by Guy Estes
Anlon stopped struggling and released his stick. Lenore slowly put him down, but she kept a grip on him. The boy was breathing in huge gasps.
“Never speak of my father,” he shouted. “Never! I’ll kill you if you do!”
Lenore pulled him away from the others and into a tent.
“Anlon, what in the seven hells has come over you?”
“He told everyone my father ran away and my mother lay with demons!” The boy wailed.
“I see. He had no business saying any such thing, of course, but Anlon you nearly killed that boy.”
“Good!”
“No, Anlon, it isn’t. The Charidean have not survived these countless generations by slaughtering each other. We have survived and thrived on the steppes because we cooperate. You must control that temper. As the bearer of the Chosen gift, you do not have the luxury of being enslaved by your passions. Asura and Bahna did not grant you this gift so you could waste it on gadflies like Jase.”
Lenore remembered Anlon’s birth. Large storms were nothing new to the steppes, but none of the Charidean had ever seen anything like these. Two massive tempests collided over their tents and combined into one titanic storm. A huge gout of power blasted the tent where Brona was giving birth to Anlon. All occupants saw it directly strike Brona and her emerging child. Given his auspicious birth, it was easy enough to see why many were unnerved by the boy.
Lenore later spoke to Anlon’s mother, Brona.
“Brona, he was going to kill that boy.”
“But he didn’t.”
“Only because I stopped him. If I hadn’t been there Jase would be dead.”
“He is Chosen, Lenore. His gift is the warrior arts.”
“All the more reason for concern.”
“Lenore, what great man does not have a temper? Even Auron did, though age has mellowed him. All great men have tempers.”
“And many men who are not great have tempers. A warrior as gifted as Anlon losing control cannot have a happy ending, Brona. He must learn self-control.”
“He will, Lenore. He will.”
All Charidean could ride practically from the time they could walk, but once they got old enough they were schooled in the specifics of life as a horseman of the steppes, things like gathering and caring for a herd of horses, surviving the hot summers and their massive storms and the freezing winters, finding food and water and how to make shelter, and archery. Being a nation of horsemen, the traditional weapon of the Charidean – indeed, of all the peoples of the steppes – was the bow. They learned to shoot both from horseback and on foot, from a stationary horse, a walking horse, and a galloping horse. Ultimately, they would be able to shoot from a galloping horse straight ahead, to the side, and even to the rear. Anlon was Chosen and his major gift was that of the warrior, so he took to archery with the same ease with which he took to breathing. Before his first week was over, he could shoot a bow as well as the Charidean’s most experienced archer. After another week, he could exceed even that.
The education of Charidean boys involved dividing them into small groups and each group was educated by itself, in much the same way a formal academy divides its students into smaller classes. Each group had a head boy. Anlon was glad to see his good friend Cahir was in his group, but tempering that positive note was the fact that Jase was also in his group. Each group picked one of their own as a leader. Naturally, Anlon’s group picked Jase to be their head boy.
Jase, of course, took great pleasure in assigning Anlon every miserable job; riding watch on the herd at night, in the rain, when the violent storms of spring and summer where whirling about, during the stinging snows and furious wind of winter. Drudge work like repairing bridles and saddles was also Anlon’s. The boy spent long hours in the saddle, weaving dreams of falling down a hole and on the other side would be a world that loved and adored gifted people. His fantasies went from inhabiting such a world to ruling it. He would rule with wisdom and compassion, and never would he treat people the way Jase and his minions treated him.
“The very idea,” scoffed Brona when Anlon told her Jase was made head boy. “You are the obvious choice for head boy, Anlon.”
The quiet boy could only shrug. He, too, could make no sense of why he was passed over.
“Is Jase fair?”
Anlon snorted. “He gives me all the work to do. I’d like to skin him alive and burn him.”
“Waste not your time, my son. Jase isn’t worth the sweat from the crack of your buttocks. Instead, use the opportunities Jase gives you to show your skills and demonstrate that you should be head boy. Make them regret choosing Jase. I cannot hold my head up among my people so long as Jase remains head boy. You must make me proud, Anlon. Your godsdamned father has already shamed me too much. I cannot have you shaming me as well.”
Anlon took his mother’s advice to heart, but he could not resist an opportunity for revenge, and that always came around at archery practice. Though he liked shooting, the bow did not hold great interest for Anlon. It did not seem like a proper warrior’s weapon. There was no denying its advantage of range, and mounted archers with their combination of range and mobility were very effective in battle, but Anlon’s heart always longed for a purer form of battle, single combat, champion versus champion. Distance fighting held no intimacy between opponents. A warrior could not look his enemy in the eye as he faced him. For that role, Anlon felt, the sword was the ultimate weapon. In the Charidean tribe, swords were secondary weapons, single-edged blades meant to be used from horseback that tended to be blade heavy. Swordplay was not stressed nearly as much as archery. The swords used in the mountain regions were much more to his liking, straight double-edged weapons of proper balance. Anlon’s hands ached for one the moment he saw one on a traveler’s hip.
As head boy, Jase got to shoot first. Standing at his place in line, Anlon drew his arrow to his ear and loosed, actually shooting down Jase’s arrow before it struck the target. Anlon was promptly reprimanded and punished for violating weapons discipline.
“Chosen or not,” barked their archery instructor, “you never, ever shoot out of turn, boy! Arrows on designated targets only!”
Anlon received nine lashes from a switch across his back, Jase and his friends watching and giggling the entire time. Anlon was banished from archery practice for a week.
“How could you shame me so,” Brona wept when he told her what had happened. “No son of mine would do this to me!”
Every day the other boys would pass by Anlon on their way to archery practice, and that is when Jase would assign Anlon his tasks.
“Straighten my arrows, demon spawn!” Jase ordered, his face alight with malicious glee.
“My arrows need new fletching,” he told Anlon the next day, his friends standing with him and giggling at Anlon. “Make sure to use only eagle feathers. Save the vulture feathers for your arrows!”
“What will you do about this?” Cahir once asked him.
“Make Mother proud,” Anlon quietly replied. “I must make mother proud.”
Once the week was over, though, Anlon returned to the shooting line. He made sure he followed the rules to the letter. He also made sure that he used Jase’s targets, which were bristling with Jase’s arrows. Anlon used those arrows for targets. His shafts hit and broke Jase’s with unerring precision, drawing praise from the other boys and the instructor alike. Word of his phenomenal accuracy spread throughout the tribe, and Anlon had men he had never met patting him on the back and praising him. In time, he replaced Jase as head boy. His gift made him a better warrior for the tribe and all the drudge work Jase had saddled him with resulted in him having greater skill than anyone else in his group with all the little tasks required of a horseman.
“You were right, Mother,” Anlon said when he came into their tent. He was ten years old and beaming with pride from the wonderful news he had for his mother. Her son had made best boy! She would be so proud! “I did what you said a
nd now I’m head boy!”
Brona looked at him, her expression somewhat dour.
“Made best boy, have you? Just in time for you group to be disbanded.”
It was true. The groups they’d been in as little boys were now going to be broken up. They’d form new groups as young men to complete their educations. Still, he had made best boy, hadn’t he? Was that not wonderful news?
“You waited too long,” Brona chided. “It’s too late to be of any good. You must now concentrate on making best boy in your new group.”
With that, Brona went back to her tent keeping chores. Anlon, crestfallen, walked out. The new groups were formed a few days later. Thankfully, Jase was not in Anlon’s group and Cahir was. Most of Jase’s friends also ended up in Jase’s group, so it was no surprise that they made him head boy of their group. Anlon was made head boy of his group. He raced back to his tent to tell his mother the good news. This time she would certainly be pleased!
“Mother, I was made head boy!”
“They picked you over Jase?”
“No. Jase was put in another group.”
“Is he head boy of that group?”
Why was she so interested in Jase? He was in a different group. He was no longer a problem, or at least not as big a problem as he had been.
“Yes,” Anlon said, hesitant and confused.
“You no longer rule him.”
“No, but I rule my group.”
“What is ruling one little group when you cannot rule your rival? Cahir will one day rule the tribe. What is ruling a learning group compared to that? Their positions are still equal to or above yours, Anlon. Why aren’t you as accurate with your achievements as you are with your arrows? And what are you going to do about it?”
His face red with rage and shame, Anlon turned and stormed out of the tent before Brona could see his tears.
* * *
The bonfires roared and banished the night within the clearing in the midst of the Charidian tents. Antelope was roasted and ale was guzzled as merry feasters swarmed about. Pipes were blown and strings were plucked to produce the melodies that kept the spirits light and the lovers close. Anlon and Cahir were sixteen years old and had just undergone the rites of passage to manhood. Auron, Cahir's father and High Chieftain of the clan, sat on his throne, his wife Lenore on his right and Mathias, the High Shaman, on his left. Auron’s eyes twinkled and his lips danced in helpless mirth. 'Twas a harsh life on the plains, and he loved seeing his people rejoicing and forgetting their responsibilities for a few days. He had lost count of the cups of wine he'd drained, but the number must have been considerable, for he felt his face growing warm. He loosened his tunic.
"Is everything all right?" Lenore asked.
"Fine," he replied, patting her hand. "The wine is hitting me harder than usual."
Auron resumed watching his people enjoy themselves. After several hours, though, the wine took its toll and he had to retire to his pallet. It was late the next morning before anyone noticed that he had not risen. Lenore went to look in on her husband. He lay in their pallet, his pale complexion in stark contrast with his dim surroundings. As she drew closer, Lenore saw how the linens were plastered to his sweating body, and he trembled and muttered as he lay there.
"Auron," she asked. "Are you not well?"
She instantly felt silly for asking such a thing, for it was obvious that the man was anything but well. He was not even sufficiently coherent to be aware of her presence.
"Get me the High Shaman," she snapped to her chambermaid. The woman bowed and hurried from the tent. Lenore got a pitcher of water and a cloth and brought them to her husband. She wet the rag and mopped his brow. He stirred and muttered louder. Lenore gently shushed him.
"Rest, my love. Save your strength so that you can get well. I've summoned Mathias. He will know what to do."
She continued whispering comforting words such as these until the chambermaid escorted the High Shaman in.
"Mathias, gods be praised, you're here."
"Lenore," the old man bowed. "What troubles our Chieftain?"
"I know not. When he hadn't risen by midmorning I came in and found him like this."
Mathias bent to examine his chieftain. He pressed his fingers behind Auron's jaw line, he felt the blood coursing through the sick man's vessels, and he scented Auron's sheets. Then he withdrew a vial from his robes and sprinkled a colorless liquid on Auron's bared torso. A few moments later the drops on his waxy skin evaporated into tendrils of violet smoke. Mathias held an empty vial upside down over his chieftain to catch the rising vapors. When he had what he needed, Mathias corked the vial.
"This should tell me what Auron's malady is," he informed Lenore. "I should know by tonight."
After Mathias left to diagnose Auron, Cahir and Anlon came in.
"How is he, Mother?" was the first thing out of Cahir's mouth.
"Gravely ill. Mathias has seen to him. We will know something by tonight."
Cahir knelt to his father. He touched Auron's forehead and jerked his hand away, surprised at how warm his father was.
"Will he survive, Mother?"
"Yes. I will allow nothing else."
* * *
"I have discovered the source of our chieftain's misery," Mathias announced when he entered their tent that night.
"What is it?" Lenore demanded. She got up from the mat she'd been occupying with her son. Anlon and his mother, Brona, were also there. They were the reigning family's closest friends.
Mathias sighed. "It would seem that at some point prior to the feast we acquired a bad batch of wine. Auron drank much of it."
"Will he live?" Brona asked.
"I cannot say for certain what his fate will be. It is far too early. He may die. He may yet live. And if he lives, he may not completely recover. He could be bed-ridden, or rendered insensible. It is simply too early for me to be sure. All I can tell you is the obvious: the Charidian are currently without a leader."
All sets of eyes immediately turned on Cahir, and for the first time in his life he felt the full tonnage of his responsibility. His father was the chieftain. His father was the tribe. He simply found the idea of his father unable to rule utterly inconceivable. He sighed.
"Very well. I will run things until Father is once again able to. But I refuse to wear that," he said, pointing to the crown on his father's bed table.
"So be it," Lenore intoned. "Until my husband is well, my son Cahir is High Chieftain of the Charidian."
Mathias, Brona, and Anlon faced Cahir and bowed. Cahir gulped. He had always known what his responsibilities would one day be. Now he would experience them.
Not long after, Lenore gathered the clanspeople around the chieftain's tent. Cahir emerged and held up his hands for silence.
"My clansmen," he called. "my mother has called you here because we have some rather unsettling news. My father, the High Chieftain of the Charidian, lies gravely ill, stricken down by soured wine. Even Mathias cannot say for certain whether he will live or not. In any event, he is in no condition to carry out his duties as your ruler. It now falls to me, his son and only heir, to rule in his stead. It is with a heavy heart that I accept my new position, and I swear in Asura's name that it is only until my father regains his strength. As my first act, I implore all of you to pray for your true chieftain, my father. Visitations will begin within the hour."
It was customary among the Charidian to visit the tent of the infirmed and leave gifts, usually something that would help either the sick person or the grieving family. This alone would dispel any suspicions of foul play on Cahir's part, though there were not many of those. The Charidian was a very close-knit tribe. They all knew Cahir to be a man of honor. They had also seen he and his father together. Auron and Cahir loved each other as father and son should. The tribesmen were confident that Cahir had not caused this.
Cahir reentered the tent. Brona and Anlon were there. He was g
lad for their company. He would need the solid moorings of their friendship in the turbulent times to come.
"Anlon, my friend," he said, putting a hand on Anlon's shoulder, "I cannot rule the Charidian alone. Mathias will be one of my advisors, but I will also have need of your insight. Will you help me rule these people?"
Anlon clasped Cahir's shoulder and said, "I would be honored to do my part."
When the discussion was over, Anlon left the chieftain's tent to return to his own. His head was down as he walked, his will focused on fighting off the encroaching memories. Auron was like a foster father to Anlon. Auron had taken him in after seeing how close he and Cahir were, accepting him into his family as a second son. He had even allowed Anlon to call him father.
"Well, the vulture returns home to roost," intruded a voice, a sound as contemptuous as a bubbling bog. Anlon looked up and saw Jase, along with three of his friends, gathered in the shadow of a tent. They were at the edge of the Charidian camp. Jase and his disciples came slowly forward, their cloaks flapping in the night breeze. Torchlight flickered, casting their forms in dancing patches of copper and pitch. Jase was slightly taller than Anlon's six feet. His blond hair was cut short and stood up. His watery green eyes were large and gleamed with a maliciousness that would have looked more appropriate in the eyes of a jaguar. His body was long and rawboned, with large hands and knobby joints.
"Jase," Anlon sighed. "I'm in no mood for your crowing. If you have something to say to me, do so. Otherwise, shut up. I want to go to bed."
"Oh, I beg your pardon. I suppose all of the plotting you and your little friend have been so busy with has taken its toll."
Anlon glared into Jase's eyes. "What do you mean by that?"
"What do you think I mean?" Jase replied, his maddening grin in place underneath his
glittering eyes.
"I think if you've a charge to make you should at least have the backbone to say it plainly."
"Oh, don't worry," he said as he walked into the night. "My meaning shall become plain enough."