by Stefon Mears
Cavan had kept an eye on Ehren through the morning ride. The priest never seemed fully awake when he rose before the sun, even when that sun rose hours later than they were accustomed to. He seemed almost to be sleep-riding, relying as much on the training of his blond chestnut, Highsun, as on his own attention.
All that changed when the first rays of sunlight struck him. The little, sleepy half-smile he’d had stretched to its normal width. He inhaled deeply through his nose, eyes closed as though savoring the warmth of the day’s first sunshine.
And aloud he began to pray to Zatafa.
Pray, not sing, which was the way Cavan preferred it. The rhythm of the ancient Penthix verses went well with their ride.
Ehren kept up those prayers as they rode. Occasional farmers or other travelers doffed hats or raised their left hands high in praise of Zatafa, but most ignored Cavan and his friends. Either wary of their weapons, or concerned with their own business.
So far, there’d been no sign of the huntsmen. Cavan could tell that bothered Amra, but she didn’t say anything.
Soon the baronial estate was in sight, scant minutes ahead of them, and they slowed their approach. Just west of the manor spread a town. Small wooden houses and larger wooden buildings, with only a few using the Blue Mountain rock at all in their construction.
The trio wouldn’t have to ride through town to reach the manor though. Just pass the last of the corn farms that surrounded them now, where the corn grew tall and reached almost to the road itself. Then ride past some of the outlying buildings, that looked like housing for the rich, primarily. As though proximity to the manor was status to be sought in this area. Cavan thought he remembered Kent mentioning that to him, years ago, but in the moment Cavan was too busy looking at the manor itself.
It stood on a high hill, and he knew that any watchers from the walls were probably already watching them come. Solid stone foundation — quarried from the Blue Mountains, like the twelve-foot wall rimming the top of the hill, just before the downward slope — and the rest of redwood and pine.
Seeing the wall again after so many years, Cavan realized that the blue glitter of the crystals embedded in the rocks might blind enemies, from certain angles. An interesting tactical advantage, and one he knew Amra was already assessing.
Inside the walls grew a grove of fruit trees. And behind the manor itself, a series of pools that had some local spiritual significance that Kent had never shared with Cavan.
“Archers,” Amra said, calling Cavan and Ehren’s attention to the guards on the walls, who were keeping an eye on the trio. “You’re certain we’ll be welcome? I’d hate to try to assault that place with just the three of us.”
“I don’t know what to expect,” Cavan said. “But unless they have a royal decree, they should still treat me as their future lord.”
Amra snickered at that, but Cavan ignored her.
“Why do we think Kent’s here?” Ehren said, speaking his first words of Rentissi in hours.
“Where’s a better place to hold him?”
“Interr,” Amra said, as though expecting the question. “In the duke’s dungeon.”
“We’re on the safe side of the mountains from the duke. The locals won’t fear invasion, so if the duke’s men tried to capture the steward, they’d—”
“Do nothing if he was taken in the night,” Amra said. “If evidence was planted to make it look as though he rode home.”
“He’d be reported missing by now,” Cavan said, “and the king would investigate. No. The quietest way to hold Kent would be to keep him at the manor, incommunicado.”
Cavan clucked Dzint forward, but Amra whistled the halt.
“If I’m the duke and I’m holding a steward at his seat, I put my men on the walls, not his.”
Cavan shook his head. “Why risk it? People around the manor will recognize me. Why risk being seen killing me? Better to let me in and kill me quietly.”
“I wasn’t talking about archers. I was saying the duke now knows we’re here.”
As if to prove her point — or perhaps to acknowledge the return of his future lord — one of the archers raised an arm in salute.
A hunting horn blew, and six men came running out of the corn. All with weapons drawn.
And all bearing the duke’s sigil at their left shoulder.
* * *
Three of the attackers had longswords, one with dagger in his off-hand. Two of the others bore two-handed maces, and the last had a spear. All looked like Nolarr men — tanned and rugged from life in the field, wearing the studded leather armor of huntsmen.
Cavan, Ehren and Amra slid off their mounts in the same moment, weapons in hand by reflex. Ehren whistled a command to the horses, who ran quickly away from the fight while the huntsmen vaulted the low wooden fence that was all that separated the cornfields from the road.
Cavan leapt forward. Caught a mace-wielder coming down over the fence, weapon out of line. Gutted him and spun away while the man gurgled to the ground. Two swordsmen facing him now, one with a dagger in his off-hand. Behind him he heard a man’s scream.
They had plenty of room to fight. A road wide enough for four carts, smooth after a fashion, but ruts that could break an ankle.
Cavan danced toward the ruts. The swordsmen spread out, trying to flank him. From the corner of his eye he saw Ehren thrust his goldenwood staff past the spearman’s guard. Cavan heard the snap of at least one rib.
He couldn’t see Amra, but he could hear her taunts as she fought. Had to be someone good. Amra didn’t taunt the “useless.”
Cavan continued backing away. Shoved his free hand into his pouch of spells.
One swordsman threw his dagger.
Cavan batted the dagger away with his blade, but his weapon was out of line when the other swordsman charged.
Cavan threw himself backwards. Felt the tug as the blade slashed through part of his roughspun cloak.
Cavan rolled to his feet, spell in hand.
He flung forward a scattering of mustard seeds and shouted power across them. “Neelin akah!”
The seeds swarmed like hornets, stinging the dagger-thrower from a dozen angles at once. Forcing him back as he waved and slapped at them.
The other swordsman came at Cavan. Their blades clashed together in a rapid series of strikes and parries.
Cavan heard a cry and a thump, but had no attention for it. This swordsman was good. Maybe better than Cavan. Fast attacks, pressing Cavan back and back. Steering him toward the fence.
So much for tripping one in the wagon ruts.
Cavan could barely squeeze in a counterattack. The swordsman pressed him hard. Cavan’s arms and back complained at each parry. The man didn’t look big enough to be so strong. Not as tall as Cavan, and only a little broader. But his attacks were powerful, as though he had orc or ogre blood.
Cavan panted for breath by the time his back reached the fence. Orc blood. Had to be. Now that they were so close, Cavan could see a greenish tint under the tanned skin. The hints of teeth that wanted to be tusks but didn’t know how.
Amra yelled something then, but Cavan didn’t catch what. Didn’t have time. All he could do was keep his sword dancing. Hold back those mighty blows just a little longer while each parry grew more jarring. Find the way to…
Of course.
The swordsman was almost orc-strong, but not orc-broad.
Cavan waited for the next high strike. When it came, Cavan didn’t parry. He ducked. Dropped straight down.
The sword changed direction. Cavan didn’t need to see it to know. He only had a moment. Not even enough time to turn his sword. To stab. Only a moment. Had to be enough.
Cavan slammed the pommel of his sword into his opponent’s kneecap.
It popped like a tree branch snapping.
The swordsman’s slash came off-line, accuracy lost as the man screamed and fell.
Cavan slammed the flat of his blade across the swordsman’s hand, and kicked the weapon a
way when it fell.
The swordsman rolled on the ground, screaming. Clutching his knee.
Ehren and Amra stood watching. Ehren as pristine as ever, but Amra with a sheen of sweat as though someone had made her put in at least a little effort. Her sword was clean, but blood never seemed to cling to that odd dark blade.
The other huntsmen lay dead in the road. The one Cavan had distracted with mustard seeds died of sword-through-the-neck.
“Next time,” panted Cavan, “Ehren helps me.”
“We should do something for him,” Ehren said, pointing at the man who continued to scream.
“If you mean kill him, fine,” Amra said. “But we’re not healing someone who will try to kill us again.”
Ehren hesitated, then nodded. Though he didn’t look happy about it.
“These aren’t the same hunters,” he said.
“No.” Amra whistled back the horses. “Which means those four are still coming.”
Cavan took the pommel of his sword and knocked the screaming swordsman unconscious.
“Neat trick with the knees,” Amra said as she mounted up. “But the groin would have worked as well. Or a tackle—”
“He has … orc blood,” Cavan said, still hunting for breath as he mounted Dzint. “Almost orc strong. Figured … his joints…”
Amra nodded and said, “Maybe we’ll make a warrior of you after all.”
And the trio set a brisk pace as they rode for the baronial manor house.
15
When the first rays of sunlight finally broke through the canopy, Tohen finally called a halt. He and his men stopped there in the middle of the game trail, surrounded by tall, broad redwoods. Good, solid kinds of trees. The kind that grew plentiful in Nolarr.
This was as good a place to stop as any. No clearing, as such, but the trail was wide enough for caribou, so more than wide enough for the four of them and their horses.
Rudyar started rubbing down the horses, while Lutik broke out hard, mild cheese and some of that too-thick Oltoss rye bread. Little better than rocks, that stuff, but it did fill the belly.
Qalas was glaring at Tohen again, and Tohen had to remind himself for the fifth time today — he’s lost count of how many times total — that when the fight came, he’d want Qalas and his halberd fighting beside him.
Tohen made the southerner wait through a long sip of from his water skin before he finally said, “What?”
“We should be at the manor. They’re going to the manor. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it.”
Tohen shook his head.
“You were wrong about that campsite,” Qalas said, showing more courage — or maybe just more frustration — than he had so far. “How much time did we waste there? And they never showed up.”
“That Amra,” Lutik said, paling as he said her name. Tohen reminded himself to make sure Lutik fought Ehren or Cavan when the battle was joined at last. Lutik continued, “It’s her. Got to be. Outthinking us, she is.”
“No,” Tohen said. “She’s a warrior, and a good one. If she knew we were waiting in ambush, she’d’ve flipped it on us. Had to be Cavan. Knew some local trick we didn’t. Or maybe just afraid to face us.”
“Doesn’t matter who made the call or why it happened,” Qalas said. “They still slipped past us. Again.”
Qalas had that look in his blue eyes again. Like he was thinking of making the challenge.
Tohen laughed.
“Funny thing about hunting,” he said. “The best prey slip away from you two or three times. Lead you on a jolly chase. Makes the kill all the sweeter at the end.”
“Or they get away, and you end up making excuses.”
“Happened to you a lot, has it?” Tohen closed the gap between them in two quick steps. Stood nose-to-nose with Qalas. “My prey never escapes me. Nothing ever has.”
“And if some other hunters get your prey around the manor? What then?”
“Won’t happen,” Rudyar said, still rubbing down the horses, and the interruption was so unexpected that both Tohen and Qalas turned to look at him. The big man shrugged. “These guys, they’re too good. We’re the best the duke has, and they almost killed us. You think any of the other hunters have a serious shot at them?”
“Depends,” Tohen said, turning back to look Qalas in the eye. “How good are they with their bows?”
“I missed one shot,” growled Qalas.
“One shot was all you had. You missed.” Tohen smiled, and there wasn’t an ounce of humor in it. “You berate me for my choices. My tactics. Question me at every turn. But hunting is as much execution as planning. And when we had them dead to rights, you missed. When it mattered most, you missed.”
Tohen raised a single pointing finger. “You. Missed.”
“I won’t miss again,” Qalas said, and Tohen was sure it was meant as a warning.
Tohen turned away and took his meal from Lutik. He found a rock to sit on while he ate. Qalas did the same. Before long, the horses were as rested as they were going to get, and all four hunters had refreshed themselves as well as they could, given their lack of sleep and long hours in the saddle on these rough trails.
“Master Huntsman,” Qalas said, and Tohen was impressed that the title didn’t sound sarcastic. “Will you be letting us in our next destination? Our next plan?”
“Why?” Tohen said, standing and stretching. “You’ll just question it. And frankly, I’m only going to take so many more questions from you before I decide you’re too much trouble and kill you.”
Rudyar laughed like it had been a joke, but no one joined him.
No anger from Qalas this time. Only distant awareness. Like a predator watching his dinner. Waiting for the right moment.
“Yes!” Tohen said, pumping his fist. His smile was sincere when he stepped up and clapped Qalas on the shoulder. “That’s the look I’ve been waiting for.”
Qalas blinked confusion, and the look was gone. But that didn’t matter. It had been there.
“You’ve been angry. You’ve been impatient. Those qualities will ruin a hunter faster than anything else. You need to get distant. Inevitable. Yes, little irritations will come and go, but you hold your focus. Keep your perspective. That’s how you get the kill.”
Qalas drew breath to speak, but Tohen wasn’t going to let him. Not now. He needed to hear this.
“That’s why you missed, back by the orcs. Impatience. Hunger for glory. You wanted to be the one who killed Amra. Who opened the attack. You wanted it too much. Made you tighten up in the wrong moment.”
Qalas was listening now, and Tohen stepped in close. Put his hands on the southerner’s shoulders.
“Yes, you’re good in a fight. But when you fight angry like that, even your talent and training won’t save you. You’ll miss, or you’ll get parried or countered, and your emotions will throw you off. You need to get distant. One swing, one arrow, one ambush — they don’t matter. The result is inevitable. Distance is the key. Detachment. When you study your prey. When you make your plans. When you fight.”
Tohen could see the wheels turning behind those blue eyes. Qalas was listening now. Considering. Tohen let go of his shoulders and stepped back, smiling a sincere smile.
“I was starting to despair of you. Thought we might really fight. That I might really have to kill you. And believe it or not, I don’t want that. You’re one of my hunters. Worse, you’re talented enough to become my right hand. Maybe chief huntsman yourself one day. But you were always so angry. Like with the orcs. Who cares if they call you a dog?”
Qalas opened his mouth to retort, but words didn’t come. His nostrils flared in a deep breath, and he closed his mouth.
“Exactly. Get that anger under control and keep it there. Release it when and where you choose. Not just when it boils out of you.”
Qalas nodded. Suspicious, but not angry. Better and better.
“So what does this mean?” Qalas said. “Here and now.”
“It means I
can now let you know that I got more than a teleport from that wizard.”
Rudyar started to make a rude comment, but Tohen cut it off with a look. As though he’d sleep with a wizard. Or, for that matter, as though she would have slept with a man like him.
“What?” Qalas asked, still cautious.
“In a minute. First it’s time to share my plans with you. Gather ‘round.” Tohen brushed away twigs and needle leaves as he smoothed some of the dirt of the trail. He picked up a stick to draw a map. “This is what we’re going to do.”
16
Under the warm noontime sun, the gates of the baronial manor stood wide open. Two pikemen in chainmail stood guard, but offered no challenge as Cavan led Amra and Ehren riding past. In fact, one of the guards hailed him by name.
That was good. Cavan hadn’t wanted to admit it, but he’d been a little concerned that he’d changed too much since he was last here. Wouldn’t have been so easily recognized.
Whatever was going on between Duke Falstaff and Kent, the manor’s majordomo was keeping the lands in good shape. Even now there were gardeners tending the dozens of fruit trees off to Cavan’s right, and others weeding the roses and chrysanthemums that grew on either side of the road and led to a small flower garden in front of the manor itself.
Already servants were coming out of the great, green double-door to greet Cavan. Though not the majordomo himself. Where was … Olivart? Yes, that was his name. Bent back old graybeard, with sparkling hazel eyes and an easy smile. Where was he?
“Archers still watching us,” Amra said. “Smart enough not to raise their bows, at least.”
“We’re riding into a trap,” Ehren said, for the fourth time since Cavan started counting. “Why am I the only one who sees it?”
“Best way to handle an ambush is to charge it,” Amra said.
“I told you,” Cavan said, “Falstaff can’t kill me here. Not in front of witnesses.”
“So there won’t be witnesses,” Ehren said.
“Lord Cavan,” a man no older than Cavan called out. The apparent leader of the servants. Slender, in deep green livery featuring the blue mountain baronial sigil at the left shoulder, with blond hair just touching his shoulder. He stood before a line of three others, two women and a man, all of about his age but all with their hair cropped short, and all in matching livery. One of the women had the dark skin of a southerner. “Forgive us for not being prepared. We were not informed of your coming. Your chambers are being prepared as we speak.”