12 Conflict 3
Warning: Physical violence in this chapter! If you are opposed, do not read on!
Balan nervously kept his eyes fixed on the ground.
"Get up!" Tristan ordered.
He grabbed the boy by the neck of his shirt and dragged him back to the target.
"On your knees!" he spat.
The boy instantly obeyed and Tristan cracked his belt across the trembling boy's back.
Balan jumped to his feet in pain, but rapidly knelt back down before Tristan could say anything.
Unfazed by the boy's perseverance Tristan continued whipping the eleven-year-old hard.
Balan hissed loudly with every lash and he twisted to avoid the blows. No other sound crossed the boy's lips at first, but Tristan kept on hitting until Balan began to get vocal. He had to get through to this boy!
Tristan dragged a wincing Balan back through the valley to the top of the hill where he had left his quiver and his bow.
"Run!" he said firmly. "And don't you dare run beyond the target again!"
He couldn't believe his eyes when Balan faced him and slowly shook his head, his cheeks pale with worry.
Tristan looked at the boy hard.
Balan's eyes glittered with fear and he was trembling, but Tristan could still see a spark of deeply determined defiance shining through.
"Do not test me, boy," he warned.
He noticed the battle going on inside the boy's head.
"If you do not run, I will not hesitate to hit you again," Tristan said threateningly.
The boy glanced at his belt.
Suddenly the boy's body started shaking vehemently. He bit his lip to stop his teeth from chattering and tears rolled freely down his cheeks. With all the strength that he could muster, Balan forced himself to take a few steps towards Tristan. Slowly he bent his shaking knees and knelt down before the scout once more.
The message was clear: The boy was not going to run.
Stunned, Tristan looked down at the boy in front of him.
"I meant what I said, boy," he warned, as he unbuckled his belt. If the boy had chosen another beating, he could get one, he thought.
The young boy's stubborn act of defiance surprised him. Foolish as it was, it still demanded a great deal of courage. From an older boy he might have expected such a thing. But definitely not from an eleven-year-old.
The boy screamed when the belt hit his already ravaged shoulders. No longer able to contain himself, the boy writhed on the ground and yelled out in pain with every lash that cut his skin.
After several more lashes, Tristan threw aside his belt.
"Will you obey me now?" he asked sternly as he pulled Balan to his feet. He had to hold the boy steady to keep him from falling over.
"Never," the boy whispered faintly, tears rolling down his cheeks. He held on to Tristan's tunic for support.
Tristan guided Balan back to the ground and sat down on the grass beside him. He waited for the boy to regain some control and handed him his waterskin. Balan drank gratefully.
Tristan glanced at his young charge from the corner of his eyes. He admired the boy's willingness to keep fighting.
"Boy, if you are never going to obey me, then how are we going to live together?" he asked patiently. "We will be fighting a battle of wills every day. I won't have that."
He waited until he was certain that the boy was listening.
"I was assigned to train you, but I can only do so if you do as I say," he stated calmly.
Beside him Balan muttered under his breath.
Tristan reached for the boy's chin and made him look into his eyes. Balan tried to look away, but Tristan kept a firm grip.
"Say that again," he ordered.
"You are not training me, not like this!" the boy repeated angrily, a little louder now.
Tristan watched Balan intently, waiting for him to go on.
"First I believed you wanted to build up my strength," the boy said, anger flaring up in his eyes. "But it was not true. It only made me weaker. I am not doing it again!"
Realization dawned in Tristan's eyes. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch, but he forced himself to remain serious.
The boy glared at him.
"You were mistaken," Tristan offered.
"I was training you when I made you run, but it was not your strength that concerned me."
An obvious question appeared in the boy's eyes.
"Your stamina, boy," Tristan answered. "I wanted you to get to know your limits. Far beyond the point where you believed you could not walk anymore."
He looked at the boy sternly.
"What do you think it is like on the battlefield, when you are bleeding from many wounds? Your ability to hold on will decide between life or death, boy. The moment you give up, the very moment you believe there is no more strength left in you, a sword will cut your throat or an axe will cleave your head."
He let go of the boy's chin, as he had Balan's full attention now.
"When I made you run, I wanted you to feel that you are able to go on much longer than you originally believed. Even though it hurt. And I want you to feel it a few times more, to let you get used to the feeling."
Tristan allowed some time for his words to sink in. Then he lifted Balan's chin and looked deeply into the boy's eyes.
"Even if you are dying in battle, every little thing you still manage to do can save a life. Your own, or someone else's."
Balan nodded that he understood. He would remember these words for the rest of his life.
He sat beside Tristan in silence.
"I'm sorry I refused to run," he said softly.
"You will have to learn to obey me," Tristan answered. "The battlefield is never a good place for an argument."
When he looked at the now guilty face of the boy beside him, he suddenly laughed.
"You are the most stubborn, head-strong and persistent boy I've ever seen," Tristan chuckled mirthfully, shaking his head.
After enjoying the warm sunlight on the hill for another while, he ordered the boy to collect the arrows and they returned to the fort.