In the dark of night, the McGordon tower stood tall and silent in the whispering clearing, like a stalwart rock in the midst of a typhoon. Around the tower, the trees whispered and swayed in the breeze, as though gossiping amongst each other about some monstrocity. There was evil abroad this night. Unseen by the slumbering McGordon household, a slim, fluttering shadow peeled itself away from the shadows of the woods, paused, seemingly giving a once-over on the tower, and fluttered off into the darkness.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Girl, where is your head this morning, sighed Brother Martin, looming over Eothain in his mud-spattered brown robes. She was just a little girl, barely ten, dressed in a patched and battered hand-me-down tunic from her big brother, Liam. Her vivid blonde hair was tucked behind her ears gingerly, so as to keep her hair out of her face, and away from her work. She was supposed to be writing her alphabet, but she had been distracted by a fluttering feather trapped in the blades of grass, and was painstakingly drawing it. She was nearly done with the final tufts of grass, when a scarred, withered hand settled on the edge of the parchment.

"As beautiful as God's creations are," Brother Martin said, "your practice-piece is not the place for it." Eothain dropped her quill pen, making a huge blot on her scrap of parchment, and very carefully looked up at him. The deep-set wrinkles in his face crinkled back like old parchment into a soft, wry smile. His gentle blue eyes seemed to be an even mix between joyous laughter and weariness, telling the wordless saga of his life.

What hair he had left clung to his scalp in a silver crescent. His heavy brown robes hung loosely off his narrow frame, as though made for a person much larger in size. Eothain's terrified eyes stared up at him in horror, expecting him to smack her knuckles or otherwise express his disapproval, but he just sighed gently, and picked up her scrap of parchment to examine her handiwork. Finally, after a while, he looked up from the parchment, beaming down at her, allaying her fears.

"Young miss," he began. "The Father has granted you a talented and steady hand. Mayhaps one day you will grace God with your gift." Eothain smiled in wonder at the encouraging, gentle words of the strange, ancient monk.

Brother Martin of Bannockburn was certainly an odd one. Several years ago, he had shown up in her small, wayward village in the middle of a raging thunderstorm, pushing a canvas-covered wheelbarrow full of books and writing supplies. He had said little of his past, much less what he was running from, but once he offered to give a noble's education to the children of the town, they all looked the other way. Unlike other passing priests, Martin genuinely cared for the well-being of those of his new home town, and was humble in spirit and kind in heart. Quite simply, everyone loved him, despite his secretiveness, and he appeared to love them the same.

The wind picked up then, and a strong breeze bristled through the glen, setting the segments of parchment alight on the breeze, and Eothain's wild, untamed hair tangled itself in the wind. Martin cautiously looked up into the rapidly darkening sky, as thick, black clouds raced towards them. He looked down at her grimly, his eyes starting to echo the clouds. "There's a storm coming, lil'un," he said somberly. "If you thought it was bad before, the worst is yet to come."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Eothain awoke, sheets entangled around her, to her shared tower-top bedroom. Narrow beams of the early morning's sunlight streamed through the windows, enlightening the room just a bit. She sighed in relief, her heart slowing down to a normal, steady pace. It had been ages since she had last dreamed of that day with Brother Martin. Not long after that day, he had disappeared without a trace.

She carefully got out of bed, and sleepily stumbled down the tower stairs. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, the McGordon kitchen was in chaos. Willum, clutching a little wooden dagger, was being chased around the kitchen table by a cloud of his siblings, wielding wooden swords, axes, and other weapons of wooden death. Aidan was face-down on the kitchen table, sound asleep. Mr. McGordon looked much better than he was the night before, and was trying to take a taste of the bowl of some scrumptious-smelling dish, and got a smack across the knuckles with the ever-ready iron ladle from his wife. In short, it felt like home.

Mrs. McGordon beamed when she saw Eothain standing dumbstruck in the doorway.

"G'morning Eothain! sit yerself down, breakfast is nearly ready." Eothain nodded in acknowledgement, and slid next to Aidan, gently shaking her shoulder to wake her up.

"Go 'way," Aidan muttered sleepily, and buried her face back into her arms. Eothain smiled wryly, and turned back to Mrs. McGordon, as she set a bowl of steaming porridge in front of her and Aidan.

"Missus, if it isn't rude to ask... what is to happen today?" She winced, suddenly aware of how ignorant and childish she must sound. Mrs. McGordon smiled wryly, and paused for a few moments before answering.

"Around this time of year, the Rider captains take young adults under their tutelage, normally their own children, but occasionally they offer the opportunity to strangers who they deem worthy. You yourself are a fine example of the occurance. As for today, you are due for drilling, and being formally apprenticed by your mentor." Noticing the sudden look of shock and abstract horror flash across Eothain's face, she tried again.

"Drilling is just weapons practice. Any weapon. Normally, it's formulated as a strategic battle game, involving two flags, two teams, and they're both trying to capture each other's flag. Special plates are added to the armor, of course, so that apprentices don't kill each other by accident. Or on purpose, in certain circumstances," she explained.

Eothain nodded sagely, trying to appear as though she knew what was going on. She held that look for a few moments before Mrs. mcGordon's well-experienced motherly gaze pierced the deception.

"If'n ye have something to say," she said, smiling wryly "then don't just look like a hound that snatched meat off the table." Eothain huffed, and turned back to her meal, nodding her thanks to Mrs. McGordon. As she hustled back into the kitchen, she called back to Eothain and the still smoothing Aidan.

"You might want to get yourselves kitted out, and you all are due there by twelve bells, so Aidan, you'd better help her paint her armor, and let it dry." Aidan snapped to full consciousness in minutes, and practically dragged Eothain away from her stew, into the depths of the tower.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~

 Hours later, Eothain stepped out of the tower, clad in her full armor. Her maille shirt hung delicately from her frame, flapping against her thighs as she walked. Her clanking segmented armor plates, painted a fine cobalt blue, with dull forest-green stripes, were strapped on over the maille. Strapped to her shins were heavy iron greaves, and belted over her torso plates was her delicate, beautiful sword. Eothain was primed for war. Or, at least, for a march back to the White Gate.

Slung across her back was her broad, round wooden buckler, its metal plates and wooden panels now painted a vivid green, with a simple white seabird, wings outstretched. Farther ahead, Aidan was armored similarly, her deeper sea-blue plates standing out from the fading morning mist. Her shield was painted with a flame-red base, and a silver outline of a horse-head emblazoned on it. She had a sword too, long and narrow and willowy, its sheath slapping gently against her armor. In her free hand, however, she carried a tall, wicked-looking hunting spear, its barbed head forged from black iron. Their helmets clanked against the small of their backs as they walked, providing them a rather different percussion beat to march by.

 In the early morning sun, the narrow path through the forest seemed less ominous and foreboding. Every now and then, Aidan would lead her Eothain off the path, dodge through low-hanging tree branches for a few feet, and then stumble right back onto the path without a glance back. This pattern continued on for a while, as Eothain's confusion and impatience grew. Eventually, she shattered the silence.

"What is the point of our jumping on and off the path? I mean," she stuttered rapidly, feeling the oncoming burning of her embarrasedly blushing cheeks, and noticing Aidan's single eyebrow lift in a now familiar manner, "Why are we changing course? Are we being followed or something?" Aidan stopped and stared at her for a few seconds, that ever-irritating brow pursing her expression into a mask of curiosity and controlled irritation at the constant barrage of questions. Instead of berating her, Aidan latched onto Eothain's gauntleted wrist with an iron grip as she dragged her through the woods, before reaching a pair of trees, seemingly unordinary.

"Wha-"

"Patience. Look," Aidan whispered, and pulled Eothain's hand towards the treeline. As her bare hand stretched closer and closer to the gap between the trees, she felt a fine thread stretched between the two trees, nearly invisible in the lowlight, yet woven with miniscule shards of glass. Any attackers running through the forest towards or from the tower would find a rather nasty surprise at around neck level. Only one who was familiar with that neck of the woods, or the family it was guarding, could get through the maze of death around the tower. The children, however, would be entirely safe, passing underneath the threads of glass, until either they got old enough to remember where all the lines were, or simply never grew to that height.

Eothain's opinion of the McGordon clan subtly changed. This family, while loving and eccentric and filled with God's light, but they definitely had steel at their core. Curiosity resolved, they continued onward, the only noise marking their passing was the shufffling of their maille and the clanking of their shields and helmets on their armor plates. This being said, everything in a mile radius could hear them tramping along.

 ~.~.~.~.~.~.~

As the two armored figures stalked out of the dim-lit forest surrounding the McGordon tower, Eothain frowned. This was not the White Gate. Far out across the grassy field, a small, sturdy fortress stood, its earthen walls punctuated with massive sharpened logs. A silken banner, embroidered with the image of a golden sunburst, and two crossed silver swords in the center. Behind the log-spiked ramparts, Eothain could see the occasional glint of sunlight off a helmet, or a blade cradled awkwardly by an "enemy" sentry.

Upon further examination, she noticed a similar fort much closer by, but almost buried in the undergrowth. It was there that Aidan was dragging her desperately, brushing aside the vegitation and draping tree branches until they stood before a large, iron-shod set of doors, and tall, weathered walls. Unlike the White Gate, the fort was not elegant and ornately decorated; instead, its gates were simply thick planks of wood, and its walls simply sharpened logs tethered together, and partly buried in the ground. Yet, at the same time, this battle-worn fortress looked fairly sturdy, as though it had been to hell and back, still strong and impregnable.

Above her, leaning over the ramparts, was a fully-armored sentry, his armor painted a faded bone-white, dark gray spidery markings decorating the front of the helm. His chocolate brown eyes were all that could be seen from under the helm.

"Stand forward, and identify yerself," drawled the sentry, as though he had done this many times before that day. Aidan stepped back into clear view of the sentry, squared her shoulders, and spoke.

"Aidan McGordon, apprentice to Captain Jacob McGordon," she rattled off, as though equally used to repeating this time after time again. "Escorting Eothain O'Skye, apprentice to Gwaine Morran, to the C.O," she added, noticing the stiffening of the sentry upon hearing this. He stuttered nervously for a few moments, before nearly screaming out to those inside the fortress "McGordon reporting with a new recruit! Open the gates!" With an elongated groan, the tall timber gates swung inwards, and the two stepped in. 

Within the walls of the fortress, Eothain was utterly baffled by what she saw around her. Lining the pathway from the still-open gates were the same elegant tents as before, but this time, a different purpose loomed. Near the back of the fort, next to a massive, domed tent, a team of blacksmiths were whaling away on a thick bar of iron, gently glowing orange. With each strike of their massive hammers, the iron flattened and widened, before it lost its heat, and the two 'smiths carefully placed it back in their roaring forge.

More closer down the path, next to the smithy, a short and stocky teen was arranging rows of swords on a heavily dented and pitted work-table. piles of helmets were stacked on either end of the table, and beneath the table, stacks of heavy shields formed an armored and colorful domino line. Behind the table, on thick racks, hung row after row of armor plates, clanking against each other in the breeze. From time to time, a teen would walk up to the table and bargain with the quartermaster for repairing his armor, or a new sharpening stone, and it was a half-and-half chance of their recieving what they were asking for.

Across the road from the quarter-master's shop was about a dozen long benches set up under a large tarpaulin. These benches were crowded over with at least 50 armored figures chatting idly over their meals, their helmets stacked up by their feet. Their broad shields were stacked in orderly rows against the tarp poles, forming mini-barricades around the tent. At the end of one table, a tall teen in earth brown armor, silver streaks chasing each other down his breastplate, stood to his feet, his stormy blue eyes standing out against his pale skin and vivid red hair.

"About time, McGordon. This is the O'Skye girl?"

"Aye, sir," Aidan nodded in an informal salute. "Eothain O'Skye, meet our junior cohort commander, William Teall. Will, you know-"

"Aye, I ken," he muttered, settling down at his place at the head of the table again. "O'Skye, have you gotten all your equipment yet?"

"Y-yes sir," she stammered, slinging her shield around onto her forearm. Suddenly, without warning, every trooper at the dining hall stopped talking, staring in horror and shock at Eothain's shield. One could have heard a pin drop. Teall stood to his feet shakily, his face completely blood-shot.

"Ye... Ye bear the traitor's shield!" Almost as sudden as it came, the silence was replaced with clamor and dischord, until Aidan nodded at Teall, and he bellowed above the din "GEAR UP!" The seated cohort stumbled to their feet to collect their scattered equipment, mumbling and casting distrustful glares in Eothain's direction. Her head was filled with the echoing cry of Teall, and one question, over and over. Who was the traitor?