by Chris Turner
Mygar flourished an accusing hand. “Likely you rogues attracted the isks and almost got Arcadia killed.”
Jurna growled in anger. “’Twas nothing like that.”
“Who’s this vagrant then who was reaching for her?”
“His name’s Hape. I’m Risgan and this is Jurna the Journeyman. There’s Kahel the Archer. We are wayfarers, nothing more. Hape only intended to assist her to her feet.”
“Do not forget me, Moeze, your practicing magician,” piped up Moeze.
“Magician, eh? So you say.” Mygar glowered. “You seem a suspicious lot.”
The hetman climbed on his horse and trotted forward to gaze upon them with undisguised puzzlement. “Who are these men, Mygar? I did not catch their titles.”
“Wayfarers, they say.” He snorted. “A load of bollocks, if you ask me. Look at their soiled and tattered cloaks. They smell like a pack of sewer rats. Probably down-of-luck bandits who haven’t bathed in weeks.”
The hetman stroked his chin. “No doubt. They do look like thieves and bandits on a mission. But their part in this debacle is still under question.”
“I say we roast them,” threatened another of Mygar’s hunters—a ragged bully with squinting eye and spittle pooling in the black gap in his front teeth.
The young man, Lokbur, who had been struck moved to soothe the hetman’s daughter, Arcadia, despite Mygar’s venomous leer. “Are you okay? How fare you? Did these men harm you?”
Arcadia shook her head. “They’re not bandits. This one here is a brave man! All of them are. If they hadn’t—” she trailed off, swallowing hard “—I would have been the one carried off along with Gronjil. They have strong magic. A tree split in two. It startled the isk.”
The hetman frowned. “That seems an odd, if stupid thing to do, child—you could have been crushed by the tree—making them only more culpable in this mess.”
Moeze stirred, raised his disc in a hostile manner. “Take care, lord, lest I weave a spell to coat your bearded chin with a golden itch. You cannot slander us so easily.”
The hetman’s cheeks flushed red. “An insolent mouth have you, magician?”
Risgan winced, glared at the mage and signalled Kahel to elbow Moeze in the ribs.
“Agreed, lord,” said Risgan. “The stripling is but green in the art of statecraft. Somewhat junior also in spellcraft.”
“In what capacity do you serve?” the hetman demanded.
“I am Chief Risgan—leader of this small band, a hunting band like yourselves, on an expedition from Zanzuria, my homeland. Our travels have taken us far and wide. Suffice it to say, game has been scarce. Hunger and losing our way brought us to this glade where we spotted your daughter and hoped to ask for directions.”
“Indeed, indeed, judging from your impoverished looks that might explain some of this. I am Thäene Vardot, 33rd hetman of the Caerlin Clan, 20th chief of the Vithibri Tribe.” The words rolled off his tongue a little too pompously for Risgan’s tastes. “You’ve crossed into our hunting territory—a trespass of serious import.”
“We only wish to pass through your hunting grounds in peace,” assured Risgan.
“Point taken.” The hetman sighed. “But it is too late for last wishes.”
Moeze stepped up to assert himself. “And I am senior magician of the—the Crystal Circle and demand to be heard.” He stabbed a thumb to his chest in affirmation.
The druid sputtered to contain his disbelief. “That is preposterous. Only seasoned wizards can exhibit magic. Yours is nothing but a fledgling magic. Seize the swine!”
Risgan fluttered his fingers. “My humble associate apologizes for his indiscretion. He is young, lord. You can’t fault him for his ineptitude. He is just learning.”
The hetman held up a hand. “I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that, Risgan. Your crimes number in the many. Interrupting a Thäene’s sacred hunt, jeopardizing the safety of a hetman’s daughter, trespassing on clan property. Repercussions are in order.”
Risgan creased his brow. He chewed his lip at the litany of accusations while Kahel fumed, baring his teeth at Moeze and fingering his bow, a murderous look on his scarred face. Jurna stifled a yawn; pale-faced Hape visibly shuddered.
Mygar raised an impatient fist. “Enough of this charade! I say we take out our grievance on the louts—in blood and coin. How much gold do you have on you?”
Risgan scowled. “Not much, I’m afraid.”
“Then blood it is! Strip them, lads—of garments and weapons.”
“Stand back,” threatened Kahel, raising his bow and aiming at Mygar’s breast.
“Now look what you’ve done,” hissed Risgan, shouldering Moeze aside.
Moeze gave a helpless shrug.
“Leave them alone!” cried Arcadia. She leapt in to defend the outnumbered band. Men from both sides hesitated and looked to Mygar and the hetman for further direction.
Risgan blinked in astonishment. Heaven help Mygar as fierce as he was, if he were to try to tame this wild fox. Upon closer inspection, he could see Arcadia’s soft leather was of the finest quality, a hunter’s green for camouflage. Her vibrant brown curls were thick and luxuriant and fell every which way in not unattractive patterns down her slender back. It left her quite stunning in her trim garb. But not entirely dismissible was the stubbornness and fire that lurked under the surface of her flushed face.
One of the few young mounted women had ridden up to listen to the talk and sighed as she spoke, “Sister, you are always the defiant and wayward one.” Her chest rose and fell. She raked over Risgan a sultry, calculating glance that seemed to contain more than a hint of approval. Risgan returned the look with an appraising nod of his own.
“Says the scorched kettle to the boiled-over pot,” Arcadia muttered.
“Enough!” cried the hetman. “You two shall not square off here.” He waved a weary hand. “Today is a sacred day for the hunt. We must salvage what we can. The rest of the matter will be settled back in Caerlin. You men will come with us!” He waved his heavily-jewelled hand at Risgan and his company.
The lead huntsman prodded them along. “Come on, you!”
* * *
Things were not looking up for Risgan and his band. More mounted hunters had joined the company. Some went on ahead while five remained to encircle and guard the prisoners. Risgan looked back to see Mygar’s men hacking the head off the fallen isk as a trophy and leaving its steaming entrails strewn on the grass. Grumbling men milled about, stewing about the loss of their fellow hunter. “We’ll conduct ceremony for him back at the village,” muttered Mygar. “’Tis an unexpected loss.”
“Perhaps it will appease your bloodthirsty god,” suggested the druid.
“It should have been me,” murmured Arcadia.
Lokbur stared aghast, a pained look on his face. “Don’t say that, Arcadia. Nobody should have died.” He hung his head. “I feel responsible for this. Had I fired the magic arrow—”
“Do not blame yourself, Lokbur,” soothed Arcadia. “’Twas I who snuck off from the hunt, compelled by a whim.” She flashed him a disarming smile and touched his trembling hand. There passed a faint but brief look of intimacy between the two, then it was gone in the blink of an eye. Arcadia mounted her horse, the reins of which one of the other clansmen had handed her.
The woman’s watery eyes and trembling lip told of the shambles of the day. “At least the unicorns escaped,” she murmured. The curved longhorn bow hung slack at her side. She stared at Risgan. “Despite your noble intentions, wayfarer, your deeds have stirred up more unrest in our broken clan.”
“And if it wasn’t for Kahel’s arrows and Risgan’s heroics, you’d be deader than the isk,” pointed out Jurna.
She looked away, but with a sniff of incredulity.
Risgan turned at a flutter of movement from the brush. A white tail flashed among the twitch trees.
“The unicorn has returned!” cried one of Mygar’s men. “After it!” A host of ho
rsemen spurred forth to chase it down, their bows drawn and swords lifted.
Kahel shook his head. “What animal in its right mind would be dumb enough to linger here?”
“It’s no unicorn,” Risgan said.
A priest beside the druid reined his horse forward to stop them. “Driadis curse you all,” he shouted, waving his staff. “The old gods will rise in their graves to haunt those for molesting their sacred animals.”
Mygar trotted forth to face down the priest. “What do you plan to do about it, knave?”
“Out of my way,” the priest snarled. “Somebody has to defend the traditional ways.” He turned to smack the insolent chief across the head with his staff but landed a stroke on the shoulder instead.
Mygar grinned and leaned in, raising his broadsword. The druid’s staff came down again and Mygar blocked it with his blade. This time he leaned in to smash his gloved fist into the priest’s face. The priest slid to the ground, dazed and gasping.
“Uncle, no!” cried Arcadia, hurrying forth.
Mygar spat on him. “I say that Wülv, our fanged wolf god, fine spirit he is, spits on the old gods. ’Tis the head of Wülv with his hoary wolf ears and slavering jowl that adorns your shit altars and fanes now, not that feeble teat-sucking Driadis.”
One of the green-leathered men gave a fierce cry and galloped in to avenge the vicious sacrilege. The gesture caught Mygar by surprise and angered as he was at being struck, he mustered a wild swing and parried the bold thrust, then reversed the sword and ran the rider through. He slid out of the saddle with a thud.
Arrows trained on each other from both sides. The ragged men looked to their hetman for a signal to attack.
Vardot merely looked away, lip quivering. Mygar’s eyes gleamed with derisive intensity. Arcadia knelt to console her uncle, holding him in her arms.
“Remember Driadis, my child,” the priest croaked. “Dark times are upon us. Pray to the goddess Driadis.” He wheezed out a bloody gasp, then looked at his hands where blood flowed from his broken nose.
“Anybody else have a bone to pick?” challenged Mygar.
Arcadia lunged forward with a strident shriek, her sword sweeping out in a killing arc. Mygar parried her blade, then jumped down to face her, his grin ever wider. “Come on, my bonny lass, that’s no way to treat your future husband.”
The clash of steel echoed through the glade as she surged in to strike him down. The huntress chopped and slashed and Mygar defended his ground. The wicked smirk continued to crease his leathery face as the two swords cried out with each parry. He put one insolent hand on his hip and defended, stroke for stroke, with blade clutched in the other.
“Ah, a spirited wench is what I want to warm my bed! Can’t you do better than that, Arcadia?” He leaped aside, then dodged her vicious swing as she turned to spit full in his face.
“Stop this nonsense!” her father bellowed.
Arcadia ignored her father’s outburst and drove in ever more furiously.
Gutsy mettle this maiden showed, Risgan thought, as he watched in admiration. She displayed skills beyond her years, a natural at the blade. But Mygar was faster, and slyer, and ever more experienced and meaner. He twisted on his heels and snuck inside her guard and brought his gloved hand down on hers, ripping the sword from her grasp. With a grunt he tossed it away into the bushes. He stared at her, fuming. Then he bowed. “Very nice, milady. We should do this dance more often.”
“You disgusting brute,” she spat.
“And so complimentary.”
She sprang at him, teeth bared and nails outstretched.
He caught her by the wrists then flung her away. “Deal with her, Vardot! Do you hear me?”
The hetman hissed and signalled two of his men. They came running in to restrain her, despite Arcadia’s mortified cries.
“Let me go, you stupid fools! Who is the enemy here?”
Several looked to Vardot for a signal to attack Mygar, but the hetman just shook his head. A sigh rippled through the gathering. The druid looked on with a face of stone.
Vardot sat atop his mount, teeth clenched. “Have you enough bullying for one day, Mygar? You’ve killed one of my men and maimed my under-priest. Are you satisfied?”
“Very much. There will be more violence if you don’t heed my warning and show some respect and control your vixen dog of a daughter. Isks fly and the hunt is not yet over! Onward!” he barked at the hunters. “The hunt for game must continue!”
The horsemen returned from the thickets, admitting that they had found no sign of a unicorn. The hetman’s green-clad men groaned in disgust and gathered up the fallen horseman and the wounded priest.
At that moment another horn blared through the trees. A clot of new figures came charging into the glade—more of Mygar’s company by the look of them: lean-jawed, heavy-muscled, steel-capped men dressed in furs and leathers.
“News, lord,” cried the leader, a tall, sinewy man with bronze rings on his arms. He drew abreast of Mygar. “A pack of stags run loose in Falgron’s glade. Jorgu, the old marksmen, got a piece of one—” His mouth dropped upon sight of the carnage. “What in the name of wild Wülv has gone on here?”
“Never mind.” Mygar gave him a brisk flourish. “We’ll be moving out soon, Svengar. Prepare your men—the wolf-hunters.” Cheers of enthusiasm coursed from the fur-cloaked hunters.
“Guard this popinjay, well,” hissed the huntsman, pointing the tip of his sword at Risgan. “My horsemen and I will deal with him and the others when I’m back.”
Svengar grumbled. “As you wish, lord.”
“They will have a proper trial,” warned the hetman.
Mygar shrugged and gave a harsh laugh. “They’ll feel the bite of my sword, is what.” He turned and raised his sword to the sky. “The hunt goes on!” Springing upon the back of his horse, a broad-chested brown bay, he rallied his wild hunters. They roared in answer and turned to speed off.
Arcadia raised a shrill cry: “Not so fast! We must look after our wounded. The animal totems speak that—”
Mygar reined in, peering at her with narrowed eyes. “What do you know about animals and their spirits, woman? I’ve spent twice your years herding them and killing them, and wandering about these wilds like a priest of the hunt.”
“I know more than you think, Mygar.”
“Hear, hear,” cried the green-vested men of Arcadia’s clan. The other wild horsemen, savages of Mygar’s clan, jeered in opposition.
Risgan’s brain spun with the wide schism in this group. Half were for appeasing Arcadia, half against. Grumbles of dissent rang loudly. The hetman’s face clouded over.
As the remainder prepared to leave, another cry came. Those of the hetman’s green-vests brought the cart forth carrying an agitated Afrid.
“What manner of loathsome creature is this?” demanded the hetman.
“Thäene Vardot, meet Afrid, erstwhile witch of Thornkeep,” Risgan said, making the introduction with a low, mocking bow.
Afrid hissed.
“You don’t say?” The hetman gaped. “Her reputation precedes her. ’Tis’ a spiteful crone I see, with a baby’s face.”
“Agreed.”
Even the antlered druid had trotted forward to grant Afrid a more careful inspection, though it looked as if he liked little of what he saw.
The hetman gave a weary sigh. “Tolfgard! Mesin! Bring the witch along with us. They all shall return with us to the village. Let us make haste!”
* * *
So the hunt proceeded without incident, though Risgan watched the hetman and the small band of Mygar’s hunters scour the skies with wary eyes. Only three stags did they flush out from the thick brush, beasts whose carcasses were well pierced and slung over the backs of spare horses. Risgan’s mouth watered for venison roasting over a crackling fire, but he knew that was a pipe dream.
The huntsmen designated as guards drove Risgan and his company hard through the wilds. The peeling grey bark and thin wispy branc
hes became a blur in his mind. Finger-like twigs scratched his cheeks and caught at his leathers. The natural alleys and corridors through the hag birch and twitchwood grew dim in the coppery light as Arcadia rode alongside them, flashing them occasional glances, as if pitying their ignoble treatment. “It’s not normal this happens,” she said to Risgan. “It won’t be long now. Our village is but a half hour away.”
“That’s good to know.” Risgan loosed a noisy breath. The hetman trotted ahead with his clansmen in a dark mood. His uncommunicative druid rode at his side, while Mygar and his wolf-furred hunters ranged off elsewhere to hunt. Only ten of Mygar’s grim guard stayed behind to watch the hetman and his prisoners, but that was enough. The chief’s subjects also watched Risgan and his company closely. Risgan made note of Jurna’s itchy fingers on his sword and Kahel’s gleaming eyes as if they contemplated an escape. At this point it was folly and he jabbed an elbow into Kahel’s ribs, warning against impulsive action, surrounded as they were by the horsemen’s drawn bows.
Dark billowy clouds moved in from the north. By late afternoon all the golden light had disappeared from the land as they neared a freshwater river. The arms of the forest opened up to look out upon brooding flats where a long low salt marsh spread. Deadheads rose among the mire. A bridge provided access over the sluggish stream that emptied into the marsh.
A wooden wall surrounded two sides of the village with trees and water on the other sides. Archers poised above the entrance gate, bows at the ready. The gate swung open and the horses trotted through.
A group of longhouses lined the river, Risgan saw, while bull reeds and pussy willows sprung up near the shore. Hale, leather-clad women and eager children came out to greet the hunters.
The day was still warm, not much wind so midges swarmed; a faint reek accompanied what breeze there was, bringing the waft of rotten vegetation and human waste.
Odd place for a settlement, Risgan thought.
The hunters dismounted and hung the spoils of the hunt from branches to drain them of their blood. Other carcasses that looked to have hung there for some time were pulled down for the communal feast, soon to be roasted over fires. It was a good thing, for Risgan’s belly ached with hunger. In the meantime, the hetman ordered bowls of broth brought for them to tide over their hunger.