by S E Turner
This day, he was so engrossed with getting the curve right, he didn't even hear Suma and Targ approach him from behind.
'What you doing there, little lord prince?' Targ goaded.
'Yes, outsider, what you doing there?' Suma's voice was cruel and taunting.
It made him jump. 'Nothing,' he replied and spun round to face his intruders. 'Just leave me be.'
'Just leave me be,' they both laughed as they mocked him.
'It doesn't look like nothing. What's all this then?'
Lyall stopped what he was doing, but Suma strode in and pushed his buckets of water over. The bow sprang back to its original shape.
'What you do that for?' bellowed Lyall.
'Because I can!' snarled Suma.
Targ then waded in. 'And I can do this.' With that he yanked the wood from its resting place and broke it in two.
'No! no!' As Lyall's anguished call sent a flight of noisy crows flapping wildly into the air, he sank to his knees and tried to salvage the weapon he had been working on .
'It's broken, like you. You can't fix something that's broken.'
Lyall refused to let them see him waver. He imagined a wolf at his side giving him strength.
'We don't want outsiders here. What good is an outsider to us? I even heard Namir say that he only puts up with you because he has to.'
'That's not true,' cried out Lyall pitifully, still trying to piece together the broken bow.
'Yes, it is. None of us want you here.'
'You are lying!' stormed Lyall, trying to stop the quiver in his voice and holding back the tears.
'What? Are you crying now, outsider?' Targ sneered at him and looked back towards his brother.
Lyall suddenly found his strength, and with his hackles up he charged at Targ, but Suma grabbed him and pulled his arm sharply behind his back.
'Is this your bad arm, little prince?' and he twisted it further.
Lyall pressed his teeth together to stop the scream escaping.
'Oh dear, where's your mummy now, eh? Or Namir or Skyrah. Not much good on your own, are you?'
'And neither are you!' A familiar voice came charging out of nowhere and pushed Suma off Lyall. 'What you going to do now, eh?' shouted Skyrah. 'Pick on me as well?'
The two bullies were startled. 'He started it,' began Suma.
'No, he didn't,' retorted Skyrah. 'We've been watching you from over there.' She pointed yonder to the brow of a hill where Laith, Zoraster and Namir were standing together glowering at them. 'You are all to come with me.'
Lyall and Skyrah led the way, and the two older boys followed like whelped dogs with their tails between their legs.
'I will not tolerate this,' bellowed Laith. 'This boy is our family. We have given him sanctuary and a safe place to live because he has nowhere else to go.'
'Sorry Laith, we won't do it again.'
Laith was beside himself with rage and trod a beaten path as he paced up and down in front of them. 'I do not lead a clan to have members behaving like savages.'
'We are so sorry.'
'You are supposed to set an example, to offer compassion and understanding to those who are vulnerable. Do you not know what this boy has been through?' he raged.
The two boys remained silent with their heads bowed as Laith continued to march up and down, shaking his head and muttering under his breath. 'Where will it end?, Tell me that. You might start threatening me or Zoraster, the older women, the younger girls. I have seen this all before. I have witnessed first-hand how evil unfolds.' His eyes homed bitter memories.
'We won't be like that. We have made a mistake and learned our lesson.'
Suddenly, he stopped in front of them. The whole village had come to a standstill and were tuned in to the proceedings on the hill. The parents of the boys were making their way up to the commotion .
'You are sixteen years old, Targ, and you are seventeen, Suma.'
'Yes, that is correct, my lord,' answered Suma with his head still low.
'Well, then, you are old enough to fend on your own. I do not want you in my clan. I want you to leave straight away. I cannot abide such brutality in my tribe. We are peaceful people, and if you want to pick fights and behave like savages, then I want you to go.'
'No please, please, my lord. We cannot leave. We are not savages. Please.'
The parents of the boys came running up and begged Laith to change his mind. The boys cowered behind them. 'Winter is coming, Laith. They won't survive. Please, have mercy.'
'Did they show any mercy to Lyall?' he bellowed back at them. The ground shook, the two boys were trembling. Again, the parents tried, but Laith was having none of it.
'Enough,' he yelled. 'If you want to protect them, then you can leave as well.'
The boys went. The ageing parents stayed. A highly agitated Laith retired to his tent followed by an equally disgusted Zoraster. Namir took Lyall back to their living quarters while Skyrah went home to her mother.
'I was making a bow... and they broke it,' said Lyall in a low voice.
'I know, but you can make another one that is even stronger. Even better than the broken one. I will make one with you if you like, and we can spend the winter months training together.'
'Thank you, I would like that.' Lyall's spirits were lifted.
Namir smiled. 'You are so strong, Lyall. Goodness knows what tough stuff you are made of.'
'Forever learning about myself, it seems,' replied the melancholy lad.
Namir went over to the hearth. 'Here, the kettle is still warm. Let's have some tea.'
The refreshing liquid was poured into two mugs and Namir gave one to Lyall. Its comforting aroma reminded him of someone. 'Tell me more about Skyrah.' The words tumbled out of his mouth like a released flock of caged birds.
'She is exceptional, Lyall. There is no other like her. She is funny, intelligent, and brave, especially when she runs down a hill to protect her friend.'
Lyall threw a thin smile and looked into his mug.
'And she knows all about plants for a source of food when meat is scarce. The nettle tea is her famous recipe, passed down from her mother, and her mother's mother.'
'She sounds amazing.'
'She is amazing, like I said. There is no other like her. In fact, I hope to marry her one day.'
Lyall shot a glance his way. 'Really?'
'Yes,' said Namir. 'I love her more than life itself and have done so since we were very small. I have rehearsed the proposal so often that the words are engraved in my head.' He laughed softly to himself .
'Does she feel the same way?' Lyall asked, taking a large sip of tea.
'I think so. I hope so, but we are still too young. Neither of us is ready to be married, and she would probably say no if I asked her anyway.'
'Maybe you should,' suggested Lyall. 'Before someone else does.'
Namir shot him a concerned look. 'I can't even bear to think that she might marry anyone else but me. But no one would ask her. No, everyone knows that she is my intended.'
'You are a very lucky man, Namir. Very lucky.'
Lyall soon noticed a change in the weather, particularly how the fresh crispness in the air smelled of snow, and that meant winter was on its way. The winds howled and the blizzards swirled. Even the mountain seemed to swell with the weight of crystallised snow on its peak. The animals were in from the fields, the harvest was complete, the paddocks were turned, and if ever he had thought that life in a castle was glacial, he was just about to experience how the severe cold can numb your limbs and turn your blood to ice.
He watched how Skyrah and the other women had gathered in an abundance of wild food, and then preserved the meat and plants for the torturous winter months ahead. There was always work to do in the camp while the temperatures plummeted: string bows, fletch arrows, sharpen spears, gather firewood, milk the goats. And then when all that work was done, they would sit in huddles around their fires, weaving baskets, mending mats and fixing draughty huts.
Whilst everyone took on the guise of some hideous monster draped in their heavy winter coats with oversized hats, and wore scarves that stuck to their faces, and shivered while the snow fell around them, Lyall found himself thinking about Targ and Suma and wondered how they were faring in this freezing weather. Did they have enough clothing? Had they stored enough food? Could anyone survive outside in the brutality of the northern hemisphere, he wondered? A part of him felt a little sorry for them. How would he cope, even with his imaginary wolf to keep him safe? He had to stop thinking. They brought it on themselves, he remembered. Laith always made the right decisions.
He thought about his own good fortune and how easily that could have been him if he hadn't made it through the cave. Maybe someone had saved them, though. Yes, that's what had happened. They were somewhere safe, with a roof over their heads, in front of a roaring fire with a belly full of food. They were both safe. Of course, they were safe.
Chapter Six
Castle Dru covered a hundred times as much ground as the clan's camp, with outbuildings so large they could hold an entire community. The stables housed a thousand horses, its granary was the size of twenty huts, its four towers reached up high into the clouds, and stairs and corridors went on for miles. But the most cavernous room of all was the Great Hall with its tapestried walls, ornate ceilings, huge hearths, carved oak doors, and pillared surrounds with endless steps up to the royal dais. To a small child, it looked like everything had been built for a giant.
He remembered how the Great Hall was alive with celebrations on his birthday, and that was the most celebrated custom of the year. If he tried hard enough, he could conjure up the noise, colours, and smells that surrounded him on those special days. His father would hail the finest musicians to play in the Minstrels Gallery and order the best jugglers and acrobats to tumble their way round the room, displaying fantastic feats of artistry. Colourful clowns and dazzling illusionists would mesmerize him with their skilful displays and magic tricks. Dancing bears and birds of prey would be brought in to entertain the revellers. Birdcages full of fine specimens trilling out their delightful tunes were placed round the room.
The kitchen cooks and pantry maids would prepare the most exquisite dishes: pulled pork and roasted chestnuts, boiled grouse and blueberries, pit roast pheasant and cranberries, sweet pies, tarts and cakes served on hand engraved silver platters, and all washed down with the finest wines in solid silver chalices. There were banners and flags hanging from the intricately carved oak supports—displaying the king's coat of arms—and thousands of lanterns positioned on the slender marble pillars to mark each day of the prince's entrance into the kingdom.
The king and queen wore their crimson robes and jewel encrusted golden crowns, and the royal Seal of Kings was displayed ceremoniously over the king's shoulder while his mother wore the Queen's Blue Diamond pendant and the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. And there he sat between them, on the raised dais, at the head of the hall, greeting the guests, the aristocracy, the nobles and the gentry.
The image evaporated into the soft light and brought him back to the present; because now he was part of a clan, and here, ten months after he had first arrived, everyone was preparing for their most celebrated custom of the year: 'The Gathering. '
'It's a tradition we have every year after we have collected in the harvest. We give thanks to the gods for our good fortune, and the women are able to exchange their produce with neighbouring clans,' Skyrah had told him.
'Each clan from far and wide take it in turns to host the Gathering, and the boys celebrate it with a day of tournaments and competitions,' continued Namir. 'There will be horse races, boxing matches, competitions in throwing spears, axes and rocks and the favourite competition of all—the famous tug of war.'
'It's good for the clans to meet up,' chipped in Skyrah. 'It helps to keep the peace in a time honoured tradition. The leaders will disappear into the meeting house and discuss tribal news and anything else that seems important.'
'You will make a fine leader when the time comes, Namir,' hailed Lyall commandingly. 'You are wise and compassionate with natural leadership skills, and you will be known across all the subject kingdoms as Namir, King of the Clans.' He shot his accolade triumphantly into the air and Namir smiled.
'Thank you, Lyall. I hope I will be as good as my father. He has been a fine role model demonstrating a strong sense of duty, leadership, selflessness, and honour. He has guided me well, and yet I still have a long way to go.' His pause was sombre. 'But I know it is my destiny.'
'And you will make a fine king,' purred Skyrah. 'That is your destiny. King Lyall of Durundal.'
'I hope so, Skyrah, I hope that one day I will be able to reclaim my throne and restore Castle Dru to its former glory. My father also demonstrated those attributes, and I, too, have a long way to go before I reach those admirable heights.'
The memories of a past life had stirred his soul and he felt the castle ache for his return. He had tried so hard to keep the beautiful image alive, but the shattered remains were not far from his mind.
'Of course, you will,' he heard Namir say. 'It will be the most spectacular castle of all the kingdoms, and we will govern the lands between us.'
'Of course, we will,' he heard himself say. 'It goes without question.'
Chapter Seven
Beyond the colony, a hundred marquees had been erected beside the river, and the clans gathered in their droves to take part in the Gathering. The splendour of it all took Lyall's breath away, and he really had no idea it would be on a scale that was so spectacular and unlike anything he had seen before. The brilliant colours, the excitement of the crowds, the tents and banners flapping in the wind, but mostly the sheer amount of people. Many came on foot, some came by boat, and several had pack horses loaded up with gifts for the host clan and produce to trade. Fine weaves and materials, freshly ground herbs and spices, exquisite jewellery made from amber and jet, tailored garments made from animal skins, trinkets, utensils and culinary delights. But the most exciting part for everyone was the competitions—the competitions most of all.
When everyone was present, a loud fanfare heralded the entrance of the host clan. Namir, as the next leader, proudly held aloft the horn from an Aurochs and led the procession of boys who were taking part in the games. Walking either side of him were Skyrah and Lyall, scattering fresh petals across their path—a sign of continued peaceful friendships with health and riches in abundance.
At the helm of the procession stood Laith and it was from here that he addressed the people.
'My dearest friends, guests, comrades, partners, it is with open arms that I welcome you to this year's Gathering, hosted by the Clan of the Mountain Lion.'
A round of applause rang out and a stream of nodding heads gesticulated to honour the hosts hospitality, and splendid array of entertainment.
'Let us pray for all our gods to watch over us, and that our totems will be guiding us as we join together for this very special day.'
A few moments of silent homage were paid to the aforementioned beings. Then Laith continued, 'This day is for the young people, a day of fun and games before their lives change forever. Many will take leadership, all will make life-changing decisions, and everyone will face competition. This Gathering serves as platform to a challenging life. So now, clans, go and enjoy the celebrations.'
A rapturous applause echoed round the grounds, shouting and merriment broke the sound of Laith's trailing voice, and the celebrations began.
No one really noticed Laith and the other leaders disappearing into the chieftain's hut for their regular talks. And not one person present on that day could have known that what they had to discuss would affect each and every one of them forever.
'We come with bad news, Laith.'
'What has happened?'
'It's the General. He is under orders from the Emperor again.'
'Does this man ever give up? Come, fellow leaders, tell me what yo
u know and what we should do.'
Lyall heralded his archery competition in a loud proud booming voice. 'Come on now, don't be shy. I have made lots of white wood bows and arrows for you all to use, and here is a magnificent mahogany bow for the winner, expertly crafted by my own hands, planed for a smooth finish and polished with layers of beeswax for this deep red shine.' He held aloft his precious offering. 'All I ask is that you do not use the girls as a target.' And he looked towards the forest, where, under the shade of the dappled autumn colours, the young women displayed their offerings on exquisitely vibrant stalls. He knew they were positioned far enough away, though. He had shot a few arrows earlier in the day to make absolutely sure and nodded to Norg who was lining up a range of spears and rocks for his throwing competition.
Namir was the first competitor inside the boxing arena where Bagwa was holding court. 'Each boy is invited to take on the champion and try and knock him to the ground. Each opponent will have three minutes in the ring and then there will be a two minute break for the next competitor to prepare. If the champion isn't knocked down in that time, then he will retain his crown. If he is knocked down, then the waiting boys will be able to take on the new victor until everyone has had a round. Does everyone understand?' Nods and grimaces acknowledged his words, so he continued. 'Those of you who want to spar, make it known to me.'
There was a crowd of boys around the make-shift arena, all eager to watch and learn, but mainly to have a go. Last year's champion was heralded into the ring amongst uplifting cheers and a riotous applause. Torré was a strong boy and paraded around the roped off circle to the adulation of the crowd. Namir dived under the rope to shake hands with his larger opponent.
'Good luck, Torré.'
'Good luck to you too, Namir.'
'Keep yourselves fresh for the last game,' Bagwa continued. 'Only Torré will be exempt from that, as well you know.' He tried to keep order as the line of boys increased. 'I know you are excited, but please don't push. I only have one pair of hands.'
