Morning came slowly to the valley of the Painted Dogs.
Cold mist clung to the rocky slopes, drifting between the pine trees while the first pale light of dawn crept over the high peaks. The fires from the night before had burned low, leaving only thin columns of smoke rising from the center of the camp, where a few warriors were already awake, feeding new branches into the embers or sharpening the edges of their axes.
The clan stirred slowly with the coming light.
Some men prepared for hunting parties that would climb higher into the mountains, while others gathered near a wide clearing above the camp where the children of the Painted Dogs trained. The ground there had been beaten flat by years of sparring, and the surrounding stones were worn smooth where warriors liked to sit and watch.
Torren stood among the other boys.
There were seven of them that morning, each holding a wooden axe or a blunt training blade carved from thick branches. Their feet were bare against the cold earth, and their breath rose in pale clouds in the morning air.
Torren felt the eyes on him even before he looked up.
The Tree Speaker stood near the edge of the clearing, leaning on his crooked staff of pale weirwood. The red paint beneath his eyes had faded slightly since the night before, but the old man's gaze was sharp as ever.
He was watching Torren.
Torren looked away.
He's watching again, the boy thought quietly.
Inside his mind the calm voice answered.
Correct.
Torren shifted his weight slightly, trying to pretend he had not noticed the old man.
The other boys were already shoving one another and laughing while one of the older warriors barked instructions from the edge of the clearing.
"Feet steady," the warrior growled. "You fall, you die. The mountains don't forgive fools."
Torren gripped the wooden axe in his hand.
The voice returned.
The Tree Speaker believes you should become his successor.
Torren frowned slightly.
His what?
The one who speaks for the trees after he dies.
Torren glanced again toward the old man.
The Tree Speaker had not moved, but his eyes remained fixed on the pale boy.
I don't want that, Torren thought.
The voice paused briefly.
Your preference indicates a desire for a different role.
Torren lowered his gaze to the axe in his hands.
I want to fight.
The voice responded calmly.
Understood.
Before Torren could think further, one of the larger boys stepped into the center of the clearing and pointed at him.
"You," the boy said with a crooked grin. "Red-eyes."
The other children backed away to form a loose circle.
The boy was older, perhaps eight winters, with thick arms and a nose that had been broken once already.
Torren stepped forward.
Around them the warriors settled more comfortably on the rocks, watching with mild interest. Harrag was among them, standing with his arms crossed, his heavy beard moving slightly in the morning wind.
One of the older fighters raised a hand.
"First to the ground loses."
The larger boy swung his wooden axe immediately.
Torren barely had time to react.
Step left.
The voice in his mind came quickly.
Torren moved instinctively.
The axe cut through empty air beside his shoulder.
The larger boy stumbled forward a step, surprised.
Torren blinked.
Raise your axe.
He obeyed without thinking.
The other boy swung again, harder this time.
Block.
Wood cracked loudly as the two practice axes collided. The impact jarred Torren's arms, but the blow slid away instead of smashing through his guard.
The older boy growled and lifted his weapon again.
He will swing high.
Torren shifted his stance just before the attack came.
The axe whistled downward.
Now.
Torren stepped forward and slammed his shoulder into the boy's chest.
The larger child lost his balance and crashed onto his back in the dirt.
For a moment the clearing fell silent.
Then one of the warriors laughed.
The fallen boy cursed and scrambled to his feet while the watching men exchanged glances.
Torren stood frozen where he was, breathing hard.
He had never moved like that before.
Inside his mind the voice spoke again.
Your reaction time is above average for your age.
Torren swallowed and looked down at the wooden axe in his hands.
From the rocks at the edge of the clearing, one of the older warriors leaned forward, studying the pale boy with interest.
"That one," the man said slowly, nodding toward Torren, "is going to be dangerous when he's grown."
Harrag said nothing.
But he did not disagree.
Behind them, the Tree Speaker remained silent as well, his pale eyes fixed on the boy standing in the center of the clearing.
For a long moment he watched Torren as if he were studying something only he could see.
Then the old man spoke quietly, almost to himself.
"Yes."
The wind moved through the clearing again, carrying the scent of pine and cold stone down from the mountains.
"He will."