Gamble King Chapter 31. The Proving Year - Part I

Cock-a-doodle-doo! The bastard rooster was at it again. Worse, he was early today. Max's eyes snapped open in the pre-dawn darkness of his m

Cock-a-doodle-doo!

The bastard rooster was at it again. Worse, he was early today.

Max's eyes snapped open in the pre-dawn darkness of his modest chambers. He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling beams. Today was the day.

The Proving Year.

Twelve months in the wilderness, starting in a few hours.

Gerth's sleeping draught had worked perfectly—Max had actually slept through the night instead of lying awake cataloging all the ways he might die. But now that he was awake, his body felt coiled with energy. Not nervous energy, exactly. More like the feeling you got on the morning of a really important exam, or a job interview, or the first day at a new school. That mix of anticipation and readiness that made you want to move, to do something, to get started already.

Max sat up and swung his legs over the side of the narrow bed.

"Morning, Bro."

The small white spider emerged from his usual sleeping spot—a small depression Max had carved into the wooden bedframe specifically for him. Bro stretched his tiny legs with what looked like satisfaction, then scurried up Max's arm to his usual perch on his shoulder.

"Big day today."

Max reached for the small leather pouch on his bedside table and pulled out a strip of dried meat. He tore off a piece about the size of his fingernail and offered it to Bro, who accepted it with the dignity of a king receiving tribute.

"You ready for this?"

Bro began methodically consuming his breakfast. Max took that as a yes.

The latrines were mercifully warm—someone had stoked the braziers early, probably in preparation for the morning's activities. Max handled his business quickly, then made his way to the washbasin.

The water was actually hot. Steam rose from the copper basin as Max splashed his face, scrubbed his hands, and ran wet fingers through his hair. Luxury, really. In a few hours he'd be drinking from streams and washing with snow.

If he was lucky.

Back in his chambers, Max surveyed the food he'd set aside the night before. Dried fruits, smoked meat, a hunk of bread that would probably last another day before going stale. He ate methodically, focusing on the task rather than letting his mind wander to what came next.

The gear was laid out on his small table in the order he'd put it on. Max had spent the previous evening organizing everything three times, making sure he could dress quickly and efficiently.

First, the base layers. Wool underclothes that would wick moisture and provide insulation. Over that, a leather tunic reinforced with metal studs. Not quite armor, but better than nothing.

The sword harness came next—leather straps that positioned Dusk and Dawn at his sides. The weight settled across his hips with satisfying familiarity. Jorik had designed the harness so the hilts angled slightly forward, easily accessible for a cross-draw but out of the way when he needed to move through thick brush.

The bow went over his left shoulder, the quiver over his right. Sixty arrows total—thirty broadheads for hunting, thirty bodkins for anything that might try to kill him. A leather purse containing a hundred spare arrowheads clinked softly against his hip, insurance for when he inevitably lost or broke the fletched ones. The small shield strapped to his left forearm, designed to complement his dual-sword style rather than replace it.

Finally, the survival pack.

Gerth had delivered it the night before. The healer had spent weeks assembling the contents—medicines, fire-starting materials, a water purification kit, emergency rations, basic tools for shelter construction.

"Everything you need to not die stupidly," Gerth had said. "Dying heroically is still up to you."

Max hefted the pack. Heavy, but not unreasonably so. The weight was distributed well, and the straps were padded where they'd rest against his shoulders during long marches.

He did a final inventory check. Swords—check. Bow and arrows—check. Shield—check. Pack with survival gear—check. Small belt knife—check. Coin purse with enough silver to buy supplies from friendly tribes—check.

Bro had finished his breakfast and was grooming his legs.

"What do you think?" Max asked, adjusting the pack straps one final time. "Ready to go spend a year not dying?"

Bro paused in his grooming and fixed Max with what might have been an encouraging look.

Max walked to the narrow window and peered out. The sky was beginning to lighten, stars fading as the first hints of dawn touched the eastern horizon. Snow continued to fall in lazy flakes that caught what little light there was.

It was time.

Max pulled on his heavy winter cloak—thick wool lined with fur, designed to keep him alive in temperatures that could freeze exposed skin in minutes. The hood was large enough to cover his head completely while still allowing peripheral vision.

He took one last look around the modest chambers that had been his home for the past few weeks. The narrow bed, the simple table, the washbasin, the fireplace where embers still glowed from the previous night's fire.

Max sighed, opened the door and stepped into the corridor.

His boots echoed against the stone floors as he made his way through the castle's pre-dawn quiet. A few servants were already moving about, preparing for the day's activities, but most of Frosthold still slept.

The great doors groaned open, admitting a gust of winter air that carried the scent of snow and wood smoke. Max pulled his hood up and stepped into the courtyard.

Fresh snow crunched beneath his feet as he walked toward the main gate, where torches flickered in the pre-dawn gloom. Other figures were already gathering—dark shapes bundled in winter gear, breath visible in small puffs of vapor.

The meeting point.

Where the Proving Year would officially begin.

But first, he needed Flash.

The stables were already bustling with activity despite the early hour. Stable boys moved between the stalls, preparing horses for the day's departure. The air was thick with the scents of hay, leather, and horse sweat, warmed by the body heat of dozens of animals.

Max found Flash in his usual stall, the big warhorse already saddled and ready. Someone—probably one of the more experienced stable hands—had taken care of the preparations. Flash's coat gleamed in the lamplight, his tack polished and properly fitted.

"Morning, boy," Max said softly, approaching the stall door.

Flash turned his massive head and nickered in recognition, breath steaming in the cool air. Max reached out to stroke the horse's neck, feeling the solid warmth beneath his palm. Today would be the last time he'd see Flash for a year. The horse would stay safe in Frosthold's stables while Max faced whatever the wilderness had in store for him.

"Take care of yourself while I'm gone," Max murmured, scratching behind Flash's ears. "Try not to let the stable boys spoil you too much."

Flash snorted, which Max chose to interpret as a promise to behave.

He led the warhorse from the stall and swung himself into the saddle. The familiar weight of his gear settled around him as Flash shifted beneath him, eager to be moving. They made their way out of the stables and into the courtyard, where the scene was growing more animated by the minute.

Other squires were emerging from various parts of the castle, all mounted and equipped for the ride to the ceremony. Max recognized most of them—young men he'd trained alongside, eaten with, competed against in the practice yards. Now they were all heading toward the same uncertain future.

People had begun gathering to see them off. Servants, guards, a few minor nobles who'd risen early for the occasion. Lord Tredor stood near the main gate, his breath visible in the cold air as he spoke quietly with knight named Borgen.

"Lord Harek!"

Max turned to see one of the kitchen maids waving at him. She pressed a small wrapped bundle into his hands—extra bread, probably, or dried fruit. "For luck, my lord," she said with a shy smile.

"Thank you," Max replied, tucking the gift into his pack. Similar scenes were playing out around the courtyard as people offered final tokens of support to the departing squires.

The gates stood open, revealing the pale pre-dawn landscape beyond. Snow continued to fall, coating everything in pristine white. It was beautiful, Max supposed, though he suspected he'd have a different opinion of winter beauty after spending a year surviving in it.

"Mount up!" Sir Borgen's voice carried across the courtyard. "Time to ride!"

The squires formed a loose column, their horses' hooves crunching through the snow as they moved toward the gates. Max found himself riding alongside Ian Ironwood, who nodded grimly at him.

"Good fortune, Vanheim," Ian said quietly.

"And to you," Max replied.

They passed through the gates and onto the forest road that led to the White Woods.

The procession was solemn, each rider lost in his own thoughts about what lay ahead. Occasionally, eyes would meet and nods would be exchanged—acknowledgments of shared purpose and mutual respect.

Max spotted Bubbles near the front of the column and urged Flash forward to join him. His friend's face was more animated than the others, almost excited.

"Morning, Harek," Bubbles said as Max drew alongside him. "Sleep well?"

"Well enough. You seem surprisingly cheerful for someone about to begin his Proving Year."

Bubbles grinned. "Chester came back."

Max felt his eyebrows rise. "When?"

"Late last night. Rode in just after midnight, half-frozen but alive." Bubbles's voice carried genuine relief. "He made it, Harek. A full year, and he made it back."

The news sent a ripple of hope through Max's chest. "That's good news," he said. "Very good news."

"Aye. Gives me hope that we're not all riding to our deaths."

The road wound deeper into the wilderness, and gradually the forests of Frosthold's lands began to change. The evergreens grew sparser, their dark branches giving way to something altogether different.

"You can feel it, can't you?" Bubbles said quietly as they crested a small rise. "The change in the air."

Max nodded. There was something about this place that made the hair on his arms stand up, even through his wool sleeves.

"My grandmother used to say the Aspects chose this place because it was already touched by something older," Bubbles continued. "Before the first men carved faces into the bark and anyone knew what an Aspect was."

"That's interesting," Max replied, looking around.

The White Woods had been a sacred place even when the land was wild. Animals would come here to die peacefully, travelers reported strange dreams after sleeping beneath the pale branches.

The trees began to appear through the falling snow. At first just glimpses—flashes of white bark between the darker trunks of normal forest. Then more, until suddenly they were riding through groves of them.

Max stared in fascination.

The descriptions in the books hadn't done them justice. The trees were massive, their bark white as fresh snow but somehow brighter, almost luminous in the gray morning light. They stretched up impossibly tall, their branches bare of leaves but thick with what looked like silver moss that caught the light and threw it back in strange patterns. And carved into each trunk, about eye level for a mounted rider, were the faces.

The Aspects.

Some were crude, obviously the work of hedge witches or desperate supplicants who'd carved their own crude representations. Others were masterworks, so lifelike they seemed ready to speak. Max recognized most of them from descriptions he'd read.

Thane the Warrior, with his fierce scowl and battle scars. Mellara the Healer, serene and maternal. Jòr the Smith, solid and dependable.

But his eyes kept being drawn to one face in particular.

Voros the gambler, the Aspect of Luck.

The carving was old, probably centuries old, and weathered by countless seasons. But it was unmistakably him. The face was younger than most depictions Max had seen in Harek's memories, almost boyish, with an expression that managed to be both innocent and mischievous at the same time. One eye seemed to wink, though that might have been a trick of the shadows cast by the carving's depth. His mouth was curved in the faintest of smiles, as if he knew something amusing that he wasn't quite ready to share.

Max found himself staring at that carved face longer than he'd intended.

This was where it had all started, wasn't it? Bjorn's story had begun in these woods. Young Bjorn of Ursa, at sixteen, setting out on his journey with nothing but determination and an inherited axe. The books had made it sound romantic, heroic. Looking at these ancient trees and feeling the weight of real danger ahead, Max wondered how much of that had been artistic license.

"There," Bubbles said, pointing ahead through the trees.

The road curved around a massive white oak—this one bearing the carved face of Hedrig the Hunter—and then opened into a large clearing. Max could see figures waiting in the distance, dark shapes against the pale snow.

They crested a hill, and suddenly the full scope of the gathering became visible.

Knights stood in a loose semicircle, their breath steaming in the cold air. Max spotted Tredor immediately, his distinctive posture unmistakable even at a distance. Sir Gregory stood beside him, arms crossed, looking as stern as ever, along with several other knights Max recognized from the castle.

The sun was beginning to rise behind them, spreading pale gold and pink across the eastern sky. The light caught the white bark of the surrounding trees and made them seem to glow from within, as if they were lit by some inner fire.

"Dismount," Sir Borgen called out as the column of squires reached the clearing's edge.

Max swung down from Flash's saddle, his boots crunching into the fresh snow. Around him, the other squires were doing the same, their movements subdued and careful.

Stable boys appeared as if from nowhere, taking the reins of the horses. They'd lead the animals back to Frosthold while the squires faced whatever came next on foot. Flash nuzzled Max's shoulder one last time before being led away, the big warhorse's hoofbeats gradually fading as he disappeared back down the forest road.

Max adjusted his pack straps and checked his gear one final time.

Around him, the other squires were doing the same. The sun climbed higher, and the carved faces in the surrounding trees seemed to watch.

"Forward," Sir Borgen called.

The squires moved as one.

Movement caught Max's eye at the edge of the clearing. Two figures stood on a small rise overlooking the ceremony.

Prince Keiran and Aelara.

Max caught Aelara's eye and gave a small nod. She nodded back, her expression unreadable in the morning light. Keiran noticed the exchange and Max saw the prince's mouth curve into what might have been a smile. Apparently, he approved of them getting along.

Or at least not openly despising each other in public. This thing really needed to be addressed.

The column came to a halt about twenty feet from where the knights stood waiting. Max found himself in the second row, close enough to see the details of his father's face, the way Gregory's hand rested casually on his sword hilt, the steam rising from everyone's breath in the cold air.

Three mages stood slightly apart from the knights, their robes marking them as representatives of the towers. Max frowned as he recognized Baldwin. The fucker was still giving him that familiar and unnerving arrogant stare.

Dick.

Sir Borgen stepped forward, his voice carrying easily across the clearing.

"Squires of Frosthold," he began, "you stand today at the threshold between what you were and what you may become."

Max tried not to roll his eyes. Every important occasion in the north seemed to require speeches about thresholds and becoming. He supposed it was better than standing around in awkward silence, but barely.

"The Proving Year has been the measure of northern warriors since the time of Rome Vanheim. It is not a test of strength, though strength will serve you. It is not a test of skill, though skill will preserve you. It is a test of character. Of will. Of your ability to endure when endurance seems impossible."

A man appeared at Borgen's side, carrying what looked like a metal container about the size of a large pot. The surface was black iron, polished to a dull shine, with runes carved around the rim that probably meant something important to someone.

"But first," Borgen continued, "you must learn your purpose. Each of you will be assigned a specific task. A hermit to find, a token to claim, a year to survive."

He gestured toward the container. "The selection is random. Fate, luck, the will of the Aspects—call it what you will. Each name you draw represents a life spent in exile, a story of failure or disgrace or simply the inability to live among civilized men."

Max felt Bro shift slightly against his shoulder. The spider had been remarkably still during the ride, but something about the ceremony seemed to have his attention.

"Some hermits will test your combat skills. Others will challenge your wisdom, your cunning, your ability to solve problems that have no obvious solution. A few will simply want to talk to another human being after years of solitude. But all of them possess something you need, a token that proves you found them, convinced them, or took what they guard by force."

The knight with the container stepped forward, positioning himself where each squire could approach in turn.

"The names," Borgen said, "and the fates they represent."

He looked at the first squire in line—a young man Max recognized but couldn't name. "You. Step forward. Draw your hermit's name and speak it aloud."

The squire approached the container with careful steps as if he was walking on ice that might not hold his weight. He reached in, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and unfolded it with hands that trembled slightly.

"Aiden the Kinslayer," he announced, his voice cracking on the last word.

Well, that sounded promising.

Several of the other squires shifted uncomfortably. Max didn't blame them. 'Kinslayer' wasn't the sort of title that suggested friendly conversation over shared meals.

"Next," Borgen called.

The second squire drew his slip and read: "Mara the Trickster."

"Shit," someone whispered.

"Should just turn around and go home now."

"Next."

"Fenrik the Lost."

"Shit," someone whispered.

"Next."

"Gorin Ironhand."

"Fuck me," another voice said.

The ritual continued, each name carrying its own weight of implication. Some sounded almost normal—'Thomas of the Deep Wood,' 'Sara the Wanderer.' Others were less encouraging—'Bloodaxe Kavon,' 'Sylas the Mad,' 'Grendel Wormtongue.'

Max watched the container and tried to calculate odds. How many slips of paper were in there? How many truly dangerous hermits versus merely unpleasant ones? Was there any pattern to the names, or was it genuinely random?

The line moved forward steadily. Each squire approached, drew, announced, and stepped back with an expression that ranged from grim acceptance to barely concealed terror.

"Next."

Bubbles turned to Max. "Well, here goes nothing. Wish me luck."

He stepped forward, reached into the container, and withdrew his slip. He unfolded it and smiled with visible relief.

"Yutheim the Maker."

A collective sigh went up from several squires. Someone said, "Not bad. Could be worse."

Bubbles caught Max's eye and grinned.

"Next."

The squire ahead of Max drew his name—'Korven the Silent'—and then it was Max's turn.

He stepped forward, aware that his father was watching, that Aelara and Keiran and Gregory were observing from their hill, that everyone present would remember this moment and judge what came next.

The container was deeper than it looked. Max's hand found cold iron at the bottom before his fingers closed around folded paper. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and read the name written in careful script.

For a moment, he stared at the paper, processing what he was seeing.

Then he looked up and spoke clearly enough for everyone to hear.

"Grimjaw the Render."

The gasp that followed was the loudest yet. Someone actually stepped backward. Max heard a sharp "By the one god" from behind him.

The One God. Not the Aspects, not even the usual nine hells. The One God.

That was new.

Max sighed deeply.

"For fuck's sake."

From their reactions alone, he could tell he'd just drawn the worst possible option.

Of course.