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.”
True looked at Master Radoc. “Defeat, Master? You wish me to kill them?” He hoped not. He mostly liked Master Wick and had no ill feelings toward the warrior Urgast. Brude would be far easier to blood.
Radoc paled. Mistress Essa answered, “No—defeat means to get your opponent’s weapons from him and pin him on his back. There will be no killing on any side—do all of you understand?”
“Brude bared his teeth. “But blood-letting?”
“To be sure,” Radoc replied.
Brude grinned. “Then allow me to go first.”
“As you wish.”
The other two stepped to the side of the ring which had once more formed. Adept at measuring others’ emotions, True looked into Brude’s eyes and saw what lay there.
Lady, help me.
He had time for no more. Like him, Brude wore a knife, no doubt stolen in battle from the westerners, and carried a spear. Now he drew the knife, bared his teeth, and assumed a crouched stance.
Following suit, True narrowed his eyes on Brude’s face—this part of the fight he understood. In his mode of combat one always leaped upward and went for the throat.
Might he use the iron weapon in the same manner? Not giving himself time to doubt, he leaped and swept the knife upward at Brude’s throat. The onlookers exclaimed, and Brude raised his knife to block, barely in time. Brude back-stepped wildly, and True leaped again, the strained muscles throughout his body protesting.
A new expression invaded Brude’s eyes. “Come on, then,” he grated. “Let us see this thing done.”