The sun was going down as he noticed several familiar things on the landscape around him. Through the fog in his brain, he groped for what it meant. Yes, home. It meant he would be home soon. Just a short distance.
Howls echoed against the rolling hills pressing in on him. Aeden’s stomach felt as if it was full of stones, and a chill that had nothing to do with the fever gripped him. He could not be caught out in the open wilderness like this, not in the condition he was in. He willed his feet to move faster.
One of his feet somehow missed the ground and he found himself sprawled out in the long grass, his spear at an awkward angle beneath him. He lay there, panting, for a time. He was exhausted and weak, the fever almost overtaking him. He told his arms to move, his legs, any part of his body that would help him get up. They all ignored him.
Would it be so bad to lie there for a time? He could go to sleep and then he wouldn’t feel the pain anymore. Yes, just a little nap. It would be fine.
The howls grew louder, startling him. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to focus in the dimming light. His head ached. Every muscle in his body screamed at him, his wounds even more loudly. Above it all, one thought burst through. If you do not get up the hill and to the village, you will die. You will shame your father and your clan.
Aeden took two deep, shuddering breaths and heaved himself into motion.
One arm, then the other, then the first leg and the second, he prepared his body to crawl. Inch by inch, he dragged his tired limbs across the vegetation. Inch by inch, he went up the hill, the howls of the beasts chasing him. They had caught his scent. It wouldn’t be long.
Aeden was surprised to find himself on the top of the hill. With a superhuman effort, he planted the butt of his spear on the ground and then climbed up it, pulling himself to his feet. He felt the wound in his shoulder tear open again, but ignored it. He could see smoke from the village, the outline of some of the buildings in the dusk. He would make it. It was less than a mile distant.
Howls and yips assaulted him and he turned his head so quickly, it threatened to make him fall down as the world spun crazily. Several dark shapes broke through the brush, at least half a dozen, and they were coming right for him.
Highland hounds, or as everyone called them, leapers. They were scavengers and opportunists, quick and agile, hopping about in their random fashion when attacking. One or two would normally not be a problem—they were cowardly when confronted with strength—but even if he were well, a handful of them would be dangerous. In his condition, even one could kill him. He had to escape, get back to the village.
Aeden tried to take a step toward his home, but his foot found a depression, and he pitched forward. Everything spun until it was a blur, and the ground came up to strike him over and over again. His head, his shoulders, arms, legs, it was like someone was running around his body and beating him. When he stopped moving, he tried to lift his head and the dizziness caused him to throw up everything he had eaten that day. Fortunately, it wasn’t much.
He was surprised to find the spear still in his hand, as well as his knife still in the makeshift sheath and tied to his leg. As he looked toward his home, so close but still too far away and glanced up at the beasts coming down the hill at him, he found tears in his eyes. So close. He had been so close.
Wiping the moisture from his face with the back of his hand and, realizing that his injured arm was dripping blood from the reopened wound, he planted his spear on the ground and heaved himself upright. He was of the Croagh Aet Brech and he would die as a warrior should, standing on his feet with a weapon in his hands, not as a crying boy.
Aeden turned to the creatures coming at him. He counted them more accurately this time. Eight. Drawing his knife and holding the spear midway up the shaft with his other hand, he prepared to die, but to die with valor.
Chapter 8
Aeden planted his feet as solidly as he could, but he still swayed slightly. The leading creature would reach him in seconds, and as he prepared to die, he thought of his mother and father. He hoped they would be proud of him, fighting to his very last breath. It was all he could hope for.
The first of the leapers came within ten feet of him and jumped. As it almost reached him, it let out a wild screech, unlike the earlier howls. It seemed to be one of pain. Aeden was able to dodge the hurtling beast. Mostly. As he twisted to avoid it, slashing out with his knife, it caught him on his good shoulder and spun him around, almost knocking him to the ground. Only by using the spear against the ground to keep his balance was he able to stay upright.
His attacker didn’t get back up to attack him. Aeden stared at it, his slowed mind wondering what was going on.
Then he saw it. The animal had an arrow protruding from its head. Aeden realized that the other attackers had not reached him either, though they were within a few feet of the lead creature. He scanned the hill in front of him.
Three of the beasts had been struck by arrows and were either dead or dying. The others had peeled off to the sides and were running away. Behind him, Aeden heard the yells of people. Warriors. Clansmen.
“We canna help you make it to the village, lad,” a familiar voice said. “You have to do that on your own. We are just chasing the beasties away from our homes, that’s all. We are not helping you.”
Aeden turned slowly and saw five men just feet away from him, but he had eyes for only one. His father stood foremost, a bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows belted to his waist.
“Go now, lad,” he said. “Finish your trial so we can patch up your wounds. Go.” He pointed his bow to the homes, lights shining in the rapidly approaching darkness.
Aeden went.
Using his spear as a crutch, Aeden hobbled toward his home, trying to look strong and able, but knowing he made a pitiful sight. As he stumbled nearer the buildings, he saw his mother wringing her hands and waiting for him, her eyes wide and liquid. She motioned him forward, dancing on the balls of her feet.
Aeden went deep inside of himself, trying to burst through the fog in his mind, trying to squeeze out one last bit of energy. He finally set his foot in the area between two of the buildings—a home and the village meeting hall—and then he was falling. The blackness overtook him, and he didn’t know anything after that.
Aeden’s eyelids fluttered open and he looked around. His stomach lurched violently. He brought his hand up to cradle his head, and the sharp pain stabbing through his shoulder reminded him he was injured.
“Careful, Aeden,” his mother’s voice chided, “your fever is mostly gone, but you are not healed yet.”
“Mother?”
Her face came into view above him. She was beautiful, even more so at that moment. He thought about how all boys thought their mothers were beautiful, but he knew it was the truth because he had heard everyone, from his father to other men and women, even some of the boys, say it. Her wash of red hair fell down, almost brushing his forehead as she leaned over him, shading her face and giving her an angelic quality.
“Yes,” she said. “You had to make a dramatic entrance, did you now?” She chuckled at him and he smiled.
“I don’t like to do things the easy way. You know how stubborn I am.”
“Aye, just like your father. Codaghan, god of war, help all who have to deal with the two of you.”
“What’s that you’re saying,” his father’s voice said from the doorway of the room. “Are you blaming me for something else again?”
“No, dear,” Miera said, rolling her eyes so that only Aeden could see them. “We were just talking about stubborn animals.”
“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, stating 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.
Chapter 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. The master had said the same thing at the beginning of each bout. 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 first, 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 would be killed in the Daodh Gnath and wouldn’t have to worry about anything.
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 quarter 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 and 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 ran
ge 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.
Magic After Dark: A Collection of Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels Page 112