by Robert Ryan
“Concentrate your mind on the spot just two finger widths below your navel. The ancients called this the har-harat. Think of nothing else but slow, deep breathing, and drawing the air down to that one point. Everything else will fall away from your mind. Think only of this…”
They did as he asked, but Faran had trouble. He heard birds call in some distant trees. A fish leaped in the water of the lake and an insect chirped away in a bush nearby. But at times too these things faded and all that he thought of was the breathing.
“You cannot breathe air down to below your navel,” Aranloth told them. “But by concentrating on it, it feels as though you can. The rest of the world drops away, and you know nothing but the sense of the flow of air, in and out, and always your mind is on the har-harat. When you can do this all distractions fade away. When you can do this, then it need not be the har-harat that you concentrate on. It might be a tongue of flame. Or a flower. You might be sitting as we are now. Or you might be standing or walking. Or you might have a sword in your hand and be in battle. When you can do this, then your mind and body are unified and able to devote all to one purpose without other thoughts or distractions. If you are in a fight, then you will not be too eager or to hesitant. You will act without hope or fear. Your only focus will be on victory, and this is an advantage over your opponent who by turns will hope to kill you and fear being killed themselves.”
Faran thought on that. He understood it, but he knew also that just this one simple thing alone would take a lifetime of practice to perfect. Lindercroft and his other enemies had walked down this path for years ahead of him. The gap in skill between himself and them was vast.
14. Hunting
Faran felt the cool dawn air on his face, but he also felt the warmth of Ferla’s body close to his own, and he liked it.
They lay in concealment beneath a spreading oak tree, a patch of ferns about them hiding their presence even more. But it was the breeze, blowing from the east, that would hide them best of all. For there were deer in that direction, and they would struggle to scent the presence of two people if they came this way to graze in the grassland beyond the oak.
It was a big if. But there were signs they came here often enough, and they had not yesterday nor the day before. Today, they might. Or not. Hunting was a gamble.
He and Ferla had been out, hunting and gathering for a week with little success, and their supplies of food were running very low. But they had caught fish in the lake, which had tied them over well enough.
Ferla shifted next to him, and he saw that she was notching an arrow to the string of her bow. What had she seen?
He gazed carefully through the half-light of a rising dawn, but saw nothing. Yet she knew what she was about, so if she notched an arrow so would he.
It was silent and peaceful all about them. From time to time a bird called, but it was still too dark for the dawn chorus. He moved slowly and silently, as Ferla had done, and then he waited.
They did not speak. They had not for several hours, but the easy quiet between them was comfortable. They were both hunters. Sometimes, they preferred silence. In a way, they were never closer than when they did not talk. Perhaps talking just got in the way.
He was glad not to be wearing his armor. Aranloth had instructed both he and Ferla to wear it at all times in order to get used to it. But hunting was an exception. Hunting required stealth, and armor made too much noise.
At length, he saw what Ferla had seen before him. There was movement on the fringe of the grassland. A doe moved cautiously into the open. She grazed for a moment, then her head came up again, ears twitching. A good while she stood like that, then she stepped forward and grazed again.
Faran could see better now. Dawn had broken, and with it came several more deer, all working their way across the grass carefully. One was a young buck, shorter in the neck and snout than the doe had been. It also had a flatter head between the ears – another sign that it was a buck. This was the one that Faran watched most closely.
There were some that said does made better eating. That was not the case in Faran’s experience, nor had many hunters that he had talked with ever claimed there was much difference either way.
The buck came closer, grazing at whiles and watching the land about intently. Its ears flicked, listening for signs of danger that eyes could not discern. A moment it stood still, then it stamped a foreleg to dislodge flies. At just that moment Ferla rose up slowly, just enough to draw her bow, and loosed her arrow.
Faran did not interfere. She had seen the deer first, and it was her shot. She was nearly as accurate as he was, and if he had moved as well there was double the chance the buck would have bolted.
The world stood still a moment. The arrow was lost from sight, for it was not fully light yet, then the buck leaped in the air and sprang away.
But it was dead only a few paces later. It had been a good and clean shot, the arrow taking it through the heart.
The remaining deer scattered and were gone. “About time,” Ferla said. “We haven’t had much luck lately.”
That was true, but their luck had just changed. There was good meat here, and plenty of it. But also the hide would be used and even sinews. The sinews were necessary for hunting – they secured arrow heads and fletching to shafts. They were also used on bows as backing to increase strength and resilience, though he used more of it for that than Ferla.
They loped across the dew-wet grass toward the kill. It had been a forty-yard shot, the farthest that either he or Ferla would attempt. Beyond that, the chances of wounding but not instantly killing the deer escalated, and most ethical hunters would not risk such a shot. Unless driven by hunger.
Together, they lifted the animal and moved it to the closest tree. There Ferla drew out her arrow while Faran worked to tie cord around the hind legs. When he was done, they hoisted it up and secured the cord over a large branch. Then Ferla, deftly using her knife, cut the animal’s throat to bleed it. Doing so would help ensure the meat lasted longer.
Ferla inspected her arrow while they waited. There was some damage to it, but it would be repaired and used again.
The sun rose higher. From where they were, high up on the north side of the valley, they had a good view. But it was obscured just now by the stand of trees.
Their hunting was done, so Ferla cleaned her arrow and they unstrung their bows. It would be later in the morning by the time they got back to the cottage with the meat, but no doubt, after lunch, Aranloth would begin their training again. It would be a long day.
When the carcass was bled, they set about butchering it. This was necessary to lower the temperature of the meat quickly and help preserve it. It would also ease their burden in carrying it back to the cottage.
For a good while they worked, and once more they spoke little. It was best to get this job over quickly, for the sooner they were done the sooner they could get home, hang the meat in the shed out back where there were hooks, and then clean up.
Soon they were done. Further breaking up of the carcass could be carried out when they got home. They had found hessian bags in the shed, and these they had washed in the lake and dried. Now they used them to hold the large slabs of meat, and set out for the long walk home with their heavy load. They had tied the bags together by their cords, and used those same cords to tie the bags to a long pole, which they hoisted onto their shoulders.
Ferla led the way, and Faran followed. They would feast tonight, and all of them would also be busy making sausages to cure in the smoke by the hearth and preserve larger cuts of meat. In the shed were barrels where brining could be done, and a supply of salt that they had found. Though it was doubtful there was enough there to carry them through the winter.
They moved down the valley slope, and despite that they had worked hard, Ferla set a fast pace. She was keen to get home and wash up, and Faran did not blame her. His own hands and arms were smeared with dry blood.
But even as Faran wanted to get home,
he took pleasure in being alone with Ferla now. It was almost like being back at Dromdruin before all their troubles began. Almost. But they were closer now than they had been then. What had happened had bonded them, and what they had endured and risked for each other since had bonded them even more.
His mind leaped back to what the queen had said in the tombs. The quiet one whose name will echo through the land. He had no idea what that meant. But he felt it was true. There was something about her, some quiet dignity and resilience that set her apart from others. She was different, and he admired her as well as liked her. She had been marked for something great, and he knew it.
The queen had also said she had a task. What it could be, Faran did not know. But he knew he would be there to help her just as she would always be there to help him.
They moved down lower into the valley, passing through fields and little forests. The sun was well up now, but the valley still seemed cool. It would grow warmer swiftly though, and Faran was looking forward to a swim in the lake. That too, Aranloth had told them, was part of their training. It developed muscles that otherwise they would not work, and it was good for relaxing strained muscles as well after their intensive training.
Ferla interrupted his thoughts. “There’s trouble ahead,” she whispered.
They were close to the cabin now, and as they lowered their burden of meat, Faran saw what had sparked her comment, and he felt a stab of fear run through his body.
In front of the cabin a wagon was drawn up, and that meant someone had found them.
“No one could have tracked us here,” Ferla said.
“It could be a coincidence,” Faran replied. But his heart was not in that answer. He no longer believed much in coincidences.
They moved the meat into the shade beneath some trees, and looked at each other. They both knew what had to be done. Aranloth and Kareste were inside, and if their enemies had found them they would need help.
15. Tidings of the Land
Faran and Ferla restrung their bows and stalked close to the cabin. This was not easy, for there was little to no cover to offer concealment that close to the building. Once more, Faran got the sense that this cabin was more than it appeared. Every aspect of it seemed planned out in detail like a military expedition.
They drew close. There was no sign of anyone at the narrow windows, so likely they had not been observed yet. They moved quickly to stand beside the cabin walls which would make it hard for them to be seen. Then they edged closer to a window to listen in case anyone was speaking.
Someone was. An old man laughed, but it was not Aranloth. He said a few muffled words as well, but they could not catch them. He must have been at the far end of the cabin near the table.
Faran and Ferla exchanged a glance. There was no indication of trouble here, of their enemies having found them. But if not, who was the old man in there? And was he alone?
There was only one thing to do. “I’m going inside,” whispered Ferla. Faran nodded. He would be only one step behind her.
They moved closer to the door. It was open, but that was normal. Again, there was a muttering of voices, but nothing distinct. Faran thought he heard Kareste’s voice, but he could not be sure.
Ferla strode through the door, and Faran followed. Aranloth and Kareste sat at the table, and they were smiling. With them also sat an old man. He wore brown trousers and a brown tunic. Neither looked particularly clean, and his white hair and long white beard were unkempt. He looked up from what he was eating, and his gaze took in the strung bows instantly, but he ignored that and looked at their faces instead.
“The hunters return,” Kareste said. “Still no luck?”
“They had luck,” the stranger said. “But they left their catch outside while they came in to check who I was, and what I was doing.”
Faran felt embarrassed. Their precautions seemed unnecessary now, even rude. But the stranger had said the words as though he approved of their actions. And his eyes had been sharper than Kareste’s. He had noticed the residue of dried blood on their hands.
“This is an old friend of mine,” Aranloth told them. “Jareck, this is Faran and Ferla.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Jareck said.
They gave their own greetings. “We best put our catch in the cool of the shed,” Faran said.
He and Ferla went outside and unstrung their bows. “I feel like an idiot,” Faran told her.
Ferla grinned at him. “Better safe than sorry. But that Jareck has sharp eyes. He saw our strung bows and knew what it meant. But he just ignored them.”
They gathered up the meat again, and then took it to the shed out back. It was cool in there, shaded by bushes from the sun and the roof covered over with sod. They worked quickly to hang the meat. It would tenderize that way, and then later they would brine it in the barrels.
Out the back of the shed was a well, dug deep Aranloth had said. It never went dry, and they hauled a few buckets of water up into a trough and washed themselves. It was still early for lunch, but with a stranger there they would eat something, and they were ravenous. Hunting was long and hard work for the most part. It certainly had been today, and Faran felt tired.
They went back into the cabin. The stranger had finished eating, but he still sat at the table. Kareste motioned them to join him.
Aranloth still sat at the table too. “Jareck is a tinker,” the lòhren said. “He can fix anything from a broken axle on a wagon to a boat’s rudder. But better than that, he’s a storyteller and a news-bringer.”
Jareck scratched his face through his beard. “Folks like things mended, but when that’s done they like a story for entertainment afterward. Even more than that, they like to hear the gossip of the land. That they like best of all.”
The stranger glanced at their hands, and saw that they were now clean.
“Looks like you had a good kill. In my wagon I have supplies as well. No point traveling around without bringing people things they’re willing to pay for. So I have salt for curing, which Aranloth tells me you’re short of.”
“We are,” Ferla said. “But I’m not sure if we have any money to pay for it.”
Jareck shrugged. “I don’t charge lòhrens. No one in the land does. Besides, I owe Aranloth. So the salt, and whatever else you need, is free.”
Faran got the feeling that this man really did know Aranloth well. At least, he knew his real name which was something that all of Dromdruin did not.
“What news is there in the land?” Aranloth asked. It seemed to Faran a normal question, but he did not doubt that Aranloth was looking for news out of Faladir in particular.
Jareck leaned back and filled and lit a pipe by holding it to an ember in the hearth.
“There’s lots of news,” he said. “Alithoras is full of it these days.”
He puffed on his pipe contentedly. “There’s a new king in Cardoroth, but that’s fairly old news now. But he rules well, according to the stories, and Cardoroth prospers.”
“What of Brand?” Ferla asked.
“He’s returned to the lands of the Duthenor, and won a great victory it seems. But he did not linger there. He took men with him and headed north into the mountains, but no news has come to me after that.” He looked at Aranloth carefully. “But you knew all that, did you not?”
“All but the last,” Aranloth replied. “I’m a lòhren, and news has a way of finding me. You know that.”
“News and trouble both,” Jareck said with a wink.
Something was troubling Faran. “If you’re a tinker and a trader, why come to this valley? There’s no one here beside us, and we just got here.”
Jareck stretched his legs out under the table and took a long puff of his pipe.
“I often come through here. Sometimes there are folks who need what I have. Other times this cabin is empty. See, far as I can tell the lòhrens use this place as a sort of hiding house. When someone is in trouble and needs to disappear, they bring them here. Likely enough
, they have other places like this all over the land.”
It all suddenly became clear to Faran. Jareck was right, and this place was built for the purpose he said. It explained why it was so well hidden away, and so defendable if found.
Jareck took another puff of his pipe and fixed Faran with his eyes.
“It seems to me that you and the lass are just the sort of folk who the lòhrens hide. But old Jareck doesn’t ask questions or want to know the answers. It’s safer for me that way. Besides, it’s easier to get a secret out of a tree stump by the side of the road than prise information out of Aranloth.”
Faran glanced at Aranloth, but said nothing. If the lòhren wanted to tell this man who they were, he was welcome to. He knew Jareck well enough to decide whether or not to trust him. He and Ferla did not.
But the trader went on as if he really did not want an answer, and maybe that really was the safest way for him.
“The land hereabouts is quiet. Mind you, that’s to be expected. Few people live in these parts. I’ll not get rich peddling odds and ends around here. I hear tell there’s trouble brewing in Faladir. Some strange stories have come out of there lately, but whether they be true or not, I can’t say.”
“Best assume they are,” Aranloth said. “I’d stay clear of Faladir, if I were you.”
Jareck glanced at the lòhren and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. He gave no answer, but he nodded slightly to himself as though his own thoughts had been confirmed.
Kareste brought some food over to the table, hot from a pan on the hearth.
“You’ll be staying for the night?” she asked.
“If there’s room for me, I’d be obliged. But I’ll be away first thing tomorrow.”
“There’s room enough, and food enough now, too,” she said.
Faran and Ferla ate their meal, and they listened to the old stranger talk. He had a simple and easy-going manner about him as he told more news of the land. But his mind was sharp, and Faran saw why he was a friend to Aranloth. He seemed not only smart, but dependable and trustworthy.