The mark of the warrior

The night was uneventful, but despite his exhaustion, Pafe didn't manage to get much sleep. Maybe it was the anxiety of being in unfamiliar, potentially dangerous terrain. Or maybe, it was the exciting prospect of a better future, that kept his mind working overtime.

Pafe took his time getting back up the next day. It was only when he noticed the sun high overhead that he hurried up. Putting the pack on his back, and using a big branch as a walking stick, he finally set out on his journey.

The time seemed to be passing quicker. Not sure what it was, but for some reason he was making much better progress than on other days. It was strange, but not a soul had passed in the two days he was on this side path. Was he really the only person in this neck of the woods?

The path wound its way through groves of trees, with the leafy birches and giant oaks, mixing in with the evergreen pines. The towering giants stretched towards the sky, their foliage forming a lush canopy that dappled the sunlight, creating a shifting mosaic of shadows on the forest floor.

Leaves rustled in a gentle chorus as a breeze swept through, carrying with it the earthy fragrance of damp soil. The trunks, gnarled and weathered, bore the intricate scars of time, a testament to the cycles of seasons and the stories etched into the bark.

All over the floor, you could find fallen leaves of yellow, orange, even bright red colors, signifying the passing of autumn. Winter would be here soon.

The path got more and more weathered as he continued on it. At times, it disappeared completely, only rocks here and there reminding the weary traveler of its location.

As he kept on walking, he got into a particularly rough patch. A cluster of fallen trees lay across the road, blocking the way. In order to continue, he needed to go around them.

It seemed a bit odd. However, given the state of the path, nothing out of the ordinary. Pafe glanced across and saw that this was just a temporary obstacle. The way cleared further down.

Then, popping. He heard a sound. Stopping, ears on the ready, he listened. Nothing.

It must have been some sort of a small animal scattering about, he thought to himself.

Negotiating his way around the fallen trees, he took care not to step into any holes. A broken foot, or even a twisted ankle, could mean trouble for the journey ahead.

The last tree was the hardest to pass. There were holes, and slippery spots everywhere. Anyone walking there had to really pay attention to their step.

As he was rounding the toppled tree, he noticed the edge appeared a bit off. It seemed as if it had been cut. Strange, thought Pafe.

He examined it a bit, but couldn't determine whether it fell of natural causes or a human pulled it down. In any case, the weathered edges showed that it had lay there for a few seasons already.

Once on the other side, Pafe stopped to catch his breath. He dropped his pack on the ground, and started to adjust his clothes.

"Don't move! Stay where you are," screamed a voice.

In that instant, out of nowhere, five men sprung up around Pafe. Pointing their swords at his torso, they surrounded him in a circle. They must have been hiding in the bushes, waiting for their prey to get to the spot where it was easy to corner him.

The man standing directly in front of Pafe, who seemed like the leader of the group, gave a dirty look and proceeded to speak.

"You are cornered. We can do it either the hard way or the easy way. Give us all your stuff," shouted the leader of the robbers. "In any case, you are done for. If you play it nicely, we might spare you. Otherwise, you will meet your maker soon."

Pafe glanced around. Strangely, he felt no fear. Rather, his senses went into overdrive. In such situations, creatures have the choice of flight or fight. He chose fight.

He took in the way the robbers were standing, the way they held their swords. He noticed that some of them were shaking, betraying a lack of experience with the weapon they were wielding. He had nothing to lose. He would either fight and die, or die anyways.

He was determined. His fingers on the sword, he knew what course of action to take.

Before they realized it, Pafe had drawn his blade, spun around and slashed at the two guys standing behind him. They both fell. Pafe then took a side-step back, poking one of the men lying on the floor in the middle of the chest with his sword. In the process, he used his other hand to draw his knife.

If they wanted to fight, he was ready. The three men still standing lunged at him. He locked swords with one of them, while drawing the other off with his knife. The third man swung his sword wildly, missing the main part of Pafe's body, but managing to scrape the side.

Blood gushed out of the wound. Pafe looked down, but thought nothing of it. Instantly, he thrusted his sword into the middle of the chest of the man standing in front of him. The leader of the robbers was dead.

One man lay dead behind. The leader lay dead in front. The guy who was slashed the first had gotten up, but was hobbling away as fast as he could. This left only two guys facing Pafe.

They looked at each other, and realizing they were no match for the unknown traveler, hit the road fast. Grabbing the pack on the way, they ran away, only leaving dust in their wake.

Pafe was victorious, but that victory came at a great cost. Injured, bloodied, he sat himself on the ground. Panting heavy, he could barely catch his breath.

He looked at the two bodies lying next to him. Those were his first kills. He had never killed a man before. Now he had two notches under his belt.

In reality, these should not have been his first kills. There is a tradition in the Dragon clan, that in order to graduate to warrior status, every young nobleman needs to pass a test of manhood.

In theory, Pafe had passed it. In reality, things were a bit more complicated.

--

The test

Every two years, a ship sets sail in the dead of night from the clan coast. It contains a group of young Dragon men. Quickly gliding through the outer parts of the islands belonging to the Whale clan, they head towards a far away shore on the other side of the bay.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

There these young men are let loose. In order to pass the test, they need to scour the land and kill a man. Any man. As proof, they have to bring his cut-off head.

It's a gruesome ritual, and not everyone is up for it. Either due to lack of skill, or in some cases lack of will, some of the young men come back empty handed. Each of them has three consecutive tries in their life to pass the test.

It is these six crucial years that determine whether a man becomes a warrior or not. The ones who do not pass the test go on to serve the clan in other ways, either as priests, administrators, or scholars. The ones who do pass the test, become warriors, and ultimately the leaders.

Last autumn was the first time Pafe participated. On a cold Monday morning he sat in the boat, as it took off into the icy waters. Squished inside was a number of other young men from his clan. Shivering from the cold, they huddled together to keep warm.

It was still pitch dark, and stars illuminated the night sky. The boat sailed for days, wading through waters full of floating icebergs, until it reached its destination.

On a far-away shore, the young men disembarked. It happened in the dead of night, to avoid being spotted by watchmen. Their mission was simple, find a man, kill him, and bring back his head. This morbid test would prove they are a warrior.

In order to make the task easier, most of the boys formed into teams. This way they could help each other and plan elaborate strategies. Only Pafe was the odd man out. He had to set out alone.

As the other boys petered out, Bad Eye stayed on the frozen beach a while longer. Not sure how to proceed, he tried to find reassurance by looking at the stars in the night sky.

Up top, a majestic spectacle was unfolding. The darkness of the sky was pierced with a string of vibrant hues and bright colors. A vivid tapestry stretched and unfolded across the expanse of the heavens.

Wisps of green, like emerald tendrils, unfurled and twisted, cascading in graceful arcs. They weaved and intertwined, creating ribbons of rippling and shimmering lights. Then, the colors and patterns changed, revealing shades of magenta, violet, and indigo, all coming together in a celestial symphony.

What Pafe was witnessing above his head was the phenomenon of the Northern Lights, which only takes place in the skies of the deep north. Previously, he had only heard about it. Now he could take it in with his own eyes.

Then he reminded himself. He wasn't there for pleasure. He had a goal to accomplish. He must concentrate himself.

Taking a deep breath, he took a step towards the forest. Once inside the wooded area, Pafe scanned the environment, making sure to take his bearings. He needed to know where he was and how to get back.

All around, tall evergreen trees unfolded as far as the eye could see. Towering pines, their emerald branches adorned with greenish needles, formed an unbroken canopy overhead.

The ground was a blend of mud and grass, mixed in with patches of snow. A hushed stillness permeated the air, broken only by the occasional creak of frozen boughs and the soft crunch of twigs underfoot.

The young man wandered around for hours, not sure where to go. The surroundings, instead of offering clarity, seemed to conspire against him. His movements, once purposeful, now betrayed the agitation within.

As the day passed, Pafe's back got more hunched over, and his movements increasingly careless. His furtive glances, clenched fists, and an occasional mutter of exasperation, revealed the escalating strain of the impossible task.

"Three days of this," he muttered under his breath.

That night, he didn't sleep much. Shivering in the cold in his makeshift shelter, he made a small fire to warm himself up. Munching on his rations, he imagined how nice it would be to be sitting back in his warm room right now.

The next day, it was much of the same. Most of the morning, he spent walking in circles. Only later did he manage to finally find his bearings. Wandering the forest, he came across a small stream. Deciding to follow it, Pafe marched a bit more briskly.

Then, he heard a sound. It was a methodical sound, as if someone were doing a repetitive mechanical task. In the distance, he spotted an open grassy area, and on it a man with his back turned to him.

The man seemed weary and frail, but was busy with work. Using a flail, a tool comprised of a wooden handle attached to a shorter rod, he was beating some sort of a green grass, trying to separate the grains from the husks.

He was completely lost in his work, and had no idea there was a young man wielding an axe approaching from behind. Pafe got within a few steps of the frail man. Raising his arm, the weapon up high, he was ready to strike.

Then, he stopped. With his arm up in the air, it would take only an instant to bring it down, and kill the man. The young Dragon clan member's job would be done. He could happily return back to the boat, wielding proof of his warrior status.

Yet, Pafe hesitated. After two minutes of standing over the worker, he put his arm down, and quietly sneaked backwards. The man continuing to separate the grains from the husks, remained completely oblivious to what had just transpired.

Pafe turned around and started running, not stopping until half an hour later. What had just happened? He had it. He almost became a warrior.

He wasn't sure why he made the choice to spare the man. Was it remorse? Was it fear? Was it mercy? What was it? He didn't know.

Breathing heavy, he sat down in order to contemplate his next move. He couldn't go back to where the man was working. He had to come up with a different strategy.

Looking around, he noticed he had arrived at the edge of the forest. Sunlight was penetrating from the side, betraying open land ahead.

It was getting late. He decided to camp out there for the night, and tomorrow explore the countryside. There was only one day left to complete the mission.

The next day, Pafe ventured out into the rural area next to the forest. Making sure to seem as inconspicuous as possible, he sneaked around as much as he could.

He passed from one road to the next, hoping to come across some souls. Yet, one thought was haunting him. He wasn't sure whether he could do it. To kill a man. It seemed incomprehensible why clan tradition mandated this test.

Wouldn't it be better to preserve life, and test his warrior skills in other ways? Yet, he had no say in the matter. It is what it is. If he wanted to become a leader of the Dragons, he needed to overcome this hurdle.

It was starting to get dark, and Pafe was still on the roads. Nothing so far. Then in the distance, he spotted a cemetery. Inside, a crowd of people had gathered. A group of villagers were surrounding the open casket of a man who had recently died.

Coming in closer, he pondered his next move. What to do? Then a brilliant idea hit him. Taking out a vile of red color he had haphazardly brought with him, he smudged it across his face.

His disheveled clothes, strange eye, and red face gave him a demonic appearance. Clutching an upraised axe, screaming as loud as he could, he started running towards the crowd.

The faces of the villagers turned in the direction of the screams. Seeing what appeared as the devil himself rushing towards them, their hearts began pounding fast. Terrified, some of them let out shrieks of horror.

In panic, they all quickly scrambled away. Only the open casket with the dead man's corpse was left. Pafe kept on running and shouting, only stopping once he got to the casket. Examining the dead man, he knew what he needed to do.

Deep down, he felt revulsion for the act. His stomach was churning. He really had to struggle hard to keep the contents of his insides from traveling up through his esophagus. Yet, he knew it had to be done. Closing his eyes and holding his breath, he swung his axe.

The next day, when the villagers returned to the cemetery, they found a headless corpse, and pools of vomit around the casket.

--

Triumph

Back at the boat, a crowd of young Dragon clan men had gathered. Some with smiles on their faces, cut-off heads in their hands, had completed their missions. They would be warriors now.

Others, having failed, decided to go back anyways, hoping to improve their luck in the next round. The last group of stragglers had just arrived. Only one person was missing. Pafe.

It did happen from time to time that some of the young men didn't come back from their test. It was rare, but not always avoidable. The captain of the boat was instructed to wait until dawn of the next day. If someone didn't come back by that time, they were considered a gonner, and the ship set sail back to home.

Time was running out. The captain had already gathered his crew, and the young men freshly returned from their mission would be boarding soon too. They were already chattering between themselves, speculating on what had happened to Bad Eye.

Then, the sound of footsteps could be heard from a distance. It's as if someone were running towards them. As the feet got closer to where they were standing, gasps of heavy breathing were added to the mix.

Within a few minutes, a lone figure came racing out of the forest. Clothes torn, and face painted red, it was clutching a decapitated head in its left hand. As some of the young men on the beach squinted their eyes, they finally recognized who it was.

Pafe had come back!