The laughter from the sparring circle slowly faded as the boys drifted away to their usual games, still arguing loudly about the fall.
Torren remained where he stood for a moment, the wooden axe still in his hand.
His arms tingled faintly from the impact of the blows, and the strange feeling from the fight had not yet left his chest. Everything had happened so quickly. The swing, the step, the push.
Almost before he had time to think.
A few of the watching warriors climbed down from the rocks that bordered the clearing.
Among them was Harrag.
Torren noticed him immediately.
Harrag of the Painted Dogs walked with the slow, steady confidence of a man who had spent most of his life fighting in the mountains. He was not the clan's leader, but few warriors in the Vale's high passes carried more respect. Forty-two winters had hardened him, and more than thirty Andal raiders had died beneath his axe along the High Road.
When he stepped into the clearing, the other boys instinctively moved aside.
Harrag stopped in front of Torren and looked down at him.
For a moment the big warrior said nothing. His dark eyes moved over the boy's stance, the wooden axe, the disturbed dirt where the other child had fallen.
Then he gave a short nod.
"You held your ground well."
Torren nodded once.
"Yes."
Harrag stepped forward and nudged the dirt with his boot where the fall had happened.
"You surprised him," he said. "That helps in any fight."
He crouched slightly and recreated the moment with his own feet.
"But this part…" Harrag shifted his weight forward, demonstrating Torren's step. "…this was risky."
He tapped the side of Torren's ribs with two fingers.
"If he had been stronger, he might have caught you here."
Inside Torren's mind the calm voice responded immediately.
Advancing was the correct choice.
Torren kept his face still.
Why? he asked silently.
Your opponent had already lost his balance after the missed strike. Advancing removed his ability to recover.
Harrag continued speaking.
"If you stepped back instead," the warrior said, sliding his foot through the dirt, "you make him chase you. Let him swing again. Men make mistakes when they rush."
Torren hesitated.
The voice answered calmly.
Retreating would extend the engagement. His strength advantage increases risk over time.
Torren glanced down at the ground where the other boy had stumbled.
"But he was already leaning," Torren said quietly.
Harrag looked at him.
"What?"
"He leaned forward when he missed," Torren explained, pointing at the dirt. "He was already falling."
For a moment Harrag said nothing.
The warrior's brow lifted slightly.
Then he grunted.
"You noticed that."
Torren nodded.
"He almost tripped."
Harrag studied him carefully now.
"That kind of thing keeps a man alive in the mountains," he said.
Behind them, soft footsteps approached.
Torren's mother stepped into the clearing, her fur cloak wrapped tightly against the wind. She had clearly been watching from near the campfires.
Her eyes moved from Harrag to Torren.
"You threw him down," she said with quiet pride.
Torren shifted slightly.
"He slipped."
Harrag snorted.
"No he didn't."
His mother smiled faintly and brushed a bit of dust from Torren's shoulder.
"You moved fast," she said. "Faster than the others."
Torren looked down at the axe in his hands.
Inside his mind the voice spoke again.
Your father's experience is valuable.
Torren blinked slightly.
But your decision during the fight was still optimal.
Torren glanced up at Harrag again.
The warrior was still studying him, as if trying to understand how the boy had read the fight so quickly.
For the first time since the voice had appeared the night before, a quiet certainty settled somewhere in Torren's thoughts.
The voice knew things.
Not just about the camp.
Not just about the High Road.
About fighting too.
Torren said nothing.
But somewhere deep inside, the trust had begun.
The laughter from the sparring circle slowly faded as the boys drifted away to their usual games, still arguing loudly about the fall.
Torren remained where he stood for a moment, the wooden axe still in his hand.
His arms tingled faintly from the impact of the blows, and the strange feeling from the fight had not yet left his chest. Everything had happened so quickly. The swing, the step, the push.
Almost before he had time to think.
A few of the watching warriors climbed down from the rocks that bordered the clearing.
Among them was Harrag.
Torren noticed him immediately.
Harrag of the Painted Dogs walked with the slow, steady confidence of a man who had spent most of his life fighting in the mountains. He was not the clan's leader, but few warriors in the Vale's high passes carried more respect. Forty-two winters had hardened him, and more than thirty Andal raiders had died beneath his axe along the High Road.
When he stepped into the clearing, the other boys instinctively moved aside.
Harrag stopped in front of Torren and looked down at him.
For a moment the big warrior said nothing. His dark eyes moved over the boy's stance, the wooden axe, the disturbed dirt where the other child had fallen.
Then he gave a short nod.
"You held your ground well."
Torren nodded once.
"Yes."
Harrag stepped forward and nudged the dirt with his boot where the fall had happened.
"You surprised him," he said. "That helps in any fight."
He crouched slightly and recreated the moment with his own feet.
"But this part…" Harrag shifted his weight forward, demonstrating Torren's step. "…this was risky."
He tapped the side of Torren's ribs with two fingers.
"If he had been stronger, he might have caught you here."
Inside Torren's mind the calm voice responded immediately.
Advancing was the correct choice.
Torren kept his face still.
Why? he asked silently.
Your opponent had already lost his balance after the missed strike. Advancing removed his ability to recover.
Harrag continued speaking.
"If you stepped back instead," the warrior said, sliding his foot through the dirt, "you make him chase you. Let him swing again. Men make mistakes when they rush."
Torren hesitated.
The voice answered calmly.
Retreating would extend the engagement. His strength advantage increases risk over time.
Torren glanced down at the ground where the other boy had stumbled.
"But he was already leaning," Torren said quietly.
Harrag looked at him.
"What?"
"He leaned forward when he missed," Torren explained, pointing at the dirt. "He was already falling."
For a moment Harrag said nothing.
The warrior's brow lifted slightly.
Then he grunted.
"You noticed that."
Torren nodded.
"He almost tripped."
Harrag studied him carefully now.
"That kind of thing keeps a man alive in the mountains," he said.
Behind them, soft footsteps approached.
Torren's mother stepped into the clearing, her fur cloak wrapped tightly against the wind. She had clearly been watching from near the campfires.
Her eyes moved from Harrag to Torren.
"You threw him down," she said with quiet pride.
Torren shifted slightly.
"He slipped."
Harrag snorted.
"No he didn't."
His mother smiled faintly and brushed a bit of dust from Torren's shoulder.
"You moved fast," she said. "Faster than the others."
Torren looked down at the axe in his hands.
Inside his mind the voice spoke again.
Your father's experience is valuable.
Torren blinked slightly.
But your decision during the fight was still optimal.
Torren glanced up at Harrag again.
The warrior was still studying him, as if trying to understand how the boy had read the fight so quickly.
For the first time since the voice had appeared the night before, a quiet certainty settled somewhere in Torren's thoughts.
The voice knew things.
Not just about the camp.
Not just about the High Road.
About fighting too.
Torren said nothing.
But somewhere deep inside, the trust had begun.