Warrior of the Wild
Tricia Levenseller
For Johnny,
because you introduced me to Overwatch,
where we get to be warriors! Thanks, bro.
“BRING YOUR PRETTY FACE TO MY AX.”
—GIMLI
The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers
PART 1
THE
TRIAL
CHAPTER
1
An ax swings for my head.
The dull training weapon may not be enough to decapitate me, but I know all too well the sharp sting of metal on skin.
I duck.
A whoosh of air sails over my head, and while I’m still crouched, I thrust my ax straight out so the blunt tips of the double heads whack right into Torrin’s armor-clad stomach.
He lets out a sad breath of air. “Dead again.”
Ignoring the instinct to correct his form, I opt for a quick “Sorry,” as he rubs at the spot where I struck him.
He grins at me. “If I had a problem, I would find a different sparring partner.”
That smile of his sets my stomach to fluttering. It gets more and more charming every day.
But shame spreads through me when Torrin’s eyes raise to my hair. He hasn’t said anything about it, and I’m in no hurry to offer an explanation for its shorter length. Thankfully, Master Burkin strides over to us, saving me.
“Well done, Rasmira,” he says. Then to Torrin, “You’re too slow on the recovery. Unless getting eviscerated was your intention?”
A look of annoyance flashes over Torrin’s face, but it disappears as quickly as it comes. “Maybe it was, Master Burkin.”
“And maybe you’ll fail your trial tomorrow. This is the last day for me to shove any more training into your thick skull. Let’s pair Rasmira up with another boy so you can watch.”
Being put on display is the last thing I want. It separates me even more from the rest of the trainees. I already receive more attention, receive the highest marks. It’s as if my instructor, my father, and everyone else are trying to make life harder for me.
Burkin searches through the other pairs practicing in the training house. “How about…”
Not Havard. Not Havard. Not Havard.
“Havard!” Burkin calls on the second-highest rank in our training group. “Come pair with Rasmira so Torrin can observe how to properly recover from his own swing.”
“I know how to recover,” Torrin says defensively. “Rasmira is just fast.”
“The ziken are fast, too,” Burkin says, “and they will not have blunt claws for weapons. Now watch.”
I’ve spoken to my father about Burkin belittling the other students in order to raise me up. Complained profusely.
Nothing has changed.
So I’m forced to face off with Havard. He’s the biggest boy I’ve ever seen, with a scowl across his lips to heighten the effect.
No one ever did like being second best.
Then again, perhaps no one ever hated being first more than I.
I swing for Havard’s head, just as Master Burkin wants. Havard ducks and thrusts out with his ax just as I did before. With the same momentum of my initial swing, I curve my blades around, effectively blocking the jab toward my stomach.
“Perfect,” Burkin says. “Now step it up, Torrin. Else tomorrow will be the last day any of us sees you alive.”
And with that, Burkin stomps off to find other students to nag.
“Doesn’t he realize how hard it is to take this seriously when it’s the last day of training?” Torrin asks.
I’m about to respond, when a blur streaks toward me out of the corner of my eye.
I throw my ax up just in time.
It would seem that Havard isn’t done with me yet.
“Something is different about you,” Havard says, looking me up and down. The motion makes me feel dirty.
But then his eyes fix on my hair.
He laughs once. “You’ve cut your hair. Were you trying to make yourself uglier? Or does Torrin prefer it this way?”
I shove at our joined axes, sending Havard back a step. He has a knack for finding just the right ways to bring me down low. My eyes sting, but I have long since learned to control tears.
My father cut my hair last night. It used to flow down to my waist in blond waves. I loved my hair, despite the fact that it’s more white than golden, like my mother’s and sisters’. But now it barely reaches my shoulders, just like the rest of the men wear their hair.
I know that if my father could somehow force me to grow a beard, he’d do that, too.
My knuckles whiten where they grip my ax.
Havard notices. “You’re going to strike me?”
“I’m considering it.”
He snorts. “How would it look if the village leader’s daughter started a fight the day before her trial?”
“Like she got pissed off by the village idiot.”
His eyes sharpen. “You want to be very careful of what you say to me, Rat.”
Rat—his charming nickname for me. Havard has been using it since I was eight. He said I scurried like one every time I tried to find my feet after he’d knock me down in training.
And when I would come home covered in bruises from my shins to my cheeks, Father began training me at home, too. For the last ten years, I have learned very little other than how to handle an ax.