by T. A. White
Caden grunted and snapped, “Follow.”
Caden didn’t stop to look behind him, simply assuming she would follow. Though it rubbed her already raw nerves, Shea didn’t disappoint and trailed behind as he led her back to Fallon’s tent and then past it to a smaller one at the end of the lane.
Shea looked around curiously once inside, noting the sacks of clothing threatening to overtake the small space. She had never seen so many shirts and pants in one place.
“Meynard,” Caden said loudly.
He took up a position next to the screen divider on the far side of the room where he could watch Shea and the exit.
“Meynard,” Caden called loudly. “Get your ass out here, man. I don’t have all day.”
“Must you yell every time you’re here,” a voice said crabbily from the divider. A weathered hand pushed the screen aside, and a white haired man with sagging jowls and a slightly crooked back stepped into the room. “You’re the most impatient Daisy I’ve ever met.”
Daisy wasn’t exactly a term she would assign to the scarily capable Caden.
The old man looked up, his slightly cloudy blue eyes, coming to rest on Shea. His head tilted and he shuffled forward a few steps.
“This her, then?”
Caden grunted.
“Hm,” the old man said.
He stuck his face close to hers and craned his neck like a giant, white feathered bird. Shea leaned away, disconcerted at the close scrutiny.
“Not very pretty.” The old man looked her up and down and then cocked his head. “Kind of scrawny too.”
Shea stared back at him with the blankest expression she could muster. He’d have to do better than that if he wanted to offend her. She’d never put much stock in her looks. They were always just there. Like the sun or the sky. Neither helping nor hindering. Her strength, speed and capability were infinitely more important.
She disagreed, however, with his assessment of scrawny. Scrawny implied she was just skin and bones. It implied weakness, and Shea wasn’t weak. Her body was lined with trim muscle.
“Not easy to bait, then.”
“Doesn’t seem so.” Caden’s lips twitched. Barely. The motion was so small Shea wasn’t entirely sure she hadn’t imagined it.
“Quiet.” The old man hadn’t taken his eyes off Shea since his first observation, but now he gave Caden a sidelong glance.
“Her squad said she prefers to keep her own council.”
The white haired man hacked deep in his lungs. Shea started when she realized it was his version of a laugh.
“That’s not good. The Clan Heads will run right over her.”
“Maybe.” Caden folded his arms and leaned back against one of the tables stacked high with clothes before crossing his legs at the ankles. “But not necessarily. Her squad leader said she won’t shut up if she thinks she’s in the right. Said he’s never seen someone do quiet insubordination so well.”
Meynard gave his hacking laugh again. “So there’s a little bit of fire behind those pretty eyes. That’s good. She’ll need it.”
“Fallon wants her outfitted in his colors.” There was a distinct pause. “She’s to be one of his personal guards.”
The old man’s bushy eyebrows rose in surprise. “Not his Tolroi?”
“She refused.”
The old man’s lips pursed as if he’d just tasted something sour.
Shea hadn’t expected anybody to know about that. Fallon was popular with his army and some might be insulted on his behalf that she had rejected his offer. Of course, the other half would have been enraged if she’d accepted.
“Did you now?” he asked her.
Her chin jerked once in affirmation.
“And why is that?”
One shoulder rose. “I’m a scout, not a bed mate.”
“Not anymore,” Caden informed her. “You’re a guard now.”
Shea’s composure cracked momentarily as a visceral denial fought to be released. The implacable expression on Caden’s face froze her. He let her know without ever speaking a word that he was willing to beat that fact into her body until she agreed.
She closed her mouth on what she had been about to say and looked away briefly as she brought her emotions under control.
“So? Why are you here?” Meynard asked.
“I need you to give her the test.”
The man shuffled over to Caden. “Does the Hawkvale know about this?”
“It’s his order.”
The old man’s head dropped forward as he studied the ground at his feet for a moment before giving Shea an assessing glance.
“I don’t think I’ve ever given it to a woman before.”
Caden grunted.
Shea shifted under their regard. Had she ever heard anything about a test? The way Caden said ‘The Test’ made it seem important.
She fidgeted slightly as they discussed details, the tight feeling of being closed in on all sides coming back.
She hoped this was just a skills test. Maybe a personality test.
This wouldn’t be as bad as the last test she’d taken. Probably.
Shea jerked back as a crack rent the air. The old man flicked a thin whip again, curling it around her thigh and leaving a smarting welt behind. She hadn’t even seen him pick up the weapon.
Shea reached for the dagger at her back and cursed silently when she felt nothing but air. She’d been disarmed yesterday before meeting Fallon, and they never returned the blade. She dropped into a crouch and watched the man’s torso carefully as she prepared for the next blow.
“Her pain tolerance is pretty high.”
“Was that supposed to hurt?”
“She speaks,” Meynard cried. He fainted to the left with the whip. Shea went right only to gasp as he nailed her in the ribs. “I had begun to wonder if you were a mute.”
He cracked the whip several times on either side of her, driving her back with each flick of his wrist. Despite her best efforts he caught her twice more. Once on the ribs and another on her left hand.
“You can avoid these any time you’d like,” he told her.
She snorted. “Why? I can barely feel it.”
“Oh?”
She wanted to hiss as fire raced down one arm before blood slowly trickled out of the cut he’d opened. He had excellent control. Until then, he hadn’t drawn blood, just raised a few welts.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” she told him.
Taunts and bluffs were all she had to defend herself with at the moment. Caden had very carefully made sure she was unarmed for this meeting, and the old man was good enough with his weapon that every attempt to sidestep or escape was thwarted.
Perhaps this was the test.
The last ‘test’ she had taken had nearly killed her. All pathfinders were subjected to the trial at the end of their apprenticeship. Many died in the dangerous rite of passage. She didn’t like to remember that time.
“So does this test consist of torturing your target until they try to kill you?” Shea asked idly.
The old man cocked his head, observing her from under bushy eyebrows. “No. What makes you think that?”
“Oh, because you keep hitting me WITH YOUR WHIP.”
Two more cracks and welts formed under her pants.
“Don’t be a goat brained Lowlander. This is the easiest way to test your mental fortitude.”
Of course. She winced as one of his blows landed across a previous one.
She’d had enough. She didn’t care if she failed. Maybe if she couldn’t pass their little test, they’d let her go back to being a scout, or better yet forget all about her so she could get back to her life.
She reached back, grabbed a stack of clothing and then threw it in the air between the old man and her. He drew back, raising one hand to protect his face. Shea dropped low and lunged, reaching out and twisting the whip out of his hand in a smooth movement.
She backed away quickly. She looked from it to the old m
an. He wasn’t getting this thing back.
“Took you long enough,” the old man said, making no move to take the whip from her. “Takes a little to get her going.”
Caden nodded once. “That was my assessment as well, Meynard.”
“But once she gets going, she acts with clear decisive intent.” The old man made a ‘hm’ of approval. He clapped his hands together. “Next phase then.”
There were phases. This was going to be worse than she thought.
She could always purposefully fail.
As if reading her thoughts, Caden said, “I should warn you that if you fail, your friends, both the ones from your village and the men you’ve been riding with over the past few months, will suffer for it.”
Shea was quiet as that sunk in.
“What makes you think I care for a bunch of Trateri trail pounders?” she finally asked.
“You’re still here, aren’t you?”
“Uh huh.” She let a bit of amusement bleed through, hoping it would cast just a little bit of doubt in his mind about her motives. Maybe it would be enough that they would stop threatening the other three to ensure her good behavior.
By the pitying look he gave her, she was willing to bet he didn’t buy her attempt at subterfuge one bit.
Not that she was surprised. She’d never been very good at misleading others through word or gesture. Her teachers had always lamented her directness.
Yeah, Caden wasn’t buying her lies for one minute.
“So what’s this next test?” Shea asked.
“Physical endurance.”
Shea felt a cautious relief. The life of a scout and a pathfinder was geared towards one thing above all others and that was endurance. If you didn’t have the ability to walk or run for miles on end for hours upon hours, you wouldn’t last through your first year. Shea had spent her entire life building up those abilities.
Despite her confidence, she knew everybody could be pushed beyond their breaking point. Even her.
“And that entails?”
The old man’s lips parted in a wrinkly smile. “You’ll see.”
Shea’s thighs burned as a sharp ache dug deeper and deeper into the muscle right between her shoulder blades. Her shirt had turned several shades darker, and her hair was plastered to the side of her head. She blinked away the sharp sting of sweat and concentrated on her grip on the blade.
She had been right to be leery of the old man’s endurance test. His workout menu was as bad as any pathfinder she had ever studied under. Worse, because pathfinders were cautious not to permanently break the youths who had been given into their keeping. She didn’t think this man had any such reservations.
The morning began like every morning, with a brisk run around the encampment four times. Not the tent city but the outer circumference, just past the sentry lines that were patrolled by Trateri soldiers. One time around was roughly three miles. The old man followed behind on horseback and any time he thought she was going too slowly, he’d flick the whip against the backs of her legs.
When the fast paced run from hell was finally finished, he had her strap a carrying pole across her shoulder and added a full bucket of water on either side and then had her carry it up the steep quarter mile hill on the far side of camp.
At the top of that hill, he threw a round, leather sand-filled ball at her, making her catch it. More often than not, it hit her stomach before she could grab it. There was blood on her shirt from when she missed and gotten hit in the face, causing her nose to bleed.
After he’d judged this phase finished, he forced her back down the hill. She’d thought it was over.
She should have known better.
Next, he escorted her to the spacious training pen where Hawkvale’s personal guards practiced their weapon work. He paired her with her guard from the day before, Trenton, and had them run drills. Or more accurately, Trenton pushed Shea back and forth across the arena as Shea had yet to successfully block any move he had thrown at her.
He would attack and she would stumble back. Rinse and repeat. For hours. By the time it was over, she collapsed onto the small cot Fallon had stationed in his quarters, too tired to offer even a token protest. She was asleep almost before her head hit the pillow. The next morning she woke to more of the same.
This routine continued for several weeks. At the crack of dawn, Shea was up and attending to Fallon. Getting his breakfast, carrying the water for his bath, dressing him. Once he left for council meetings or to inspect his warriors, Shea was released to Caden and the old man’s care. Each day they invented new ways to test the limits on Shea’s endurance.
She lost toenails because of the distances they made her run and became a walking bruise from the number of blows Trenton landed.
The day’s training always ended the same way, with Shea sparring against Trenton. Currently, the blade trembled in Shea’s grip as she fought to stay standing. If she could just block one blow, she might be able to get through this with a small piece of her pride intact.
Another bead of sweat dripped into her eye, and she shook her head, blinking rapidly. Trenton moved forward, taking advantage of the moment’s distraction. Shea brought her blade up, parrying his blow. The next moment the world spun as she flew before landing hard. She blinked dumbly at the sky, noting distantly that it was a perfect day for cloud gazing. The white pieces of fluff danced and swirled in time to the wind.
Caden’s head imposed itself between her and the sky.
“Have you had enough?”
Yes. Most definitely yes. She’d been ready to quit this test after getting hit in the face with the sand-filled ball, and definitely after the second time she’d landed face first in the dirt during the weapon’s test.
It was an odd thing to ask, though, considering his earlier threats.
“You’re trying to get me to give up,” she said in realization. “The last few weeks have been to get me to reconsider becoming Hawkvale’s Tolroi.”
“It would certainly be a lot easier than this.”
“Was this his idea?”
Caden gave one of those shrugs again. One that meant neither yes nor no and left her to draw her own conclusion.
“I can’t. That’s not who I am.”
“Guess I can respect that.”
Didn’t mean he agreed with it. This day was probably going to get a lot worst before the end.
“You should find your feet. The old man likes to kick people when they’re down, and all of his recruits have been trained to do the same.”
Shea grunted. She didn’t think she could get up again.
The man who had been beating, oh excuse me, sparring with her, took several determined steps towards her, and she popped to her feet. Guess she could get up after all.
He grinned and raised his blade. She brought hers up to a defensive position. It wasn’t easy. The muscles in her shoulders and arms trembled with the effort.
“Try to block this time,” the old man shouted at her from his seat on a barrel.
Shea ignored him. If she had taken her focus off the man in front of her for even a moment, he would have nailed her three times with his wooden practice sword. He’d done it twice today. Anytime her attention wavered he punish her with three quick blows. Her wrist and thigh still ached from the last time.
Trenton led with a butterfly cut, which Shea blocked before dancing to the side and parrying with a slash. He blocked and twisted his wrist, sliding his blade along hers and forcing it out of his way. The tables turned and her attack quickly became a race to defend herself as he used his blade’s momentum to lunge forward.
She blocked its forward motion but stumbled back and nearly fell when her ankle wobbled from stepping on a loose pebble.
With a movement she felt rather than saw, he knocked her blade from her hand and rapped her harshly on the offending ankle.
Pain lunged up her leg. She gritted her teeth, her eyes smarting. She would not cry. Not in front of these men. That jus
t wasn’t going to happen.
Trenton stepped back and looked over at the old man who watched them sourly.
“You know, that blade in your hands isn’t merely for show,” the old man told her. “You can attack at any time.”
A chorus of laughter came from the gathered onlookers. Most were here to watch the little Lowlander’s abilities tested against one of their best. Some had come convinced they were in for a good show. After all, this was the woman who rescued their warlord, not once but twice.
“Perhaps she needs a lesson in how to hold a sword,” a woman’s voice shouted from the crowd. “You know how soft these Lowlanders’ hands are.”
Trenton stood relaxed, his sword held casually at his side while he waited for Shea to get enough motivation to raise her sword again. She didn’t want to. Not at all. Her arms and shoulders begged for a reprieve.
Rather than attack head on as she had been for the last couple of hours, she waited, with her sword down, and observed Trenton. Since he wasn’t immediately following up with another flurry of attacks, she planned to use this time to think.
Sword play wasn’t her strong suit. It never had been. She carried a sword because it had a longer reach than a dagger and came in handy when fighting off beasts. Part of her training had included work with the sword, but her trainers had mostly concentrated on defense and quick attacks that were a prelude to retreat. Most of her training had been spent gaining wilderness survival skills. You could get just as dead eating the wrong berry when your food ran out as you could with a blade in your gut. So swordplay had been covered but not extensively.
She had just enough skill to defend herself for a short period of time.
Fallon’s men, on the other hand, had extensive experience. The way Eamon told it, they were given a blade on their first birthday and spent the rest of their childhood learning to use it.
There was just no way her small amount of skill could match up to Trenton’s expertise. It made her wonder why Fallon wanted her as his guard in the first place. Even when she had been Shane, it would have been obvious she didn’t measure up to the others.
Trenton quickly moved towards her. The blade whistled through the air where her head had been. She ducked out of the way and then tripped when he shoved his foot into her path. She managed to turn the fall into a roll but had no time to recover as his wooden blade bit into the grass next to her head.