by Chris Turner
“Wow!” The boy shook his head in sheer amazement. “I’ve never got that close before.”
Kahel winked at him. “Keep practicing.”
Arcadia chanced to ride up next to Kahel and flashed him a wry smile. “Quite the bedside manner you have there, Kahel. You could become a good trainer.”
Kahel shrugged. “I doubt it. Not my calling. But others have said as much.”
On one of the raised platforms rising over the gated section, a group of youths huddled, staring down at the stags running in a penned-off area below. Mygar’s brood, judging from their worn brown furs. A few stags were loosed from the side and then caned on the rump to get them running. With grins and mutters the young hunters took aim, fingered their bows and fired blindly with blunt wooden arrows and small, low-powered bows. They seemed to have not much more force than slingshots.
Under the scrutiny of a scowling, cold-eyed teacher, they fired one after another while the instructor barked out brutal criticisms on points of technique and style. “Too slow, Jikrak. The stag’s already far out of kill range.”
“No! Too fast, and stiff on the draw, Egrek, You’re a lousy disgrace. Look, even the stags are laughing at you!”
The youth pouted and hung his head. The sniggers of his friends were demeaning. Wiping his snotty nose, he took aim and fired at a large buck which raised its rack of antlers at him. The animal leapt up with a snort, battering the platform and almost toppled Egrek, then bounded to the end of the corral, only to be pegged by his wooden arrow with blunted end. The beast tucked tail and snorted but was unharmed at that distance.
Kahel grumbled. “Look at them. Easy to take pot shots at a bunch of penned-up animals then laugh and joke about it after. It’s as if hunting big game is like bagging birds. It’s not the same.”
“They have to learn somehow,” sighed Risgan.
“I agree though,” said Jurna. “I wouldn’t do it like that.”
The Caerlineans didn’t approve of the panicking stags and grumbled loudly at their treatment. The stag was a revered animal, not to be abused. There was little they could do in the wake of Mygar’s savage ways and his program of versing the young clan members in live target training. Competition among the young hunters was fierce; improving their skill and speed seemed the priority, all of them eager to join in the hunt and be recognized among the senior hunters of Mygar’s band as worthy.
Risgan watched Arcadia trot up on her grey mare. All eyes trained on her.
Horse and rider moved as one, as if she had a secret communion with her steed. Her skill was well known amongst the clan and something of a point of jealousy among others, including her sister, Thrulia, whom Risgan had taken even more of a shine to. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
On horseback Arcadia could easily outmanoeuvre the men, having ridden since the age of five. Her long hair rippled across her shoulders with every move of her proud mare.
Risgan had heard whispers that both she and Thrulia had descended from the blood of warriors. It seemed hard to believe, given this defeated and gutless hetman who had sired them. He could only conclude such traits must have come from the mother’s side of the family.
After a few swift turns about the track, the riders dismounted and brandished their blades. Arcadia joined the sparring, an excellent swordstress who could best or hold her own against any or all of the others, save Svengar and Mygar.
Competitive sword play was in progress; several youths paired against one another. Ever were the younger contenders eager to challenge Arcadia, for it was considered an honour. The clink of blade on blade echoed across the sand and eyes turned to follow the matches very closely. Arcadia whipped her blade faster than the eye could see. Her blade whirled and she snuck inside her challenger’s guard to halt her swordtip before his nose. “Okay, who’s next?”
“Me!” called out the nearest young man, tipping his woolen cap and clutching his sword with defiance. He swaggered forward, wearing a cocky grin. Arcadia bowed and the youth echoed the courtesy.
They sprang back on the balls of their feet, brandishing their blades. The young man struck first, confident in his attack. Arcadia gave some ground, letting him rush in. She sidestepped and parried his thrusts then snuck in a left and right sequence of her own and in no time she had him backpedalling, tripping over his heels until he blundered and she slipped under his guard and the blade caressed his neck. “Yield?”
“I do,” he hissed. His voice, a defeated whisper, was not so soft to escape the ears of the spectators. The others murmured in wonder and cheered.
“And now how about me?” drawled a low voice. Risgan blinked in surprise to see that it was the huntsman Lokbur.
A wide grin spread over Arcadia’s face. “You’d like a drubbing, my lord?”
He bowed low. “I’d be honoured.”
She laughed. Before they could engage, Mygar pushed in and grabbed Arcadia in a bear hug. He laid his lips on hers so hard that she could barely breathe. It ended in a sloppy kiss and she wrenched herself away finally, gasping, wiping her lips of his slobber. She slugged him hard in the chops.
The others watching laughed and cat-called. Arcadia, quivering in rage, uttered several unladylike remarks. Mygar stood there, laughing uproariously, smoothing out his reddening cheek.
“I love it when you’re angry, Cadie. Such a vixen! You and me will go far. I’m in love! Love, do you hear me? Love!”
Svengar, his brawny lieutenant, howled a wolf’s laugh. “I believe you are, lord. Such a pleasant sight. It must be spring.”
Lokbur mustered a wild leap forth and with a crazed shout, drove in to attack Mygar, sword flailing.
Mygar parried and grunted, striking back with force. “What is it with you, puppy? You want to play? The worse it’ll go for you.” He lunged in with dangerous speed, slashing several overhead loops. Lokbur was hard put to defend against such furious attack. Yet he parried every stroke blade. Such was his animosity and fierce love for Arcadia that he held his own and it granted him strength and luck. “You’re a pig,” he taunted. “You don’t respect our people.” In he rushed, impassioned, angered by the foreign lord’s audacity.
But pretty words could only go so far against such a foe. Mygar, not treating the assault seriously, struck again and again with negligent ease, moving in inch by inch with a lion’s yawn on his lips.
Ducking Mygar’s whipping blade thrusts, Lokbur smacked the giant in the chin, a firm crack across the mouth that had Mygar stepping back and licking his bloody lip with a crinkly grin. “Nice shot, Lok. Wülv’s praise. You’re getting better. Must be all those oat cakes you’re eating in the morning.” He laughed, drove in, snorting and grunting with a wild brute strength and smashed the sword out of Lokbur’s hands. He kicked him hard in the chest then clouted him with his leathered fist on the side of the head. Lokbur’s face grew very purple at the force of the hit. The chief’s fist rose and fell, pummelling the younger man until Lokbur’s mates jumped in to defend him with savage cries.
The spectators roared. It looked as if full-scale war would take the entire Caerlin clan but then horsemen broke in from both sides broke to separate the two parties.
Risgan, appalled, remained impressed that the whole line of Caerlin members jumped in to defend their clansman.
Mygar gave a rude snarl. “Louts! Idiots! I’ll not waste my time fighting stupid cretins like you one by one.”
The druid watched from the back of his russet roan with a shrewd cast to his slitted eyes. For a fleeting instant, Risgan saw amusement flash in his face, full of disdain and indifference.
“Seems our young hunter has his hands full,” murmured Jurna.
Lokbur staggered out of the knot of figures and slumped down at a nearby table, taking a cup of mead from a barrel. He downed it in a gulp. He looked badly roughed up, his hair matted and blood trickling down his cheek. Risgan came over to check that the young man was okay.
Lokbur’s voice came as a hissing rasp. “She m
akes eyes at me but I have no idea if she even likes me. Maybe she is just playing me for a fool? Maybe I’m clinging to nothing but a boyhood infatuation for her.” He seemed to not care about his own wounds, only that he had been disgraced before Arcadia.
“By ‘she’, I assume you mean Arcadia?” Risgan sighed. “Don’t be too hard on yourself, Lokbur.”
“Easy to say. Mygar humiliates me at every step. How I’d like to wring that weasel’s neck!”
“So would many.”
“What do you suggest?”
Risgan sighed. “Well, easier to wade through that swamp than fathom the complexity of the female race—which is tantamount to saying easier to become a master magician—just ask Moeze.” He gave a mocking chuckle.
Lokbur frowned. “Judging from Moeze’s skill, I highly doubt I shall.”
“Moeze’s capabilities are steadily growing,” observed Risgan. “Afrid was rather hard on the young buck. He’s had a rough handling, so give him some encouragement.”
“Did someone mention my name?” A pale face bobbed in—Moeze, a figure in a blue-silver robe.
Lokbur blinked as the magician butted in, eyes gleaming and long, slender fingers clutching a silver disc.
“Need a trick done, a magical incantation written, or curse counteracted? Moeze is your man.”
“Not today, Moeze,” said Risgan. “Perhaps tomorrow, or next week?”
“As you wish.” He bowed with a small curl of lip and glided away.
Lokbur took Risgan aside and spoke in a hushed whisper. “Some practical advice, Risgan, on how to deal with women would be welcome.” He rubbed his sore jaw.
Risgan steepled his fingers on his brow. “Lokbur—think of it like this. Women like to be sought after. It makes them feel valued. You’ve got to give them that feeling of being special, or else they don’t feel you care for them.”
“Oh, ho, you seem to know a lot about this, Risgan. Sounds good, but can you give me specifics?”
“Use your head!” said Risgan with impatience. He slapped a palm on the wine barrel. “Get plucky, Lokbur. She’s a hetman’s daughter! Raise the bar high and higher for Douran’s sake.”
“You’re right, Risgan.” He hung his head and ambled off, rubbing his bruised chin.
Risgan frowned, wondering if he’d given the young man a bit of wrong advice. His own success with maidens had been sadly lacking of late.
In all of the four sections of the training grounds—archery, rodeo, horsemanship and sparring—Risgan’s companions found a place, as did members of Mygar’s and Vardot’s clans. Risgan and Arcadia favoured the sword, Kahel and Thrulia the archery butt, Hape remained much enthralled with the horse racing, a skill he’d give his eye teeth for.
Moeze was intrigued with the druid and his beguiling jewelled staff, and he approached to trade lore. Dodonis at first fixed stern eyes on Moeze, then gave a slow nod. They went off together, Dodonis’s hand on the young magician’s shoulder. Meanwhile, Jurna perked up at the talk of several hunters discussing tracking skills in the woods.
“Haven’t you heard of setting snares while you scout?” Jurna asked. “That way you can trail-blaze but set certain hunters to pick up the spoils.”
Risgan smiled, catching a snatch of the conversation. Jurna and one of the younger huntsman before long became instant friends.
A strident voice intruded on Risgan’s train of thought: “Raise your sword, archer! You think you’re so fast?”
Risgan turned to raise his eyebrows at Kahel. The archer was practically spitting curses in Svengar’s face.
“A deal better than you,” Kahel growled. He moved in fast.
“Let’s you and me go a round or two then.” Svengar’s silver broadsword rose in a slithering rasp from his scabbard and caught Kahel’s darker blade.
Risgan scrambled over, alarm showing on his face. A sick feeling coursed through his gut. He had a sinking premonition that such a duel may spell the end of them all. He jumped in without a second thought. “I will fight you, Svengar. Raise your weapon!”
Mygar bustled forward. “No,” he blurted. A sinister grin spread from ear to ear. “How be you and I go a round, relic hunter? Thus far you’ve been a big mouthpiece in this village with little action.”
Risgan scowled. A hundred eyes watched their movements. To back out now would imply cowardice.
He shrugged and bowed. “As you wish, my lord.” He drew his sword.
“My lord! Don’t insult me with your fake deference. You mean it as much as my grandmother’s dead dog. On your guard, outlander!” He came in slashing at Risgan with a breakneck speed. At the same time Svengar roared and charged Kahel. Their blades met in a mutual, resounding clash.
Risgan barely had time to parry. Sweat poured from his feverish brow and the hair behind his ears as the fur-clad huntsman came charging in, grunting like a hog.
Risgan ducked and rolled. He narrowly avoided decapitation. Mygar was playing for real stakes. He lunged in again and again and Risgan danced about, favouring defense over offense, thinking to play the cat and mouse game where the mouse avoids the cat’s paws. This tactic seemed to infuriate his enemy all the more, a game which Risgan relished playing, if not for the fact that one slip could mean his death. But during the dodging and baiting, Mygar slashed the pouch at Risgan’s side and all Risgan’s magical relics tumbled out on the sand: his pale blue wishbone, and some beads and the lumpy dusk-coloured nephrite gleaming a sultry red glow.
Risgan hissed and hastily stooped to cover them up with the black fabric, then he cursed. He rolled aside, barely escaping Mygar’s blade. But the baleful, glowering gleam of the nephrite did not escape the huntsman’s notice and he paused and uttered a loud oath. “What’s this evil witchstone, outlander? Some talisman you’re guarding for your magician? Let’s have a look at it.”
Risgan quickly snatched up the black fabric and stuffed it back behind his belt.
“Nothing to concern yourself about.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Let’s have it.” He laid into Risgan, pushing him back with a series of scythe-like strokes.
It was an unfortunate happening, this sudden exposure of the nephrite, for Risgan had been careful to keep the relics hidden. His teeth ground and with renewed vigour he parried and slashed, catching the huntmaster on the side near the hip, slitting leather.
Mygar, in a fit of rage, spun and crouched low; a boot heel flicked out and caught Risgan in the kidney. Risgan gasped, almost doubling over. Ignoring the pain, he sprang in and as Mygar let down his guard, he levelled his sword tip at the chief’s neck.
“You yield now, ‘lord’?”
“Yield, my ass!” He scrambled to his full height, swatting the flat of Risgan’s blade away. Risgan gritted his teeth, ready to run the blackheart through. But he held his composure, knowing he’d be skewered to death by Mygar’s men if he attempted such a bold move. Already the chief’s fiercest hunters had gathered round, grumbling in rancour, their blades drawn. Not wishing any further escalation, Risgan held up a hand in a sign of peace. “Let us call a halt to this idiotic roughhousing.”
“Fair enough.” The Svengali chief grunted in accord. “Enough of these puerile games. We’ve work to do.”
Svengar and Kahel let their blades drop, huffing like stallions, neither of them likewise winning an advantage.
“You stupid striplings!” called the chief at the gawking spectators. “Back to your exercises. We’ve got hunts to train for.” He shook a fist at the youngsters on the platforms and the others aiming at targets. “Kaergli, Minas! Take the outlander to the druid and divest him of his occult talismans.”
Someone ran to fetch the hetman.
The druid watched the goings on very closely and gave a crafty nod. Mygar’s men joined in lockstep with Caerlin’s men to escort Risgan off the grounds. The druid followed along with an eerie relish, rubbing his wrists, a bright gleam in his eye.
Risgan decided he did not like Caerlin’s druid.
>
* * *
Chief Vardot’s men accompanied Risgan to the druid’s hut, a high, conical dwelling of straw bales and mud. A rank odour assailed Risgan’s nostrils upon entering: of earthy herbs, incense, old ash, and something more peculiar. A brazier hung close to the side, a hearth too, unlit and dingy. Old bags and bins of saltpetre lay aside bowls of fat and a long tableful of many talismans and tools: antlers, pincers, stones, gems, clay bowls, herbs and unguents, liquids and pastes.
The hetman, who had joined the party, addressed the outlander with a twitch of nose: “Yes, Risgan, you have been summoned here for two reasons. Barring your useless magician who has exhibited a fledgling and dangerous magic, it is clear that you are somewhat of an occultist, a man harbouring magical adjuncts. As you know, spellcraft and magic is strictly forbidden by laymen in the village without my authorization, furthermore controlled by our druids, in this case, Dodonis. Hand over the witchstone.”
Risgan swore under his breath. “Impossible, lord. The item in question is quintessentially an heirloom, of great sentimental value.”
“Be that as it may, I must insist on the relic.” The hetman nodded and signalled to his attendants who unsheathed their swords.
“Very well, lord. If I must.”
“Ordinarily I would not care about this, but Mygar is quite adamant about the seizure, and seems to bear some vendetta against you. If he is to be my future son-in-law, I must contrive to keep the peace.”
“It is a misguided way of thinking, but understandable, lord.” Risgan rubbed his chin. Imbroglios. Too many of them.
Upon relinquishing the piece of nephrite somewhat reluctantly, he licked his lips with discomfort and stared. He unwrapped the black cloth and the talisman fell out on the table, the size of his fist, gleaming a rare glow. His heart pounded. It was a most valuable piece, dangerous if fallen into the wrong hands. He didn’t realize how attached he had become to it. Perhaps the magic had infected him more than he cared to admit? The spryness in his step and extra vigour was due to this gem, beyond doubt. He hadn’t experienced such freshness of spirit for years! He must get the bauble back. He felt confident that an idea would come to him.