Chapter 3 Declan
The next week rushed by. I administered only one more test, the Hand-to-Hand Challenge.
As expected, Aaron got his scrawny arse handed to him round after round.
I had to use the same sly technique with another of the stronger cadets, coaching them to work on their evasion skills, just to give Aaron a passing draw.
Thankfully, the remaining tests, which involved assignments in the mountain forest, were not mine to oversee.
While my underlings battled the elements and struggled to identify edible plants, my classmates and I would undergo tests of our own, the annual Second Year Trial.
I’d been so consumed with handling my own unit’s examinations that I had given little thought to what we might face.
And that was the real challenge of the Trial: it changed every year, so cadets had no way to anticipate or prepare for what might be thrown at them.
One year, the Trial had mirrored tournaments thrown sporadically in the capital, complete with competitions in every aspect of combat and horsemanship.
The next year, the Trial was all written exams.
More than half failed that year. It was so bad that leadership administered a second, more physical Trial to those who’d failed, so as to not decimate the incoming ranks of new Rangers.
I stood with the nearly two dozen men and women of my cohort outside the main entrance to the building that served as the headquarters for Rangers throughout the country.
To call it a building was an offense. It was a compound made of enormous logs designed to house a small city of men and women in green cloaks, containing living quarters, the dining hall, offices, and even a full archery range and two melee rings for wintertime indoor training.
At any time, thousands called the place home.
Legend credited the Mages, including the Arch Mage himself, in the formation of the structure, as no one believed men alone could’ve built such a monstrosity.
Its size eclipsed every other building in Melucia.
“I heard they’re sending us into the mountains to war-game against the border patrols,” one nervous cadet said to another behind me.
“They’re doing another tournament,” another whispered.
“I heard it was a race to the eastern border and back,” yet another said in quivering voice.
I bit back a laugh at that last one. It was a ridiculous suggestion that would force us to travel nearly sixteen hundred miles, a journey that would consume a half year or more.
I knew leadership already knew their new Rangers’ assignments post-graduation, and there was no way they would take them off the field for three or four months just to run a race.
I was about to turn and rib the cadet who’d spoken that insanity, but a familiar figure appearing in the central doorway stilled everyone.
“Cadets,” Captain Whitman called, as his senior officers filed out of the building to stand on either side of the low step on which Whitman held court. “My, you’re an ugly lot.”
A rumbling laughter made its way through the Second Years.
Ewan Whitman was well liked, and even more respected.
At just under six feet tall, the man had seen nearly fifty winters, and thirty of those were in the Green.
His short-cropped hair that now held more salt than pepper belied the corded muscle he maintained beneath his tunic.
He was quick to correct, but equally easy with praise, and a joke was never far from his lips.
Others called him “a Ranger’s Ranger,” a nickname that hadn’t made sense to me until I’d entered the Academy.
It had only taken a few interactions to see why the man was so beloved.
“All right, settle down,” Whitman said through a broad smile. “It’s time for the Second Year Trial. This is one of many tests you face before receiving your cloak, but I think we all know it’s the most important. Fail your Trial, and you will go home. It is simple as that.”
A few of the cadets glanced around, checking to see how their peers responded, but most remained fixated on the Captain.
“This year’s Trial will test those skills held most dear to every Ranger: wilderness survival, tracking, marksmanship, and stealth. You will need each of these if you hope to pass. Oh, and don’t forget speed. This year is a timed challenge. If you’re late, you’re out.”
A groan rippled through the cadets. Most challenges could be solved in dozens of ways, but the clock was unforgiving. No one wanted to face a timed Trial.
“Commander Geros will walk you through your objective and the rules. Pay attention. You break a rule, and you’re out. You fail your objective, and you’re out. You’re late . . .”
The cadets chanted back, “And you’re out.”
Whitman smiled and nodded. “See, you’re not as stupid as you look. Geros, walk them through.”
Whitman’s second-in-command climbed the step.
I tried to watch the man’s eyes, but the scar that ran from his granite-like jaw to the edge of his right eye stole my attention.
It was both gruesome and fascinating. Geros never spoke of how he’d received it, and curiosity gnawed at me since the moment we met nearly two years earlier.
“All right, lads,” Geros said, earning a few glares from the women who represented nearly thirty percent of the class.
“Somewhere in the mountains, there are ten deer. Each has been tagged with a bright yellow ribbon. Your mission is to bring us one ribbon. You may capture or kill the deer. However, if you kill the deer, you must dress it and return all usable meat and fur, as well as the ribbon.
Before you ask how we’ll know if you killed the deer and left it to rot, I will say this. We will know. Period.”
That sent another wave of glances about the class.
“You will be divided into teams of two. Each pair will work together to achieve the objective. No, you will not pick your pairs. We have done that for you, and you may not switch. Don’t ask.”
Geros unfurled a scroll and stared a moment, then returned his gaze to the cadets.
“Red boundary markers establish the perimeter for this challenge. Do not go out of bounds.”
A lanky cadet in spectacles tentatively raised his hand. Geros’s brows knitted.
“What is it, Sikes?”
“Sir, what if the deer goes out of bounds?”
A few cadets stifled laughs, but others nodded and watched Geros.
“You go out of bounds, you’re out. Got it?” Geros repeated the mantra, winning a grin from his Captain.
“A few more rules,” Geros continued. “You may not steal another team’s ribbon. You may not harm another team. You may not interact with another team in any way, and you most certainly may not collaborate with another team. Your only friend is your partner,
and you have no enemies other than the mountains. Understood?”
A chorus of, “Yes, sir,” bellowed from the cadets.
“Good. On Captain Whitman’s bell, the Trial begins. You have three days. You hear me? Exactly three days. At noon, on this spot, in three days, this Trial ends. Don’t be late.” He scanned the class, letting his words sink in. “Now, listen up. I’ll read the pairings only once.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder in a semicircle around the stair, but still, the mass of men and women shuffled forward, as though a few inches would help them hear better.
Geros began rattling off names from his scroll, and each cadet raised his or her hand, spotted their new partner, and stepped aside to begin plotting.
“Shira Fagan,” was the third name he called.
My gaze shot to her, and my heart raced in anticipation of our pairing.
We’d been fast friends from the moment we’d entered the Academy, and there was no one I’d rather be stuck on a mountain with than Shira.
She could find a way to make me laugh while mucking out stables.
If she hadn’t been such a ladies’, um, lady, I might’ve wanted more than friendship.
That, and other thoughts, kept us squarely in the best friend bucket, which was a fine place to be with a friend like her.
When Geros called another cadet’s name to pair with Shira, she shrugged, and my head drooped.
Great. I’ll probably end up with some idiot who doesn’t know a tree from a rock.
Midway through the list, the Commander barked, “Declan Rea.”
I raised my hand.
“Ayden Byrne,” Geros called.
You’ve got to be—
“Looks like we’re partners.” Ayden’s whisper tickled my ear. Startled, I bumped into the man in front of me.
“Hey!”
“Sorry,” I said, dusting off the man’s cloak. “Got startled. Sorry.”
The cadet nodded and turned back, waiting for his name to be called.
When I turned back, Ayden’s stupid grin greeted me. The prick was enjoying this.
“Come on, let’s get organized,” I said, brushing past Ayden and striding beyond the gathered cadets without waiting to see if he followed.
Once free of the crowd, I stopped, ran a hand through my poofy blond hair, and turned to find Ayden staring.
“Spirits, you startled me again. Try making some noise when you walk. And why the hell are you even here and not in the fancy Saltstone training house for all the betters? That’s where you did First Year, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” he said without a hint of irritation, despite the acid in my tone.
“And the training there was fine, I suppose, but I sought certainty that I received real training, not some pampered lessons for those who would never face danger. My parents forbade it, but I requested the transfer anyway. Command is not swayed by title as much as one might think.”
I snorted and shook my head. “Like you’d ever risk your shiny arse for anyone else.”
Ayden glared. “What is your issue with me, Declan? I have been nothing but polite, even showing an interest in your cadets and their training. Yet every time we speak, you act as though I am your enemy. Why is that?”
I tried to glare back, but the only thing I saw in Ayden’s gaze was curious interest. He wasn’t preening or strutting or staring down his nose. He wasn’t even angry. He appeared genuinely perplexed at my animosity.
I lowered my head and muttered. “You laughed at my cadets.”
Ayden stepped forward. With his head still lowered, all I saw were the tips of his boots entering my field of vision.
“Your entire unit was laughing. That kid—”
“His name is Aaron,” I snapped, as my head rose and our eyes met again. “He’s a good kid, and he happens to be Captain Whitman’s nephew.”
Ayden’s brows rose. “So that’s why you’ve been coddling him.”
“Coddling?” I took a step back, planted my fists on my hips, and found the strength to glare. “I haven’t coddled him. I’ve helped him. There’s a difference. He’s probably smarter than everyone in this yard combined.”
“And that helps with archery or hand-to-hand how?”
“Not everyone wearing a cloak is a fighter. He’ll make a fine Ranger doing Rangery things . . . inside the headquarters . . . with parchment and quill.”
Ayden snorted. “Rangery things?”
My eyes flared. “Yeah. We need strategic thinkers helping with battle plans and stuff.”
Ayden bit back another laugh.
“What’s so funny now?” I was getting more pissed, but a laugh kept tickling my throat, which pissed me off more.
“When was the last time the Rangers went into battle? A thousand years ago? The worst thing we strategize against is the annual mating season of boars. Oh, unless you count all that, how did you put it, Rangery things?”
We’d been squared off so long, we’d lost track of the officers and their roll call. Geros had long since stopped reading names, and Whitman had reclaimed the step. When the Captain rang his golden handbell, cadets scattered in every direction.
I remained rooted in place with my eyes boring through Ayden’s.
“Do you have a ribbon in your pocket?” Ayden asked after an uncomfortable moment.
My head cocked. “What? What are you talking about now?”
Ayden smiled. “If you do not have a ribbon in your pocket, or in your pack, perhaps, then we’d best get started. Three days will go by quickly.”
Three days, I thought. Three days with the prickiest prick alive. Fuck my life.
“Lead on, Lord Byrne.”
“I’m not—”
I huffed out a sigh. “Just . . . for Spirits’ sake, go.”