Wheezing heavily, Holden collapsed into the snow, his body wracked with the pain and cold. He could feel the sting of fresh bruises forming on his body. Planting his gloved hands into the snow, he managed to push himself onto his feet. He remained hunched over, but turned his head to look up at Yerryn, who did not appear tired in the slightest.
“Stand up,” she ordered curtly.
Against his body’s wishes, Holden stood upright, and lifted his sword -- blade padded in layers of leather -- to spar with Yerryn again.
“Your footwork is nonexistent,” Yerryn said, “it’s a miracle that you haven’t perished already.” Without warning she swung her padded blade towards Holden’s shoulder. While he managed to block the blow, she swept her leg against his, sending him stumbling to the side before she slammed her elbow into his back.
Yelling in pain, Holden collapsed into the snow. “What is the point of this?” he asked, trying to get up once more.
“The tradition of Stal is that those who venture here must become stronger than when they arrived,” explained Yerryn. “I will not coddle you; when the time comes, you can be depended upon.”
“So you’ll beat the imperfections out of me?” Holden asked, his body throbbing with pain.
“If that is what it takes.” Yerryn slid the practice padding off of her sword, before sliding it into its scabbard. “The sun will be down, soon. Along with whatever creatures that prowl Stal at night, you will have to evade On’hinian patrols. Should you be captured, expect a beating, and far worse from me.”
“You’re going to simply leave me here?” Sheathing his own blade, holden handed the padding to Yerrn. “What of learning how to better wield a sword?”
“”Why do you think I permit you to still carry it?” Yerryn queried in retort. “Do what you must to survive, short of killing the soldiers. Understand?”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
“May Hino watch over your soul.” Turning on her heel, Yerryn followed the tracks they made coming to this expanse of undeveloped wilderness. Holden could only stand there, watching her travel further away, until she slipped out of sight.
A gust of wind rushed past holden, throwing a thin cloud of snow over him. Tightening his coat around himself, he turned in the opposite direction to take in the view of Stal once more. On either side of him were mountains, which boxed in a forest thick with trees. in the distance, he could see a fortress towering over the arboreal sea; likely where the patrols were preparing for the hunt.
Wasting no further time, Holden began moving towards the woods. For the past few hours, he had trained in open fields, with little to no coverage provided. If he would be caught easily, it would be here. While his body was dripping with pain from enduring Yerryn’s sparring, his determination overlooked the agony. He wanted to defeat the challenge set before him, to show Yerryn that he was not weak; that it was not his weakness that left Honler broken.
The sky shifted to a brilliant display of orange and pink as Holden reached the trees. The pillars of grey bark twisted and reached out towards the open air, vacant branches swaying above. Amidst the grey wasa several patches of verdant green, where pines stood. They would make for excellent cover, should someone approach. Moving behind one of the pines, Holden began to dig out the snow to leave a spot bared. Setting up a fire was redundant, if the ice would just quell the flames immediately.
Then, a thought crossed his mind, making him stop digging. Looking behind him, it was to his dismay that his tracks stood out amongst the untouched sheet of snow that coated the ground. It would do his efforts little good to have a trail leading directly to his hiding place. Thinking quickly, Holden reached past the pine’s needles, and gripped a branch. Managing to break it off, he carried the branch out, following his own tracks. When there was only a sliver of sunlight left on the horizon, Holden turned around and lowered the branch, dragging it behind himself to remove his tracks in the snow. At the very least, it would conceal them a little better than the darkness alone.
Occasionally, he would stop and listen for some indication of a patrol’s approach. Much to his relief, none could be heard. As Holden reached the treeline, he moved to his hole behind the pine, and planted the branch firmly into the snow. With his tracks concealed, he was left only with the matter of staying warm. Breaking off another branch, Holden brought his sword out of its sheath, and carefully carved off shavings of wood for kindling. The ever-faint crunch of snow made Holden’s hands freeze, as he looked over his shoulder. There, stood nobody; only the trees. Setting his sword down, Holden drew his bow, and slowly readied an arrow. The darkness hindered his perception, and it was painfully clear that someone knew where he was. Remaining as still as a statue, Holden waited for some betrayal of his stalker’s position. Within the darkness, he could make out the a man standing amongst the trees, and -- as if staring into a mirror -- a bowstring being pulled back. In panic, Holden released his arrow. it slammed into the shoulder of the man, as a muffled scream of pain resounded over the low whistle of the wind.
Wasting no time, Holden moved towards the source with haste. With another arrow notched, he glanced down at the reddish stains in the snow. Moving around the tree, Holden looked at the trail of blood leading away and further into the forest, accompanied by tracks. They were undoubtedly those of the patrolman who took aim at him. Confronted with the choice between pursuing the patrolman -- to make sure that others would not be warned of his location -- or putting distance between where the encounter happened and himself, Holden chose the former quickly.
He raced uphill in the patrolman’s wake, bow in hand. As he climbed higher, the evergreens grew more sparse, and the wind was stronger. As the tracks led into a cluster of pines, he slowed his pace. He slung his bow around his torso, and drew a knife strapped to his thigh -- his sword was still at the camp. Just as he approached the first pine, a man burst out from the branches. Before Holden could move, the man threw his weight against Holden’s chest, sending the both of them tumbling down the hillside.
Losing the grip on the knife, Holden threw a punch at the man as they wrestled in a cascade of powdered ice. Through the disorienting commotion, he caught sight of his own steel -- the knife -- in the man’s hand. He grabbed at the man’s wrist, in an effort to keep the edge from splitting his own flesh. The struggle was broken as they slammed into the trunk of a barren tree. The man groaned out in pain, and Holden would have joined in as well, had the wind not been knocked from his lungs.
“Alright,” the man said, remaining on his back, “you caught me. Just go easy on me, the arrow was plenty enough.”
“Wait,” Holden whispered hoarsely. “You thought I was a patrolman?”
“I did start to have a few doubts, after you damn near tried to kill me.” The man flicked his eyes to the partial shaft of Holden’s arrow protruding from his shoulder.
“I aimed to wound,” Holden explained, “to merely disarm you. Had I wanted to kill you, I would have aimed for your heart.”
“Perhaps. But I don’t think your accuracy will do you much good, now.” The man nodded towards the remains of something in the snow. Holden sat in silence, his eyes resting on the broken bow.
“A good friend entrusted that to me,” he said, crawling over to it. Lifting the pieces from the snow, he inspected where the limb was splintered. It must have shielded him from a rock in the snow as he rolled down the hillside.
“Sorry about that,” said the man, “really. We could head into the fort, snag a new one for you.”
“Walk into the fort? Just like that?” Holden set the remains of the bow in the snow with care. “And why should I trust you? We were fighting, tooth and claw not moments ago.”
“Over a misunderstanding,” the man said. “I assume you’re here for the same reason as me. You are a scout, as well?”
“I am, yes,” Holden admitted, “but a likeness in goals doesn’t assure my trust.”
“Why not?” The man stood up, and offered his hand. “We’ll pull through this, together.”
Looking at the hand, Holden pondered the alternative. Surviving alone would be a challenge, and presented the risk of coming across this man again; potentially as a foe. “Alright, but don’t expect me to risk my hide for someone I don’t know.”
Behind the mask, the man made what Holden could assume was a grin. “Quinarlan. My name is Quinarlan.”
***
Aside from the whistling of the wind through the mountains, the wilderness of Stal was exceptionally quiet. With only the crackling of a small fire to preoccupy Holden and Quinarlan’s ears, they could easily hear the approach anyone close by.
“I’ve heard talk of you, Holden,” Quinarlan said, tending to his wound. The bloodied arrowhead rested in the snow, leaving a hole for him to bandage. “You were the one in Rnyrt, right?”
“Yes,” Holden replied. He watched the glowing embers fight against the ever-present cold.
“Tell me what it was like.”
“Cold. Wet.” Hearing Quinarlan’s chuckle made Holden grin. “I can’t recall a moment where I was dry, or comfortable.”
“I would think not. Soldiers being assigned to maintaining the docile state of Rnyrt just call it the ‘swamplands.’ But, that is not what I meant.” Quinarlan leaned in. “Tell me what it was like to be a scout on an assignment.”
Holden was quiet, thinking of how best to describe it. “One of the things you realize quickly is that you become your own leader. Nobody is there to tell you right from wrong, aside from your instinct.”
“I always thought it would feel strange,” said Quinarlan, “to have such freedom in a place you have never been before.”
“Amidst the sensations of both fear and uncertainty, I suppose it felt a little strange.” Prodding the embers with a stick, holden thought about it for a moment. “You’re often prone to your own thoughts, and it isn’t until you’re facing the enemy that you realize any cry for help would be in vain.”
Quinarlan sat in silence, studying Holden from behind his mask. “I would find that doing what you did with so little training an impossible feat. It was your doing that the Rnyrtians surrendered.”
“I would have, too,” Holden said, smirking, “if I saw a river of soldiers flooding into my capital.” As they both chuckled, he relaxed against the trunk of a tree behind him. Where are you from, Quinarlan?”
Quinarlan let his chuckling quickly diminish at Holden’s question. “Well, I was born in Perona. Unfortunately, my father was not around during my childhood, so it was on my mother to provide for the both of us.”
“Is that why you’re in His Majesty’s service?” Holden asked. “To improve the way of life for you and your mother?”
“Ah, yes,” Quinarlan replied with a soft smile, dripping with melancholy. “When I retired, we’ll never want for more again.”
“I joined for the same purpose, to--”
“Quiet!” Grabbing handfuls of snow, Quinarlan buried the fire. He dropped onto the ground next to Holden, as the faint sound of galloping gradually grew louder and louder.
Amidst the darkness of night, Holden discerned a pair of riders in the distance. There was little doubt that the riders were heading for him and Quinarlan. “We can’t wait here,” said Holden.
“We’re not,” Quinarlan said, packing some snow into his coat. “Hide, and attack when they both dismount.” As Quinarlan closed his coat, he took an arrow from his quiver and stabbed the arrowhead into his chest.
Speechless, Holden could only watch as Quinarlan fell into the snow, stilled by death. The galloping growing louder prompted him to leave the corpse behind, as he ran behind a nearby tree and hid. The riders stopped at Quinarlan’s body, and one shouted an oath in frustration.
“Fools!” the rider shouted in rage. “The damned lot of the other patrolmen are fools! That is an On’hinian arrow in his chest, so there is no doubt of what took place.”
“Relax,” the other rider said. “We’ll just have it staged to look like a fight took place. He came at us, weapon drawn, bloodlust in his eyes.”
“Fair enough. Let’s get this over with quickly, I’m none too keen on freezing out here whilst the fool who did this has a warm bed.”
Peering around the corner, Holden saw the two soldiers dismounted, looking over Quinarlan’s body. Drawing his sword, he moved carefully, as to not make himself seen.
“Wait, look!” one of the soldiers said, pointing at Quinarlan. “He’s shivering -- he’s still alive!”
Quinarlan murmured something softly, so quiet that the soldiers leaned int to hear him. Suddenly, his arms wrapped around one of their necks, pulling him into a headlock. As the soldier struggled to break free, the other drew his sword.
“Drop your weapon!” Holden shouted, resting the flat of his blade on the soldier’s shoulder. Almost immediately, the soldier dropped his sword, and remained still, watching his comrade’s struggling grow torpid.
“Sorry to scare you like this,” Quinarlan said, “but business is business.” Letting the soldier in his hold breathe, he got up and dusted himself off. When he found the other still staring at the arrow protruding from his chest, he chuckled and shook his head. Unbuttoning his coat, he let the packed snow fall free, along with the arrow embedded in it. “A neat little trick to remember, Holden,” he said, before he went to the horses.
“You can’t take the horses,” the soldier Quinarlan nearly strangled managed to say, “it’s against the rules of the exercise.”
“Don’t worry, it’s not the horses I’m after.” Quinarlan searched the saddles, before pulling a bag off of one of the horses. “I think these, and the word of the two of you that you’ll return with a quiet report are worth your evenings not ruined.”
Without warning, the soldier at swordpoint ducked, grabbed his blade and clashed steel with Holden, sending him stumbling back. The other soldier scrambled to get up, but Quinarlan rested his point on the soldier’s throat.
“I’d rather watch this play out,” Quinarlan said, “and besides, should your man win, I’ll let you take that one back to the fort.”
Regaining his footing, Holden glared at Quinarlan. “You snake!”
“I’d recommend focusing on the matter at hand, Holden.” Grinning, Quinarlan gestured to the other soldier.
“Wait a moment, Holden? As in Sergeant d’Alnhart?” The soldier grinned. “It’ll be fun, beating you into shape.” Stepping forward, the soldier swung his blade in a downward arc. Holden met the soldier’s blade with his own, locked in a contest of strength -- one he was going to lose, given the soldier’s considerable strength.
“You’re not a knight, Holden, no need to fight like one!” Quinarlan patted his own leg as an indication.
While he would rather have turned his blade to Quinarlan, Holden had little choice but to take the advice. Lifting his leg, he struck the soldier in the gut with his knee. The soldier stumbled back, but kept his sword between himself and Holden.
“Seize the moment!” Quinarlan shouted. “Strike!”
Without hesitation, Holden struck the soldier’s blade with all his might, sending it to the snow. The soldier raised his hands in surrender, and Quinarlan clapped his hands.
“Not as green behind the ears as you two thought, eh?” He lifted his boot off of the other soldier. “Move along, or you’ll have to fare against me. And then, your night will really be ruined.” With his blade still in hand, Quinarlan kept watch over the soldiers, up until they rode off into the night, back to the fortress. “Now, before you lose your temper -- wait, woah!” He broke into a light jog to catch up to Holden, who was trying to put distance between himself and Quinarlan.
“You’re less of a man than most outlaws and thieves,” he said, not bothering to look back at Quinarlan. “You were going to sell me for your own benefit.”
“Was I?” Quinarlan asked. “I merely lit the instinct to fight for survival in you. You wouldn’t take the fight seriously as you had if I let you believe that your own safety was assured.”
Holden stopped, and turned around. “Is that in some spirit of mentoring me?” His tone was dripping with scorn, as he stared down Quinarlan. “You’re a coward, and you were looking out for your own hide. Admit it.”
“I have little to fear,” Quinarlan said, setting down one of the bags. He opened it, and reached about inside. He pulled out a piece of jerky, and bit a piece off. “While you may have more field experience than me, I far surpass your combat ability in nearly every case.”
“You think so?” Holden gestured to Quinarlan’s bandaged shoulder.
“Well,” Quinarlan said, his blade in one hand, jerky in the other, “should you be doubtful, then test me with your steel.” He bit into the jerky, trying to rip off another piece.
Without hesitation, Holden drew his blade, and thrusted it to pierce Quinarlan’s leg. However, the swift parry and punch to the jaw left him staggering backwards into a tree. He felt cold steel pressed to his throat, without even a second left to recover.
“Do you still need more persuasion, or will you let me help you?” Quinarlan pulled his blade away, and cleared his throat.
“Even if I were to believe you, why would you want to teach me anything?”
“For On’hino’s sake, if no other.” Taking another bite from the jerky, Quinarlan sheathed his blade. “You’re on the way to becoming something more than just a scout. The soldiers already speak of you, and the more feats you can complete, the more you’ll inspire them. You would feel much more confident in the company of a hero, wouldn’t you?”
“You’re assuming that I’ll be a hero, then?” Holden asked. While he was no glutton for vanity, the idea of becoming something larger than a scout was appealing.
“Well, with some work, I believe so.” Quinarlan offered his hand to Holden. “Put your trust into me one more time, and I’ll give you the training to be the scout that fits the stories the nation will tell.”
Looking at Quinarlan’s hand, Holden paused for a moment. Was he really going to trust him again? “If you so much as lie about the weather, I’ll stop at nothing to see you regret it.” Clasping firmly, he shook Quinarlan’s hand.
“I’ll see to it that I give you the truth from here on,” Quinarlan said, before he glanced at the fortress. “When this trial is over, you’ll be more than capable of taking the entire fort by yourself.”
