Tribe: The Red Hand (Tribe Series Book 1) (11 page)

“I assume you’ve chosen who you will challenge?”

“I have,” Kestrel said. Thinking on it now, she had always known whom she would fight, just as she had always known whose band she wanted to join. “Aiden.”

One-Ear Tom pursed his lips, and his brow gained a few thoughtful wrinkles. “If you do this, you know it will not be just for show.”

“I do,” Kestrel said without hesitation. “I don’t want it any other way.”

“Your brother is not a man to make into an enemy.”

“He has given me no choice.” She cocked a thumb and gestured toward her back. The force he had used to hammer the ink into her skin was needless, and she could feel trickles of blood oozing down her shoulder blade.

“I’d be honored to fight you, as would your father, and both choices follow custom.”

“I will fight Aiden, and prove myself to him and his band.”

He caught her shoulders. “Do not believe that his harsh ways with you are anything but love.”

“Love?”
Kestrel spat, wrenching herself free of her teacher’s grip.

“Yes,
love
. Being a Red Hand is not the same as growing crops, or working with leather, wood, and metal. It is a dangerous life, merciless and brutal. To be a warrior is to make few true friends, because most everyone you know eventually ends up dead or maimed. Perhaps, in his own way, Aiden wanted to spare you from that burden.”

Kestrel did not know what to say. No one she knew had ever spoken so unfavorably of being a Red Hand, and surely not One-Ear Tom. Of course, she knew people died in battle, but always their deaths were celebrated and revered by villagers and Red Hands alike. Only the survivors of battle received more honor—and that, she was sure, was really at the heart of her brother’s cruelty toward her, not love.

“Aiden’s desire is not to spare me,” she said, her features stiff, “but to keep me from ever having the chance to dim the light of his glory.”

“Perhaps,” One-Ear Tom said with a resigned sigh. He reached behind his back, drew a pair of long wooden knives from his belt, and placed them in her waiting hands. “If you
are
right, then your task is all the more dangerous, because when you call him out, he’ll know why you have broken tradition.”

He glanced toward the ring of fighting Red Hands, then back to her. “Aiden fights boldly, fearlessly, as you must know.”

Kestrel nodded, for she did know, and all the more after seeing him slaughter the Stone Dogs who had chased her.

“Any weakness on your part—”

“I am not weak!”

One-Ear Tom fixed her with a piercing stare. “No, but right now you are behaving like a spoiled child.”

“Forgive me,” Kestrel said, and meant it. Only disappointing her father was more troubling to her than disappointing One-Ear Tom.

“I’ve never been a good teacher, girl, but heed what I tell you, or you’ll end up spending your first months as a Red Hand recovering in a sickbed.”

Kestrel knew he was only being modest. One-Ear Tom was one of the finest teachers in the village, and everything she knew of fighting had come at his instruction. She nodded reluctantly, once more the pupil, if only for a short time.

“He will attack straight away, hoping to intimidate you. Become the rabbit, and let him
see
your fear—”

“You sound like my mother,” Kestrel said, unable to believe this was his guidance.

One-Ear Tom smiled wryly. “Has Tessa ever given you bad advice?”

Kestrel opened her mouth, then snapped her teeth together. “No,” she said after a moment, “but what does showing fear have to do with fighting Aiden?”

He shrugged. “Maybe everything, maybe nothing. But if our places were reversed, that’s how I would fight him. Using his confidence against him is the only advantage you have. And you had best make good use of it, because this fight will be as close to the real thing as you dare get without sharp steel in your hands.”

Kestrel thought it would have been better if her teacher had said nothing and let her go blindly forward. “I have to fight him,” she muttered.

“Well, then, off you go, young Kes,” One-Ear Tom said, sending her down the slope with a gentle push. She had not taken a dozen strides when he called out, “Remember who you are, and what you’ve done to get here, and you’ll be fine.” His worried expression did nothing to assure her, so she turned and made her way down the slope.

When she reached the ring of villagers, they parted, all looking at her as if she was already a hero. She did not understand their adoration any more than she understood why the suggestion kept coming up that she had done anything more than any other Potential.

Kestrel ducked her head and pushed through them, then passed the ring of Red Hands. She did not stop until she reached the calm center of the two rings formed by the villagers and the warriors.

All around her drums pounded in rough harmony with the clacking of wooden weapons. The Red Hands circled and circled, their mock battles lively. No one seemed to be paying Kestrel any mind, but she sensed watchful eyes, sensed the silent question held within every head.
Who will she challenge?

Like her, they all knew this was only meant to be a demonstration of a newly raised Red Hand’s skills, but it was still great fun to watch.

I will give them a show they will never forget
, she thought, and abruptly thrust one of her wooden knives skyward. “See me!”

At that signal, the drumming and the fighting ceased at once. Everyone locked their eyes on her. She gazed back, forcing herself to hold her head high and proud.

She gripped the leather-wrapped hilts of her wooden knives tightly. When she breathed in, it seemed as though she was drawing strength from her people. Excitement overflowed her veins and spilled into the rest of her body, making her tremble like the leaves of an aspen tree. Before the trembling could become visible shaking, she snapped her heels together and crossed her practice weapons before her face in salute.

Who will she challenge?
Hundreds of eager eyes asked, but the time had not yet come to reveal her choice.

Kestrel leaped forward, once and again, gaining speed with each bound, until she was flying around the clearing, her blades spinning around her head in a whirring, intermingled pattern, feeling alive with joy and purpose.

Her third time around the ring, her leaping strides suddenly transformed into a series of high, spinning kicks, each punctuated by a shout of, “
Ha!
” Each time her feet lit upon the ground, she slashed and stabbed at an enemy none of the observers could see—the Stone Dogs on the mountain. Lost as she was in this dance of blades, she could see them as clearly as she had on that stormy night after her Kill.

In her mind, they came at her in ones and twos, ugly beasts of men, their hair and beards teased into ratty, sodden ropes, their spears stabbing but unable to touch her, as she blocked and spun away, and then spun back again to strike them down. She could actually feel the cold rain pounding against her skin; hear the howling voice of the storm mingling with the screams of her enemies. Eight had chased after her, but she found only seven to cut down.
Where is the other?

Kestrel faltered imperceptibly at the thought, threw herself forward into a diving somersault, and came up again, her wooden blades hissing as they cut the air … only the air.

The magic of the moment began to fade, and she finished her exhibition with a few more high kicks, followed by an equal number of sweeping kicks that would have knocked any enemy off their feet.

Breathing deeply, she stood straight, and once more snapped her heels together and crossed her blades before her face.

“Hear me!” she called this time.

Expectant faces peered at her.
Who will she challenge?

Kestrel swallowed. She could still challenge One-Ear Tom, her father, or someone else, but there was only one. He had dogged her as long as she could remember, embarrassed and belittled her at every turn, and tonight, in some small way, no matter the cost, she meant to return some of that hurt and misery to him.

She stabbed one blade skyward, then let it fall slowly, until aimed at the target she had chosen. “I challenge Aiden, my brother, and the Warchief of my chosen band!”

Normally after the challenge was made, cheers erupted from the villagers and the Red Hands. Kestrel heard only the whispering of the breeze, the rustling of the grass underfoot, the faint rattle of bones hanging from the Bone Tree, and the distant
cree-cree
of crickets.

Hundreds of faces stared back, many with mouths hanging open. A few of the villagers looked to one another and shook their heads in bewilderment.
Has she lost her wits?
their expressions said. Before anyone could voice aloud that opinion, One-Ear Tom stepped forward.

“Will the challenged accept?” he called, his deep voice revealing not a hint of the doubt Kestrel saw from the villagers.

Wearing a broad, mocking grin, Aiden moved out of the ring of Red Hands. “I will, and gladly!”

Silence held a moment longer, then the drums began pounding again, the Red Hands sat themselves on the ground and crossed their legs. Though hesitant at first, the villagers offered up a thunderous cheer.

Kestrel stood firm as Aiden drew close, but the hilts of her weapons had become greasy with sweat, and she had to concentrate to keep a firm hold on them.
This is what you wanted,
she reminded herself.
Be strong, and honor yourself and your family.

“I hope you don’t expect me to be gentle?” Aiden asked out of the corner of his mouth, as he offered a nod and a wave to the spectators.

“You never have been before.”

“For good reason,” Aiden said quietly, his gray eyes meeting hers. “I told you before that your shortcomings would become obvious to everyone, but I didn’t know you wanted to hurry things along.”

He’s toying with you
, she thought, fury exploding within her chest. The time had come to make him choke on all the bitter, hateful things he had said and done to her.

“I wonder, will my brother fight?” she cried in a taunting voice. “Or will he talk us all to tears?”

When the villagers and the Red Hands gave a stirring roar of approval, an ugly light entered Aiden’s stare.

One-Ear Tom lifted a hand for quiet. He flashed a smile, but Kestrel saw a ghost of worry hovering under it. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but the night is growing late, and I’m getting hungry.” He waited until the cheers died down, and added, “Let us begin!”

After he had stepped out of the ring, Kestrel and Aiden faced each other, set their feet, and held their weapons at the ready. The thought crossed Kestrel’s mind to adjust her stance, and then Aiden attacked.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Aiden was on her in two quick strides, his wooden blades twirling. Before she could so much as blink, one had thumped against the bandage on her shoulder, and the other cracked sharply against her wounded hip. The spectators’ cheering became gasps. This part of the ceremony was supposed to display Kestrel’s prowess, not make her look like a fool.

Kestrel stumbled back, teeth clenched against a pained groan. The dull, throbbing agony the seeker’s tea had stolen from her wounds thundered back to life, for a moment making it impossible to think straight.

Aiden struck her twice again, once a hammering blow to her ribs, and another to one wrist. Her numbed fingers sprang open, and the wooden knife fell away. Before it hit the ground, his blades were falling again.

Move!

She obeyed the silent command just in time.

As Kestrel threw herself backward, one of Aiden’s blades ripped through the space where her head had been a split-second before, the blunted tip slicing the air in front her nose—had she not dodged clear, she would be sprawled on the ground with a cracked skull.

Does he mean to kill me?
she thought, soaring out of reach. Before she hit the ground, Kestrel folded her arms across her chest and tucked her legs. After she hit, she let her momentum roll her over to her feet. She came up in a crouch, hoping the quick escape had put Aiden off his stride.

He was already closing, teeth bared, blades swinging.

Kestrel threw herself into another backward roll, but when she came up this time, she feinted one way, then ducked low in the opposite direction. As Aiden lunged past, her sidearm swing cracked loudly against his lower back, pulling a startled grunt from his throat.

Most of the villagers had lost their shock at seeing an actual fight break out between the siblings, and now they howled encouragement over the crazed pounding of drums. “Aiden!” many called out; considerably less shouted, “Kestrel!”

Not waiting for Aiden to gain the advantage, Kestrel surged across the clearing, caught up her fallen knife, and spun to face her brother.

He was already so close that she had to drop to her belly to avoid catching a wooden blade with her teeth. It whooshed overhead, skimming her flying braid. Aiden’s momentum carried him along, and his boots tromped across her shoulders and down her spine.