victorious.”

  “Aye, Daughter. Yet that is but the first challenge.” Radoc gestured Wick over to him and began speaking in his ear furiously.

  Barta debated what she should do. True still knelt where he had fallen. Would it be too much a mark of favor on her part if she went to him?

  Before she could decide, Gede stepped forward and helped his former opponent to his feet. He slapped True on the back in congratulation.

  Barta bit her lip again and eyed preparations for the next challenge. Would they not first allow the competitors to rest? Offer them water? But no, for great slabs of rock were being hauled in by a number of men, lashed with bindings.

  No, oh, no.

  An ancient challenge was this, some said as old as the standing stones that dotted the land, and as unyielding. It had in the past sometimes been used to test ponies, when the tribes had them—or hounds. The practice had been stopped as considered too cruel.

  But they would use it now to challenge her champion.

  Hers?

  Fundamentally honest, Barta consulted her heart and conceded yes—oh, yes.

  She stepped forward to her father’s side and butted into his conversation with Wick.

  “Father, you cannot do this.”

  Radoc looked at her, his dark gaze fathomless. “Daughter, stay out of it.”

  “But it is unfair. To both of them. You must allow Gede and the challenger time to rest.”

  Radoc grinned mirthlessly. “Gede can rest all his likes. As for the challenger, he offered himself up to this.”

  “I don’t understand. Gede…”

  Wick told her, “In this part of the challenge, the tribe will be represented by still another of our warriors.”

  “Unfair! Who…”

  “Daughter, be silent!” Radoc barked loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  “When have I ever been silent in the face of injustice? You taught me better.”

  Essa stepped forward and seized Barta’s hand. “Hush now,
girl.” She drew Barta aside and gazed into her eyes steadily. “If you would have that young man accepted here, it must be so.”

  Barta vocalized what she already felt in her heart. “I have already accepted him.”

  “I know. As have I.”

  “Yes?” Barta searched her mother’s eyes.

  “Have faith. Trust.”

  “But it is hard to see him used so sorely.”

  “Trust,” Essa said again. “There is magic at play here.”

  “Very well.” But Barta glanced again at the man who once more stood alone at the center of the circle. He watched her steadily with clear, hazel eyes.

  “Believe,” Essa whispered and squeezed her hand. “Now hold your tongue. They are ready to begin.”

  ****

  He ached fiercely from the first trial, and yet he could see they had the second test ready to begin. Memories shifted in his mind, and he knew he’d seen this before, though not recently. He had certainly never participated.

  He wished desperately he might have a few moments respite before it began. But no—for the tribesmen had it all laid out—two great boulders strung with lines which ended in loops. The crowd thinned to form an alley rather than a circle, two lines of them. And a new opponent stepped out.

  A new opponent. One fresh, his muscles not already screaming. He knew this man—to be sure, he knew and remembered them all. This one, called Gartnait, had never been a warrior. Old enough, almost, to be a contemporary of Radoc’s, he melded iron for the tribe and performed what building services were needed. Too slow to fight, he nevertheless possessed prodigious strength.

  “This trial,” Radoc called out, “will prove the trait of determination. Which man will give up in the face of the impossible? One possesses youth but has already been hard used. The other is fresh but possesses age. Let us lay it before the gods.”

  In your hands, Lady, he thought. He jerked in surprise at finding Gede beside him; the big man nudged him into place in front of one of the boulders and threaded the lines over his shoulders and across his chest, a hint of kindness in his eyes.

  “It will be difficult.” Gede swept him with a look. “Maybe, as he says, impossible.”

  “It cannot be impossible,” True replied. “Not if I am to win leave to stay.”

  Gede nodded gravely. “Best of good fortune, then.”

  Gartnait had also been strapped into his harness. A job for stout ponies was this, and Gartnait had legs like those of a cob.

  Radoc bellowed, “The contest is this. My son, Wick, has scratched a line across the path yonder.”

  Indeed, and it did not look too far.

  “The first man to drag his load across the line wins this leg of the competition.”

  “All the way across, Chief?” clarified Gartnait. “The whole stone?” he eyed his opponent. “I have done this before.”

  “The stone must clear the line.” Radoc raised his hand before slashing it downward. “And—go!”

  Chapter Eight

  True threw all his weight into the ropes that confined him. They went taut before they bit deep into the flesh of his shoulders and chest. The boulder behind him did not so much as quiver.

  Gartnait, beside him, did the same, emitting a mighty roar. But he got no better result.

  An impossible task, to be sure. But the Lady knew nothing of impossible. Had she not turned him from a dead hound to a living man and returned him to Barta? Now he must exert himself to keep the place.

  He put his head down, set his shoulders, and dug with his legs. This time he grunted a groan as every muscle strained. Instinct told him once he got the dead weight moving, half the battle would be won.

  Did the boulder wiggle behind him? He was not sure, but Gartnait snarled another roar and stepped forward also. His load slid the merest hair.

  True could not let the strong man win, not if it lost him Barta’s company. Despair possessed him for an instant and transformed into determination.

  In the past he’d done anything and everything to be with her—broken out of a hut using his teeth, stumbled behind her dragging a wounded paw. Only once had he failed to follow her anywhere. He would make up for that now.

  He felt his heart swell in his chest and threw himself into the traces, all his love behind it. His load moved.

  The onlookers exclaimed, and he heard Barta’s voice among the others. The straps bit as he strained once more.

  Gartnait, ahead of him by perhaps a step, dug harder, his stone grinding forward and dragging the earth with it.

  The finish line which had looked so close now seemed an unreachable distance. So hard, so far. How could he do this?

  Ah, but he must.

  He dug his toes in more fiercely, tired muscles screaming. He thought of his former life, running over the hills at his mistress’s side, every limb fresh and functioning at peak. He thought of the sheer joy of movement. He prayed.

  Lady…please.

  Strength flooded through him like a stream of magic, stopping the tremble in his legs, pumping his lungs full of air. He took another step, two steps, and came level with Gartnait.

  He heard Master Gede bellow in approval. He thought of Barta and bunched his muscles again. He felt the traces tear the skin of his shoulders.

  Pain.

  Ignore it. You’ve ignored pain for her sake before. So it had been that time he took a sword stroke on his head, just above his ear—the blood had nearly blinded him. He’d kept fighting at her side. Scars, he had them. None mattered.

  Another step, head tucked fiercely down—his toes touched the line. Still an impossible distance to drag the load the length of the ropes and the lashed stone itself. The pain in his shoulders flared like fire. He closed his mind to it and imagined himself running at Barta’s side. He fixed on that image, blotting out everything else.

  He saw Gartnait from the corner of his eye, staggering just behind him, and blotted that out also.

  Another dragging step and another. A great roar filled his ears. His blood pounding, or the onlookers? Breath tore from his lungs, and his load ground to a halt.

  Had he failed?

  He opened eyes squeezed shut all this while—they stung with sweat—and saw Barta’s face before him, wide-eyed.

  “You did it. Oh, by the goddess, you did!”

  He turned, shoulders ablaze, and looked behind at the load. The line scribed in the dirt had been rubbed out where the stone dragged across but could still be seen on either side. His stone had cleared it—Gartnait’s had halted half way.

  He sank to his knees.

  Barta fell with him, her hand still on his shoulder. “Father, he must have a respite.”

  Radoc hollered something in reply; he could not hear what for the noise made by the onlookers. But he felt Barta stiffen.

  “Impossible!” she yelled back. “I must have a chance to dress his wounds.”

  He did hear Radoc’s reply. “Do so then, but swiftly.”

  Barta carefully eased the cruel straps from his shoulders, the skin there torn raw. Ignoring that, he gazed into her eyes. What did he see? Concern. A measure of kindness. Anger on his behalf.

  She cared about him. Suddenly his hurts mattered not at all. He had accomplished the first two tasks. He could do anything if he believed she wanted him at her side.

  A mug of water appeared at his chin. Barta took it from Tally and held it up.

  He lapped at it and she gave a funny laugh. “Here.”

  She placed it against his lips, bumping his teeth. Ah, yes, drink.

  He drank, and she asked him, “How did you do that?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned to her young brother. “More water and some of mother’s salve.”

  “Here.” Essa stepped up to Barta’s other side with the pot already in her hands. She thrust it at Barta.

  “Tend him slowly—it will afford him his only chance to rest and gather his strength.”

  Barta dabbed the salve on the raw skin at his shoulders and
across his chest. He half closed his eyes, savoring the comfort of her touch.

  “The next test,” Essa told them, “will be combat. Young man, you have fought before, yes?”

  He tore his gaze from Barta’s hands and looked at Essa. “Many times, mistress.”

  “That is fortunate. You will face three opponents.”

  “Three?” Barta protested, her fingers still sliding over his skin.

  “A number, as you know, that possesses significance. Your father will insist upon it.”

  Barta gazed into True’s eyes. “Can you endure this? If you wish to bow out now, I will understand.”

  “Anything for you, Mistress.” He seized her hand and brought it to his lips, sticky salve and all. She swallowed convulsively.

  Tearing her gaze from his, she looked at her mother. “Who are to be his opponents, do you know?”

  “Your brother Wick, Urgast, and Brude.”

  “Brude?” Barta turned her eyes back to True. “He is the one of whom you need to be wary. He’s a vicious fighter. Tell me you will be all right.”

  “I will, Mistress.” He wished she might continue to stroke him, touch his head as in the past. But she thought him a man.

  He got to his feet and shrugged his shoulders. She handed the pot of salve back to her mother.

  Master Radoc sat on his litter, glaring in their direction. “I dare tarry no longer,” True told Barta. “Tell your father I am ready.”

  “Not yet.”

  Barta took the refilled cup from Tally who stood by watching. “Drink.”

  He did. Radoc bellowed in protest. “Enough! Let the trial resume.”

  “Your weapons.” With her own hands, Barta fastened the long knife at his side and pressed the spear into his fist before he stepped away to face the three young men ranged opposite him.

  Was he to meet them all at once? And would he be able to use these weapons forced upon him? The spear felt strange in his hand, and the sharpest objects with which he’d ever fought were his teeth. But these three young men had trained at arms most their lives. Indeed, this last test must prove most difficult of all.

  Radoc called from his rug. “This competition will test your valor. You will battle these three opponents in turn. If you can defeat them all, you will prove yourself and become a member of this tribe in good standing.”