Thornbear
By
Michael G. Manning
Cover by Amalia Chitulescu
Editing by Grace Bryan Butler and Thys Dry
© 2014 by Michael G. Manning
All rights reserved.
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Chapter 1
“Your move,” said Matthew Illeniel, barely concealing his glee.
Gram looked at the chessboard between them. He knew it was a lost cause, but then it almost always was when he sat down at the table with his closest friend. Matthew was a year older, which gave him a predictable advantage, but it was more than that. Gram knew that even if he were the older of the two, he would be losing most of their games. Everyone in the Illeniel family was good at chess.
Not that Gram was a bad player. He could hold his own with many older players, as his mother had started teaching him the game at a young age. Lady Rose Thornbear was the best chess player in Castle Cameron, with the possible exception of the Count himself. Their games were the subject of great interest and speculation among the castle staff whenever they held one in the great hall.
Lady Rose was his mother, and the Count di’ Cameron was Matthew’s father, but while Matthew had definitely inherited his father’s formidable talent for the game, Gram would probably never approach his esteemed mother’s prowess. He took more after his own father, Dorian Thornbear.
Gram reached out and laid his king on its side, the universal gesture of resignation. “It’s your game,” he confessed.
Matthew frowned, “You still had options.”
“Not when you get that look on your face,” answered Gram.
“Did you see it?” asked Matthew.
“Nope.”
“Then how do you know I would have won?”
Gram sighed, “That’s the point, Matt. I didn’t see it. At all. You’re too good. You should play Mother instead.”
Matthew rubbed his chin thoughtfully, secretly pleased with the compliment. “You think I’m ready for her?”
“No,” said Gram frankly. “She would grind you into dust, but at least you would learn something. You aren’t going to get any better playing me.”
“Perhaps I’m playing to do you the service of allowing you to improve,” said Matthew slyly.
Gram laughed, “Ha! You just like an easy win. We both know I’m probably as good as I’m ever going to get. It just isn’t in me. Even Conall is starting to win games against me now, and he’s only eleven.”
Conall was Matthew’s younger brother by five years, and while he hadn’t yet shown signs of magical ability like Matthew and Moira, he had definitely inherited Mordecai Illeniel’s sharp wit. Irene, the youngest of the Illeniel children, was the only one Gram could still beat reliably, and she was only nine.
Matthew frowned. Despite Gram’s jovial tone it bothered him to hear his friend give up on the hope of improving. “So you don’t think you’ll ever get better?”
“It isn’t the end of the world,” responded Gram.
“Isn’t it?” countered Matthew. “We’re only now coming into our own. We’re young. Dad says we’re supposed to be testing the limits, but you’re admitting defeat before we even enter the race.”
Most of the time Gram no longer felt the twinge of pain he once had whenever others mentioned their fathers, but this conversation seemed to bring the past closer to him, and he felt the sting once more. “You’re a wizard, Matt, just like your father. You don’t have any limits. Mere mortals like myself have to live by different rules. I’m only cut out for one thing, and the last thing my father did was forbid me to follow in his footsteps and do that very thing.”
“I really don’t think he meant it that way,” observed Matthew, more subdued now. He didn’t like the suggestion that wizards didn’t have the same issues that other people did, but that wasn’t an argument his friend needed just then.
“Well Mother does, and her opinion is the only one that counts,” said Gram bitterly. “It’s not as if we can ask my dad what he meant.”
“You won’t be a minor forever,” said Matthew, the light of rebellion in his eyes.
Gram sighed, “I’m already past the age at which I should have started training. My father was at weapons training by the time he was twelve.”
“You poor old man,” said Matthew. “Already over the hill at the tender age of fifteen. Stop whining. You’ve already learned much of what you need; you’re an excellent rider, a passable shot with a bow, and you’re a far better swordsman than I am.”
Matthew, unlike Gram, had been given frequent lessons in the use of a sword, both by Sir Harold and by his mother, the Countess. While Mordecai hadn’t felt it particularly important for him to learn such skills, as the Count had never been trained in the sword himself, Matthew’s mother had felt differently. Matthew had shared what he had been taught with Gram, sparring privately with him, despite Lady Rose’s injunction. Even with such second-hand teaching, Gram Thornbear had learned quickly and his natural talent had given him an advantage over Matthew almost from their first sparring match.
“I appreciate the compliment,” said Gram, “but playing at swords with you isn’t going to give me enough skill to become a passable man-at-arms someday, much less a knight.”
“Maybe if you approached Captain Draper or …”
“He won’t go against her wishes,” interrupted Gram. “I’ve tried before.” Draper was the guard captain for Castle Cameron.
“What if…”
“Just drop it!” growled Gram. “It’s not your problem!” Standing, he stepped away from the table. “I need some air,” he declared as he headed to the door. He was gone before his friend could say anything else.
***
It was a warm day, almost too warm, but for the breeze whistling through the trees as Gram rode through the woods that encircled Castle Cameron. The sunshine was too cheerful for his mood, though, so he sought the darker shade of the forest rather than following more traveled trails or the open glens.
He had brought his bow with him, though he had no real expectation of using it. He had come on a whim, seeking solitude. Without hounds or huntsmen, his chances of spotting game were slim. He merely wanted the quiet that only the forest could provide.
The limbs were low and riding beneath them had become difficult so he dismounted and led his horse, a calm mare named ‘Pebble’. Her name was based more on her placid nature than upon her relative size. She was one of the many horses in the Count di’ Cameron’s stable, but Gram frequently chose her when he decided to ride. She wasn’t the fastest of horses, but she was rock steady. Somehow he felt a kinship to her because of that.
Gram stopped. The trees were close and the air still. Despite the bright mid-morning sun, it was almost dark in the dense cover. He gave Pebble’s lead a quick loop over a small branch to keep her from wandering. The limb wasn’t big enough to give her any trouble if she made a serious attempt to escape, but that wasn’t the point. She knew as well as he did how such things worked. With hardly a glance at him she began to crop the sparse grass within reach of the tree.
Reaching across her back Gram pulled his quarterstaff from where it was tied next to his bow. The six-foot rod of solid oak felt comforting in his hands. He had brought it, not from any particular need for protection, but rather as an outlet. Moving a good distance from Pebble, he made note of the trees and limbs around him and took a d
eep breath.
He shut his eyes and straightened his back, smelling the air as he filled his lungs. Wood and bark, decomposing leaves and musty earth, those were the scents that predominated. They helped him to clear his mind as he held the staff in front of him, one end planted in the dirt while the other pointed toward the sky. In his mind he could see the trees around him, remembering what he had seen before he closed his eyes.
Motionless, he remained that way for an unmeasured time until at last his body felt the moment had come. Without warning he shifted, and the stillness was replaced with a rush of explosive speed. The staff in front of him vanished, disappearing into a blur of grey and brown as his arms acted to guide it around him in a complex play of movement. It passed the low hanging branches without striking them; and while it was a lengthy piece of wood, it never quite struck the saplings that encroached on his space.
Gram danced with the flow of the wood, letting its momentum pull him along. His eyes were no longer closed, but wide instead, taking in all the light around him. He turned and stepped, moving forward and then back, now to one side and then to the other. The quarterstaff never stopped. As he went, it passed over his back and then across his front, coming to rest under one arm here and then rebounding in a reversal of motion.
Gram moved, but the world around him was untouched.
After a time, sweat began to bead on his brow, a result of his focused exertion. A strong wind came up from an unexpected direction, cooling him and bringing new smells; sunshine, clean air, and… leather. It held the acrid tang of leather and sweat, along with a hint of steel.
He stopped, going still. Searching the dim brush around him Gram’s eyes found nothing, but he knew someone was there. He saw no one, and heard even less, but the shifting wind had given away the presence of another.
“Who’s there?” he called in a clear voice.
“It’s just yer adorin’ audience,” came the answer in sarcastic tones.
The direction the sound came from matched the wind’s brief change, but Gram still saw no one. Glancing higher, his sharp eyes finally found a bulky shadow in the limbs above where he had been looking. “I see you now,” he announced.
“If ye’d seen me, ye should have left half an hour ago, ye witless prick!” argued the voice. With a sigh of exasperation the shadow unfolded, dropping a leafy bough that had broken up his outline.
As the figure stretched out Gram caught sight of a long limbed bow, sending a momentary surge of adrenaline through him. Was the stranger preparing to shoot? His fear proved unfounded however, as the man’s face came into the light, and he recognized him as Chad Grayson, the master huntsman for the Count di’ Cameron.
Easing the bow over one shoulder, the hunter climbed easily downward, swinging from the lowest branch to drop lightly to the forest floor. He was in his mid-thirties but moved with the fluidity of a younger man. He gave Gram a sour look. “I been settin’ in that damned tree over an hour before you showed up. I’d have had a fat doe by now if ye hadn’t come along and started thrashin’ about like a wounded goat caught in a briar patch!”
Gram stared at him, replaying the man’s colorful language in his head. A wounded goat in… what? He had never spent much time with the older man and wasn’t really sure how he should react.
“Begging your pardon, Master Grayson, but you do recognize me don’t you?” asked Gram, just to make sure the hunter knew whom he was addressing.
“Of course I do! Ye’re Lady Rose’s doltish get! My eyes haven’t gone, nor yet my memory,” spat out the irritated ranger.
Doltish get… Gram rolled the words over in his mind while his blood began to rise. ‘Get’ was an infrequently used term for offspring and it was typically reserved for livestock in his experience. Being an aristocrat by birth, he wasn’t much used to being verbally assaulted, and he had never been exposed to a master of invective such as Chad Grayson. “Did I hear that correctly?” he said, still having trouble believing his ears. “Did you just refer to me as ‘Rose’s doltish get’?”
The huntsman was already pacing the area, muttering to himself, complaining that the deer would likely change to different trails after Gram’s exercise routine. “What? No!” he answered. “I said Lady Rose’s doltish get. I hain’t forgotten my manners now.”
“You’ll take that back, scoundrel, else I’ll make you eat those words,” returned Gram in a low voice.
Chad hadn’t even bothered to look at him as he walked. “Scoundrel?” he said, repeating Gram’s insult scornfully. “Did ye learn to cuss while suppin’ on yer momma’s teat? I’ve heard better from young lads still waitin’ to lose their fuzz.”
Gram lost it, swinging the staff in a low arc meant to strike the other man’s backside. It missed when the older man seemed to stumble and fall forward. Chad recovered and stood back up quickly, turning to look at Gram with innocent eyes. “Did you feel a breeze just now?” he questioned.
“You’ll feel more than that if you don’t apologize!” snapped Gram, gripping his staff for another swing.
Chad stopped and gave him a chilling stare, glancing down first and letting his gaze travel upward, stopping when he reached Gram’s eyes. The hunter was a slender man with a rangy build, but even at just fifteen Gram stood as tall as the hunter and he certainly outweighed him.
“An’ you think you’re man enough to make me?” asked the hunter.
Gram’s blood was boiling, and he answered with his staff, snapping the end forward with blinding speed.
Chad caught it in one palm, the heavy wood landing with a brutal smack against his flesh. Clenching that hand and catching Gram’s collar in his other, the lean hunter fell backward and brought one leg up to strike the teenager in his stomach, simultaneously pulling as he kicked upward, he flipped the younger man over to land hard on his back.
Gram never let go of his weapon, even as he twisted, trying to roll over and regain his feet. The huntsman moved around him, holding the other end of the oaken weapon and forcing Gram’s arm into an awkward position across his body. Before he could untangle himself, the other man was behind him, pulling the heavy wood upward with both hands until it was close to choking off the young lord’s windpipe.
Gram managed to get both hands on the staff, holding the wood away from his throat, but the woodsman had a far better position. Chad had his knee against the younger man’s back as he leaned backward, pulling hard on the weapon.
“Just give up and lie still, ye big dope and maybe I won’t have to hurt ye!” muttered the hunter.
Furious, Gram refused to give up even though the staff was now pressing hard against his throat. His face turned red as his hands pulled downward, straining against the pressure. With a loud crack the staff broke and Chad fell backward still holding the two pieces.
Gram leapt up and turned, aiming a kick at the older man who had fallen behind him.
Rolling quickly, Chad avoided the blow and caught hold of Gram’s ankle with both hands. Holding tightly to prevent another kick, he used his legs to knock the teen’s other leg out from under him. The two of them wrestled on the ground for a long minute until the hunter managed to get behind the young lord and slip him into a headlock.
Gram’s chin was down, and he was only getting stronger as his rage grew. Pulling at the hunter’s wrist with one hand he could feel the older man’s arm beginning to give way. I’ll crush his bones!
He grew still when he felt cold steel against the back of his neck.
“I suggest you calm yerself down, boy!” grated the hunter.
“You wouldn’t dare,” said Gram.
“Don’t test me, lad,” answered Chad, “or I’ll leave you cold on the ground. I ain’t takin’ a beating from some young buck that’s still wet behind the ears.”
“If you kill me, they’ll hang you,” suggested Gram.
“Not if they don’t ever find your body, an’ if I thought for a minute that they would, I’d be gone long before they did. Now, do ye still wan
t to wager yer life?”
Gram was silent for a long moment before replying, “You’re a coward for pulling a knife on me.”
“Ye think I give a shit? If I recall ye took not one, but two swings at me with that damn big stick o’ yours before I was forced to defend meself,” answered Chad. “Now make up yer mind. Do I leave you on the ground, or will ye calm down and act like you’ve got some sense?”
Taking a deep breath, Gram tried to relax. “Alright, you win.”
“Ye’re not going to change your mind once I let you up?” asked Chad, maintaining his grip.
“You can’t really be sure of anything I say while you have a blade to my neck,” noted Gram.
“Are ye suggestin’ that your word’s no good, boy?” said the hunter. “Yer father wouldn’t be pleased.”
“I’m under duress,” said Gram. “But maybe a woodsman like you wouldn’t understand honor.”
The edge of the blade dug into the nape of his neck, sending a trickle of blood across his shoulder and down his chest. “Careful lad, now’s not the time fer insults. I understand fine, but there’d be no ransom or parole if knights couldn’t be expected to honor a surrender.”
Gram was momentarily perplexed. He hadn’t expected the hunter to be aware of the finer points of chivalry. “You plan on ransoming me?”
“Nah, I just want yer word that the fight’s over. It’s like parole but I don’t keep you prisoner we just go our separate ways, and nobody has to get hurt.”
The teen let his muscles go limp. “Very well, I surrender. Let me up, and this fight is done, you have my word.”
The blade vanished, and the weight on his back disappeared as the hunter released him and stepped away quickly. Gram stood, wiping at the blood on his neck.
“You should still apologize for your lack of respect,” he declared, careful to keep his tone neutral.
“Where I come from boys are taught to respect their elders,” returned Chad. “An’ I don’t apologize fer tellin’ the truth.”
Thornbear (Book 1) Page 1