Stag Hunt

by Laura DeLuca

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  Within the village walls Eartha could hear the boisterous sounds of a celebration as the people waited for their new champion to emerge. Beltane was a time of goodwill and love-making. Many of the men and women had partaken of too much wine and ale while couples sat entwined in each other’s arms in front of the roaring bonfires or within the privacy of the bushes. Things were jovial, and arguments were put aside for the night, even among the rival tribesmen. Perched upon her makeshift litter, Galiene seemed to be the only one not enjoying the festivities.

  All that changed when Eartha entered the gates of the city. The people turned to her in wonder and awe. Laughter died on their lips and chalices fell from their hands when Eartha stepped into the glow of the giant bonfire. She must have been a foreboding presence despite her smaller stature. The blood of her recent kill had been added to her war paint, and she wore the pelt of the great stag like a royal train. His antlers crowned her hair, also stained with blood. Eartha didn’t need to see a mirror reflection to know she glowed with power. She must have appeared to be a god to many, though she felt more in tune with the virgin goddess of the hunt than any male deity.

  Galiene was the first to acknowledge Eartha’s approach. She stood from her litter and lifted a pale hand to point in her direction. “Look! The champion has emerged!”

  “Who is he?”

  “Who has slain the king stag?”

  Whispers dominated the crowd that had otherwise fallen into a quiet hush. They still hadn’t guessed her true identity. The slip of a moon and the fire’s glow were not enough to unmask her secret. The people watched and waited as Eartha approached Galiene, whose face had turned a peaked white. Yet the queen’s voice was strong.

  “Speak, my lord. Tell us who has returned victorious from the hunt.”

  Eartha raised her gaze to the queen, and even before she spoke, she knew that at last she had been recognized. Galiene lifted a hand to her mouth and gasped, losing her royal decorum for a moment.

  “I am Eartha, daughter of Balaan, sister of Balen. I am your champion!”

  Instantly, there were murmurs of disapproval from the crowd. Galiene had to reach for one of her ladies-in-waiting to steady herself. It seemed she was about to speak, but a middle-aged man with gray sprinkling his dark black beard leapt onto the platform and cut off her protests. He was the father of one of the other competitors, and the furious glaze in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t about to accept this new development.

  “What trickery is this?” the man roared in their direction. “A woman cannot enter the great hunt! It is sacrilege!”

  There were shouts of agreement from the other tribal leaders. Galiene looked to be beside herself, unsure of what to say to regain order. Even when she tried to make a declaration, her soft voice was lost in the din of angry shouts and curses. As her champion, Eartha took it upon herself to speak for the queen. Eartha stepped on the wooden platform and raised arms stained with the blood of the king stag. Her own blood still ran hot from the thrill of the chase, and she felt no fear as she faced the drunken, angry mob.

  “I ran with the king stag! I brought him down, and I wear his crown upon my head as proof of my victory. A woman I may well be, but I am also your champion, chosen by the gods!”

  They were brave words, but the people were not so easily convinced. The bearded man beside her was on the verge of tossing her into the throng of villagers, who seemed close to rioting. An adolescent among them tossed a piece of rotten fruit in her direction. While it landed with a harmless splatter at her feet, Eartha still began to wonder if she had been foolish to take this chance. Would she shame her brother instead of helping him? Did she ruin Galiene’s chance at happiness and of bringing peace to her country?

  Despite Eartha’s fears, she held her ground and faced the people without blinking. She prayed that someone, anyone, would speak on her behalf, and her pleas did not go unanswered by the gods who had chosen her as their defender. The priestess who had blessed her earlier stepped forward, her blue robes swishing in the sudden hush. The crowd parted for her with their heads bowed. Eartha saw she wasn’t just any priestess. She was the Lady of Avalon, the High Priestess of all Britannia. With her white veils covering her face from view, the virgin priestess took her place beside Eartha and clasped her hand.

  “The goddess speaks through me, and I tell you this woman has been chosen. The god himself surrendered to her. Eartha, daughter of Balaan, sister of Balen, is your champion! The goddess wills it! Your queen agreed to accept the victor as her champion. Who are you mere mortals to challenge both your queen’s declaration and the will of the gods?”

  The priestess stared down each of the tribe leaders in turn. Every one of those men had hoped their sons would emerge victorious for their own selfish reasons, but their flushed cheeks paled under her stern gaze. There were no more angry shouts, or even uncertain whispers. Despite the power they craved, no one dared to question the will of the Lady of Avalon, especially when the horns of the god sat upon Eartha’s head. God and goddess had spoken. Both the queen and high priestess had made their proclamations. Yet there was some confusion among the people.

  “Who then shall be our king?”

  Again, Eartha stepped forward after receiving a nod of encouragement from the priestess. “Today, I took the place of my brother. He was injured due to an underhanded trick and unable to take part in the hunt. But it was not for wealth or power that I risked my life and my family’s honor. Balen loves Galiene and could not bear to see her wed another out of duty. Nor could I stand idly by and watch the country I love torn apart by feuding tribes when we must stand as one people for the good of all Britannia. I am chosen as your champion and defender, but I care nothing for the throne. I have only one wish for my queen and my friend.” She turned to Galiene, and though Eartha’s hands were caked with dirt and blood, the queen clasped them almost desperately. “Galiene, if you wish to marry Balen, do it for love and not for duty. Your life is your own and you need no man to tell you how to rule.”

  The Lady of Avalon nodded her agreement. “The champion speaks true! Galiene is a prudent leader. In centuries past, many wise queens led without a husband. The queen does not need a man to rule beside her, unless she chooses one at her discretion.”

  Galiene stepped forward, still clutching Eartha’s hand. “The gods have chosen my defender wisely. Already she gives me the strength I lacked. The Lady and Eartha are correct. I am your queen by right of blood. I will accept the council of the tribe leaders and I will work closely with all of them to maintain peace, but I will not be forced into a marriage against my will for your convenience.”

  There were still a few grumbled protests, but with Eartha, Galiene, and the Lady of Avalon all facing the crowd like a triad of goddesses, they had no choice but to relent to the will of the queen and their gods. Eartha was quickly forgotten in the peace talks that ensued. She didn’t mind. She was weary from her quest, and she was anxious to get home to check on Balen and share the happy news. Besides, she had done what she had come to accomplish. Galiene and Balen were free to be together, and Britannia was once again united.

  Eartha tried to sneak out of the crowd, but Galiene wasn’t about to let her escape so easily. The queen clasped Eartha’s hand against her heart one last time, ignoring the stains it left on the cream-colored satin of her royal finery.

  “You truly are my champion,” Galiene whispered in Eartha’s ear. “But even more importantly, you are my friend. Thank you, Eartha, for all you have done. And please, tell Balen I will come to him as soon as I am able. Give him my love, and my ribbon.” She giggled and tasseled Eartha’s short hair. “It doesn’t appear as though you shall need one for quite some time.”

  Eartha nodded and left Galiene to her duties. She expected to go unnoticed by the nobles and commoners, but the crowd parted as she passed. Many of the people even bowed their heads in homage, showing her the same respect they had displayed to the high priestess of Avalon.
A cheer rose from men and women alike as Eartha stepped through the gates of the village.

  “All hail our champion Eartha!” They cheered. “Defender of Britannia. Queen of the stag hunt!”

  Also from Author Laura DeLuca

  The Forgotten Pharaoh

  Egypt—2429 B.C.

  Djedefre beamed with satisfaction as the sun sunk below the horizon in the west. The rays reflected off his newly completed pyramid, setting it aglow in a rainbow of colors. Even the hordes of workmen and architects lounging in their loincloths or working to clean up the last of the debris couldn’t mar the spectacular view. Though not as grand in scale as the tomb of his father Khufu, it was by far the most beautiful edifice dotting the Egyptian plateau. Cased in polished granite with an upper level of smooth limestone and capped with a sparkling electrum made from the finest copper, silver, and gold, the pyramid sat upon the steepest hill on Abu Rawash, giving it the advantage of inching a few feet closer to the heavens than the older structures below. Such a marvel would surely solidify his place amongst the gods. The sight filled Djedefre with insurmountable pride.

  “Most gracious Ra,” the pharaoh clutched his golden ankh against his heart and murmured a prayer of thanks to his patron for all he had been given, “I thank you for your many blessings.”

  With its stunning yet resilient craftsmanship, Djedefre knew his temple would thrive for millennia—forever a reminder of his reign on earth long after he moved from this life to walk in the light of Ra. His pyramid would outlive, outshine, and outlast all the others and his name would stand the test of time as well. It was written in the stars as his favored lay priest had proclaimed the day he came to power.

  “It is a masterpiece worthy of the Son of the Sun God, my pharaoh. Ra is greatly pleased with what you have accomplished.” The priest bowed so low his forehead touched his papyrus sandals, causing his black wig to fall slightly askew. The older man stayed in that position until Djedefre gestured for him to stand.

  “Rise, Manetho,” Djedefre told his priest and guide, though he kept his eyes focused on the walls of his shrine. “It was your wisdom as well as the blessings of the gods that led me to this great triumph. You even lured my master architect here from across the Nile. You need not bow before me, old friend. Ra will surely reward us both with everlasting life for all we have accomplished in his name. Now come. Let us retire to the palace and feast in celebration.”

  “Thank you, Pharaoh.” Manetho bowed again. “Your words do me great honor.”

  “Honor! There is no honor amongst murderers and thieves!” A familiar voice sounded from behind him.

  The grin died on Djedefre’s lips. His heavy, striped headdress flapped against his bare shoulders as he turned to face his accuser. He was instantly consumed with fury that any man would dare to challenge him at the moment of his greatest achievement, but that anger morphed to the deepest feeling of betrayal when he recognized the man who stood before him. Djedefre should have known the raspy voice of his younger brother Khafre instantly, but he was used to reverence and admiration in lieu of such righteous indignation. Though his brother’s words wounded his heart, Djedefre could show no weakness. As pharaoh, he was the living embodiment of Egypt and the land was only as strong as its ruler. So he set his lips in a tight frown and raised the hooked end of his scepter, but before he had the chance to speak in his own defense, the priest pointed a gnarled finger at the young prince.

  “How dare you speak to Pharaoh in such a manner?” Manetho demanded. “We should have you whipped for such insolence.”

  Khafre flinched. The priest had the power to invoke the gods. His voice trembled when he finally continued, but he did not back down. “I speak in the name of truth, as the rightful heir to the throne of Egypt and the title of Pharaoh!”

  “Truth?” Djedefre leered down at the young prince in retaliation. “And what do you know of the truth, brother? I could destroy you with a single breath if I wished it. You are no heir to the throne of Khufu.”

  “Speak plainly,” Khafre demanded, confused but adamant. “Do you have something to say in your defense? Or do you only mean to distract our people from the true crime with meaningless ramblings?”

  Djedefre did not speak for several heartbeats. A damning secret burned on his tongue, but despite his brother’s treachery, he could not bear to say the words that would bring about Khafre’s death, even if it meant preventing his own disgrace. Sadly, Khafre only took his silence as an admission of guilt.

  “I accuse you, Djedefre, son of Khufu, of the murder of the crowned prince Kawab.” Regardless of the threat in his words, there was only grief in Khafre’s deep brown eyes as well as infinite sadness. “You are hereby sentenced to death.”

  A group of soldiers lined up behind Khafre, each armed with spears, crossbows, and shields—all members of the royal guard Djedefre had believed loyal to him. But their betrayal paled in comparison to that of his younger brother. He wondered how he managed to keep the devastating grief from his voice when at last he managed to speak.

  “Brother, why do you voice such lies against me! We both grieved the loss of Kawab, but his death was not of my doing. Since my rule began, I have governed all of Egypt and have brought our people only peace and prosperity. Why would you come forward with these false allegations?”

  The crowd around them grew larger. Now even the commoners who helped mold the stones of his pyramid watched, some curious, some judgmental. They knew peaceful Khafre had no desire to sit upon the throne and would never make such accusations lightly. Djedefre began to worry his claims were too boastful. After all, much of the royal treasury had gone to the building of his pyramid and to the great Sphinx he’d erected in his father’s memory—a gesture made to still the rumors of a break in the family tradition when he moved construction of his tomb from Giza to Abu Rawash.

  “I am Pharaoh!” Djedefre declared with more bravery than he felt. “Son of the Sun God, chosen by Ra to rule over all of Egypt. I have no need to profess my innocence to you or any mortal man. The gods would not have allowed me to ascend to power if your claims held any truth.”

  “Save us your declarations of innocence,” Khafre intoned, speaking loud enough so all the men who had gathered could hear. “The vial of poison used to kill Kawab was found in the rooms of your priest. It was well hidden, but at last the truth has been revealed. You killed our brother!”

  A new emotion rocked Djedefre at this revelation. With it, the ground itself seemed to move until he was unsure his legs would maintain his weight. He turned to Manetho, his priest, his teacher, his trusted advisor. He was the only man aside from Djedefre himself who stood to gain from the death of Kawab. He’d risen in the ranks of the elite along with the pharaoh he had guided since puberty.

  “Priest, say this is not true!” Djedefre pleaded. “Did you murder my brother in order to bring me to power?”

  Djedefre shrank back as Manetho underwent a metamorphosis. The humble visage he wore so convincingly melted into contempt and hatred. This was no true priest of Ra, but a power-hungry tyrant who had slithered into the inner sanctum of the palace unbeknownst to a young and foolish king.

  “Yes! I assisted in the murder of that weakling, Kawab!” Manetho confessed. His eyes narrowed to slits and a half-chuckle surged from his throat. “He was not fit to bear the staff of the pharaoh. In the name of Djedefre, Son of Ra, I destroyed him so the true pharaoh would live on forever.”

  “Murderer!” Shocked and horrified, Djedefre struck the priest with his staff.

  “I did only as you decreed, great Pharaoh!” Manetho fell to his knees from the strength of the blow, groveling, one hand pressed upon his already bruising jaw. Still, his evil leer never vanished and Djedefre wondered how no one else could see his ploy. Only when the lay priest’s insane utterings were silenced by a second strike did Djedefre finally turn back to Khafre, his voice bordering on desperation.

  “Brother,” Djedefre pleaded, “you must realize I had no
part in this abominable crime. I would never have lifted a hand against Kawab. The priest acted alone and without my knowledge! The only crime I am guilty of is ignorance!”

  There were murmurs in the crowd. A few men nodded, but most were unmoved by their pharaoh’s proclamations of innocence, especially those who had labored ceaselessly on the pyramid for the whole of his reign for little more than a pittance to keep their families fed. The bulk of his finances had gone to supplies, while the workers had been given all that was left. The honor of being part of something so grand should have overshadowed their greed, but the laborers around him were unimpressed by the massive stone fortress they helped to erect or with the king they claimed to worship as a god. Instead, they watched Khafre step forward, his tears mingling with the hair of his false beard. For the first time, Djedefre noticed the bejeweled dagger in his brother’s hand. Khafre clutched the golden hilt so tightly his dark knuckles had turned white.

  “I have loved no one with greater fierceness than I have my two elder brothers,” Khafre whispered. “Yet to avenge the death of one, I am forced to take retribution upon the other.” Both brothers wept now. Though Khafre stood a foot shorter than Djedefre, he lifted his free hand to wipe the tears from his cheek. “Sadly, it can be no other way. I must honor my duty.”

  “I am innocent,” Djedefre wailed.

  “That is for Ra to judge.”

  Djedefre didn’t notice the soldier creeping up behind him until an elbow connected with his temple. Pain spiked through his brain and though he fought valiantly to retain consciousness, it was a battle he couldn’t win. The last thing Djedefre heard before the darkness claimed him was Manetho ranting as he was put in chains.

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  About the Author

  Laura “Luna” DeLuca lives at the beautiful Jersey shore with her husband and four children. In addition to writing fiction, Laura is also the editor of a popular review blog called New Age Mama. Her works include romantic thrillers, paranormal fiction, contemporary romance, and young adult.

  Visit her website at https://www.authorlauradeluca.blogspot.com for more information.