Warrior, Opposed: Book One Of The Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter One - Trials of a Warrior

Tancred, the Council's chief warrior, led Torquil to the testing area. The ancient soldier said very little as he showed him into the weapons room, except to tell him to divest of his cloak, t-shirt, and shoes, and to select a weapon. The only advice he’d been willing to offer was a passing comment as Tor reached for a sword, the weapon of choice for most members of the Council’s elite.

“Trust your instincts, son, the moment you lose faith in yourself you’ll fail.”

Torquil considered the legendary Germanic bhampair who’d been leading the ghaisgich, the Council warriors, for centuries. The chief was, in turn, watching his weapon hand as it hovered over the hilt of the short sword and the frown on Tancred’s face only softened when Tor selected a large iron maul, an iron war hammer, in place of the blade.

The hammer certainly wasn’t a favoured weapon among the Council’s warriors, but Torquil had a preference for the heavy implement. His mentors would almost certainly encourage the use of a blade but his heart and hand trusted the maul, despite their teachings. Right from beginning his training he’d found that wielding the weighty, iron hammer came more naturally than fighting with a sword. It lacked the finesse of finely tempered steel, it was true, and his preference for it had been thoroughly frowned upon. But still, something about the brutal force of the maul called to him.

Of course, he could fight with a blade as well. If occasion called for it, he could spar just as well as the rest of the trainees. He could hardly join the Comhairle-Chlaidheamhan, the Council of Swords, without that skill. But Tor would feel more comfortable facing the Taghadairean with a weapon he had a true affinity for.

Tancred obviously understood his preferences, although it surprised Tor to realise the leader of the ghaisgich knew even that much about him. He’d rarely had contact with any of the fully-fledged warriors while training, except for those who were employed to mentor the candidates. He’d certainly never spoken to the chief before. Did Tancred pay so much attention to the styles and strengths of all the nominees?

“Also, trust in your brothers and sisters,” the oldest of the warriors advised him, much to his confusion; it had always been a requirement of the trials to that candidates fight alone.

With his strange counsel given, Tancred bowed. He offered up his respect to a nominee who’d brave the test, then he spun on his heel and stalked out of the temporary armoury with the silent and stealthy steps of a predator, leaving Tor alone. Alone was bad, being alone let doubts creep in, and Tor didn’t want to doubt.

He moved in the opposite direction, pausing before the entrance to the ‘proving grounds’ and bolstering his resolve with a deep breath. He pressed his hand to the heavy, oak door and he knew it was his last chance to back out, to turn away, to be sure of seeing the following day. It was the point of no return. His grip tightened on the cool handle of his hammer and he pushed open the door and stepped towards his fate, whatever that might be. It wasn’t in him to run away from a fight, not anymore.

Real anxiety finally took hold as he stepped out of the shadows and onto the stone dais. His apprehension wasn’t surprising; it was more astonishing that the trepidation hadn’t begun to claw at his determination weeks ago, when he’d first been given the date for the trials. Only a quarter of all candidates survived the initiation rite which he was about to endure, and recently the success rate had dropped further. Not one of the last ten nominees had passed the test and it was impossible to predict his chances of coming out of it alive. He was strong, he’d trained, but his upcoming ordeal wasn’t going to be like the sparring matches he’d endured as part of his preparation.

No, initiation was not something to be taken lightly. Doing battle with the Taghadairean was never to be taken lightly. After all, they were the shield-maidens of the gods; the ethereal women who selected which warriors would fall in battle. They shouldn’t be underestimated. Taghadair ruthlessness was the reason most bhampair citizens shuddered at the thought of attempting to become a warrior for the Comhairle. What sort of person would willingly choose to pit himself against the soldiers of the Great Father?