Like every warrior of the Dumner tribe, I began training at the age of three. As I grew, I fell behind in my training. Whereas most centaur pass their final tests and enter into the rank of centaur warriors at age twenty-seven, I did not pass my test until I was twenty-nine. Though I do not like thinking back to those days, I still remember how difficult it was to pass the final test.
As with most centaur customs, I never understood the purpose of these tests. They were physically challenging, to be sure, but that was about the extent of it. I believed that battle was more than just physical strength though, and the combat training I received seemed to corroborate this. Still, the final test was mostly composed of physical feats.
These tests were always administered on an individual basis and in this case Copperfoot was my proctor. From my knowledge, every final test was somewhat different based on the proctor and Copperfoot was known to be quite difficult. Part of his strategy is that he didn’t give any indication of what tasks I would have to complete nor how many of them I would have to endure. This left me a bit nervous, but I was convinced that if others could pass his instruction, so could I.
When I met with him that morning, the moon still hanging high in the sky, I found that I was having difficulty seeing. It was particularly dark, which was certain to enhance the challenge. I forget exactly what Copperfoot said when I met him outside the village, but it was something to the effect of “If you were a moment later I would have left.” This angered me, because I had arrived at least ten minutes prior than he said the test would start.
Still, I kept my calm and apologized. Without much regard, Copperfoot pointed to an oak tree and demanded I chop it down. He said I had ten minutes.
I regarded the oak, and then I regarded Copperfoot. I had no axe, as I had been instructed to come without weapons, and he seemed to have none either. The tree itself was over a meter in diameter, which meant it would take a few minutes even with the proper tools. Despite my doubts, I was familiar with this type of test, so I knew what I had to do.
With my limited sight, I scoured the ground with my hooves looking for nearby rocks. I needed two of them if I was going to fashion a makeshift axe head. Fortunately, the area seemed rife with large stones, and after sorting through a dozen or so I was able to find what I needed. It was larger than I could hold in one hand, but small enough that I could work it down.
Taking a smaller, harder rock, I started smashing the end of the stone, breaking off little pieces. A minute had already passed. I kept working quickly but carefully, working to fashion the larger stone into a broad edge. My hands already were feeling the pressure from this exercise, but after years of conditioning they were more than strong enough to deal with the strain. It took a few more minutes until I was satisfied with the edge and ultimately it was crude, but I had little choice.
“Five minutes,” said Copperfoot.
I ignored him, quickly galloping to the tree and holding the weathered stone in my right. I swung hard, the make-shift axe head biting into the bark. With some wiggling, I freed the tool and swung again. It was an arduous task, but I kept swinging.
Clack! Clack! Clack!
The stone bit deeper and deeper into the tree. My shoulder began to tire, but I ignored it. From my estimates, I was about halfway through the tree.
Switching the stone to my left, I starting whacking it against the other side.
Clack! Clack! Crack!
I grunted in pain as the stone splintered off, shards cutting the edge of my hand and scattering around the ground. I had barely made a dent in this side. How was I to succeed without my tool?
“One minute,” reminded Copperfoot.
I didn’t know what to do. I was frustrated and upset. When would I ever have to deal with this as a warrior? This was a stupid task, and it was a waste of time. Still, if I didn’t complete it, I would never be a warrior of the Dumner tribe. I would be ridiculed and worthless, and die in dishonor. I had to succeed.
At this point, I felt like there was a surge of energy inside of me. With this excess energy, I brought both of my hands back with palms open. Emitting a loud yell, I threw my hands forward, hitting the tree just above where I had chopped into it. It shook violently. I brought my hands back and struck once more.
The tree began to crack, the sound of splintering wood sounding out. It leaned slightly, and with one last yell I struck again, this time wood splintered out to the side and the tree began to fall.
As it crashed down to the forest floor, I turned back to Copperfoot, my chest expanding and contracting with force. My breath was heavy. This time, I remember exactly what Copperfoot said.
“You have passed, though I have never seen it done like that before. Your next task will not be so easy.”
As I waited for further instruction, I looked down at my hand. Fortunately, the injury was only superficial.
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Hailed as the J.R.R. Tolkien of the 21st century, Joseph Macolino is the author of the Evorath series, providing good fantasy books to those looking for heart-pounding action in a magical world.
