Dawn of Wonder (The Wakening Book 1) (21 page)

Near the end of the month, everyone was told to
gather in the courtyard. The chief supervisor announced that they would have
one day to rest, and recommended that they make good use of it. “More than two
hundred of you will be going home,” he said. “The first round of eliminations
takes place the day after tomorrow.”

Aedan bit on a knuckle. He knew he was not ready.

“This elimination is one that tests agility, strength
and stamina.”

It was ironic that Rodwell, the soft, rotund master
who embodied none of these qualities, should be explaining the rules.

For two nights Aedan had fretted over the need to
sleep, and more or less kept himself awake with the fretting. But there was no lethargy
now. He fixed his attention on Rodwell, not missing a detail. The crisp morning
caused puffs of steam to dance around the man’s mouth as he continued in a
surprisingly thin voice for one of such generous girth.

“You will run from here to the army farm where you
will complete a series of obstacles, return along a trail to this square, and
finish between the two orange poles. Orange flags have been set out to mark the
entire course.

“The rules are simple. First: You must complete
the whole circuit including every obstacle. Anyone who is unable to complete an
obstacle will be punished – carrying rocks, crawling through mud, that sort of
thing. In every case the punishment will take longer than the obstacle, so
skill and agility will be rewarded. The second rule: No interfering with your
opponents. Foul play will result in disqualification. The first eighty to
complete the course will progress to the second month and the final
eliminations.”

Aedan took his place at the start, trembling partly
with excitement but mostly with worry. He had recovered well from his injuries
in the Mistyvales, but he had not yet reached his full strength, not even close,
and the fire had set him back further. Looking at the crowding boys, he
wondered if he would be able to beat enough of them. Most were bigger than him
and many looked strong, as if they had been training for years. His worry
deepened. What would Osric say if he failed at the first trial?

Race officials approached.

The babble of nervous voices died down. Aedan found
he was breathing fast. The churning in his gut made him feel suddenly
light-headed and weak.

Two officials raised their flags.

Silence. Every head was raised, every muscle
tensed.

The flags dropped.

Aedan felt only partly conscious. The roar of voices,
the shoves from all sides, and the working of his own legs were dream-like, as
if his senses had overloaded. Then it all burst on him and he found himself in
the centre of the surging mass. Some were sprinting ahead, others jogged,
husbanding their strength, some broke off to the sides and filtered into the
back roads, but most kept together and tramped up through the main streets
towards the city gate, temporarily disrupting the morning’s business. He
recognised Lorrimer, the tall boy from Verma, loping away near the front on his
long spider-legs. The boy could certainly run.

It was as they were passing through the gate that a
tight group drew up alongside Aedan. The large boy nearest him growled, “Go
home, North-boy,” and gave him a sudden shove to the side. Aedan lurched and
just managed to get a foot underneath his weight, but the shove had carried him
off the road and he trod on an apple-sized stone that turned beneath him. In
one horrible instant he felt and almost heard the rending of ligaments as his
ankle twisted. Immediately, he took the weight off the foot and tumbled into
the rocks. The bruises were nothing in comparison to the pain that had shot through
him, that still thrummed in his ankle. He sat up and looked around. There were
no officials here, nobody who could make a case for him.

He got to his feet carefully and tried a few
steps. It wasn’t as bad as he had feared. As long as he avoided uneven ground
it was a pain that could be endured. Another twist would finish him off though.
Making sure he kept away from other runners, he set out, grimacing at the first
strides until he became used to the little stabs of pain. He was sure he would
not be the only one to sustain some injury, and it was going to take a lot more
than a mild sprain to hold him back.

Once he had found his pace again, Aedan kept
slightly behind the middle of the field, preserving his strength. He knew the
day would drain him of every last drop. The route was familiar, but somehow it
was different today. He wondered why he was breathing so hard. Then he realised
that even the moderate pace of the midfield was faster than any pace they had
set before. But if he slowed down he would never make the first eighty. He
tried not to think about the distance, and kept his eyes on the ground, setting
targets of fifty yards at a time.

When they arrived at the farm, orange flags guided
them to the first of the obstacles – a series of a dozen ropes that had to be scaled,
traversed and descended. Falls meant starting again. Aedan decided to catch his
breath before beginning. He knew it had been the right decision when he watched
a group of panting boys run past him and attempt the climbs. They all slowed,
began trembling, and slid down, burning their hands.

Once he was breathing normally, Aedan took hold of
a rope and scaled it with little difficulty. From there he traversed another
that was fastened between beams, climbing underneath, using hands and heels. He
descended and ascended the next two ropes and traversed again. For one who had
spent much of his time clambering through high branches, this section was a
breeze. He was a lot nearer the front of the field when he descended the final
rope and set off for the next obstacle.

The track wound over a steep hill coated in a
wintery fur of long dry grass. On all the north- and west-facing slopes, the
grass was frosted white, awaiting the sun’s touch. Aedan looked out from the
crest over a series of hills dotted with orange flags. The distance was
intimidating, but it was less worrisome than the spectacle immediately beneath
him. Sunk partly in the shadow of the slope was a muddy dam, and its surface
was alive with struggling, splashing bodies. He cringed. That water would be
freezing today. The swim, however, was only about three hundred yards and there
were rescue boats at various points – they would probably mean both life and penalties
for those who clung to them. A few boys crawling around the edge of the dam let
him know what the penalty would be in this case.

He ran down slope and sat on the bank to remove
his shoes, but the nearby official shouted to him that the dam was to be swum
fully dressed. Aedan groaned. That would turn the three hundred yards into a
lot more. He ran into the water, gasping with every deepening step. The water
was so cold it stung. When he was deep enough he began paddling. At first he
tried to kick, but his encased feet seemed to pull him backwards. He found the
best was to bend his knees and let the shoes drag in his wake, while pulling
with his arms. It was like paddling a mostly sunken coracle. The going was very
slow, but fortunately he had no lingering injuries on his arms and they felt strong
enough. He began to drift past a few swimmers who bobbed and splashed around
him.

From all sides, he could hear rapid breathing, and
by the time he reached the middle, his breath was beginning to whine. The water
was bitterly cold here, sapping his strength further. He saw several boys
clinging to boats. Aedan turned on his back and propelled himself just enough
to keep his feet from sinking, but without the use of his legs, it proved
hardly worth the effort. He was growing worried. The water here was dark, cold
and deep. Would it not be wiser to head over to a boat and rather do the mud
crawl?

“Two laps around the dam if you touch a boat,” the
nearest official called.

Two laps! He would never make up that loss. The
shore was not far away. He decided to push on. Breathing fast and paddling with
short, almost desperate strokes, he turned away. There was no concealing the
urgency in his panting now. The shore hardly seemed to come any closer. He was
sinking deeper in the water than he had at first, obviously slowing.

The scream for help was on his lips when he sensed
a change. It was growing warmer. Sudden hope gave him a burst of strength. He
clawed at the water with doubled efforts until he paddled into a sun-warmed,
muddy swirl and decided to test the depth. His feet touched the bottom. He
waded the last forty paces and stumbled up the bank, water cascading from his clothes
and sloshing in his shoes. It was high time for a rest, but another swimmer
crawled out of the water behind him and set off for the next obstacle. Aedan
stumbled after him.

The next sections involved climbing over nets and
walls, filling a leaking bucket from a nearby river using a cup – sprinters
required fewer trips and finished in a fraction of the time taken by joggers – crawling
through muddy trenches, carrying containers of rocks up a hill and, finally,
running the homeward trail.

It was the rock-haul that finished Aedan. He had
been able to nurse his ankle over the other obstacles, but doing so in this one
had put too much weight on his bad leg. It ached in a way that worried him. He
knew his reserves were running out. Though he had gained much ground on the
agility sections, he began to lose it again as he started the trail. Runners passed
him – ten, twenty, forty. Eventually he stopped counting. A glance behind
showed lots of empty land and little else.

He imagined the disappointment on Osric’s face,
and decided that he had more to give. Blisters ate into his feet as he clumped
along the trail. He had to walk the hills, but flew down the declines with long
runaway strides. He passed several boys on the last downhill, the achievement
spurring him on. But when he reached the level at the foot of the slope, the
feeling of weightlessness died under the crush of exhaustion.

He stumbled to a halt. His shoes felt like
millstones. Hands on knees, he doubled over, groaning as bones and muscles made
desperate complaints. He was too tired even to swat the flies that settled and
began crawling over his face. A galling wave of failure swamped him. He had
nothing left. It was over. He had given his best but was simply not yet ready
for such demands.

There was a sharp sound of something flicking
through the air. A wasp-like sting brought him up and he slapped a hand against
his injured neck.

Peashot glared and ran. Aedan forgot everything in
the surge of indignation. This was one injury, one foul more than he was prepared
to take. He had no hope of catching the fleet-footed fox, at least not with
heavy plodding strides, so he tore at his laces, hurled the shoes away, and set
off in pursuit. Peashot glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Aedan
flying towards him.

Wrath and fear urged them to a speed that should
have been impossible at this stage of the day. Aedan had to slow somewhat, and
Peashot, ever aware, slowed as much as he could afford while still preserving a
safe distance. The trail led them back to the road and they ran on, the walls
of Castath rising in the distance. Aedan’s feet were taking a hammering on the
stony road, but freedom from the waterlogged shoes had given him wings. A large
crowd of boys was passing through the city gates about a mile ahead – it looked
like a good hundred of them – so the hope of making the first eighty was gone.
He paid no attention to the runners he was passing and fixed his eyes on the
little darting menace.

Peashot was showing himself to be fleeter of foot
than Aedan had expected. They ran on, weaving through slower groups, and began
swerving between carts and pedestrians as the road intersected others and
traffic increased. Finally the walls were before them. They sped through the
city gates, blind to the guards and deaf to the cheers and laughter of the
people.

Instead of taking the main road, Peashot slipped
down a narrow alley, but over the past weeks this had become Aedan’s ground too,
and the gap between them closed as they threaded the dim corridors. Aedan could
hear his tormentor’s breathing now. Another few turns and he would have him.
Finally they burst into the open. Peashot stumbled for the first time and it
was all Aedan needed. He shoved from behind, throwing the smaller boy down, and
then pinned him on his stomach, a knee on his back.

But now that he had Peashot at his mercy, he hesitated.

He remembered the last time he had taken personal
revenge, letting his temper and hatred have their way. It had not felt good. It
had not made him feel strong – threatening yes, but not strong. Nor had it done
anything to mend the hollowness his father had left in him. As he looked at his
fist, he understood for the first time that using it this way could never be
strength. It was weakness, a spineless yielding to low urges.

He took the weight off his knee and sat down
against a sun-bathed wall, giving himself over to the ragged pursuit of air and
the throbbing in his bad leg. Peashot turned over and sat up, surprise and relief
blending on his face between the red and white splotches of exhaustion.

He had not made it through the trials, Aedan
thought, but he had learned much, and he would find another way to achieve his
purposes, somehow. The warm sun lulled him as he considered his future.