Chapter Two
When the sun broke the horizon, they had a perfect view of the tracks by the pool. Each of the boys was at one end of a thick, heavy shrub that hid them well from whatever might come to drink the cool, crisp water. Yet, they weren’t so far apart that they couldn’t communicate silently with the hunter’s hand signals their fathers had taught them. The air was cold and charged with anticipation. Birds were just starting to chirp their “good mornings” to the world. The forest was coming to life, bringing with it the promise and blood-tingling excitement of the hunt.
Brendly, sitting alert with an arrow ready to loose, had forgotten his sadness for the moment.
March was feeling alive inside. He was anxious to see what would show up to drink on this most perfect of mornings.
The moment was broken by the distant, yet clear, sound of dried wood cracking. The boys looked at each other excitedly. Whatever it was, it was moving noisily toward them. Both of them began to scan the tree line across the pool for any sign of movement. Instinctively each raised his bow toward the area of the noise.
Bren was trying not to breathe too loudly. It was always a chore for him to keep calm and contain himself when this moment came on a hunt.
March just wished his nose would stop itching. It seemed to him that every time he was in a position where he couldn’t scratch his face, it began to itch. As the sound of the approaching animal grew closer, the discomfort got so bad that he decided Bren could have this one and he silently relaxed his draw so that he could scratch his face.
“Whew!” Bren exhaled rather loudly. March turned and looked at him with alarm. Bren glanced toward him, and whispered, “It was only a wild sow -- or a little-- uh.”
His words abruptly stopped as a new sound carried toward them. It was a snort, a loud one. It was accompanied by the sound of rattling branches.
Bren instantly went back into firing position: alert, prone and ready. March gave his nose a last-second scratch as he re-aimed his arrow. The soft sound of Bren’s excited breathing was the last sound he heard before he tuned the world out so he could focus on the tree line.
First it was a small doe, a yearling, March thought. Two fawns and another larger doe appeared. With nervous, darting eyes, the biggest of the four deer lowered its head and began to drink. Slowly the others followed suit. March was thrilled. He hoped that Bren would be patient. A buck was sure to present itself eventually.
Bren almost loosed his arrow on the larger doe, but at the last second thought better of it. He wanted a buck to show off to his dad. His restraint, however, was mostly due to the two awkwardly moving young fawns frolicking near their mother.
Suddenly, all four of the deer rose from the pool and froze in alarm. In a flash of movement, a big cracking sound erupted from behind them. They were off in a series of leaping bounds that carried them instantly out of sight and back into the forest.
Here he comes, March thought. He expected a wide, heavy rack of antlers to emerge from the trees, announcing the leader of the herd. Instead, the creature that showed itself nearly stopped his heart.
As silently as he could, Brendly took in a deep breath as the magnificent beast stepped out of the tree line. Cautiously, it moved into the clearing and looked around.
It was a white stag, majestic and awe inspiring. Its antlers were long, and only slightly curvy. They twisted and forked only thrice, and in perfect symmetry. The stag’s chest was thrust forward showing its dominance of the forest, and its short white fur was clean and glossy, like frozen snow. It strutted toward the pool with kingly grace. Its large black eyes didn’t dart around as the does had. These eyes were full of confidence. There was only the hint of the creature’s natural caution showing in them. Throughout this forest of paupers and peasants, this creature was royalty. As far as nonpredatory animals went, this was the undisputed king of the forest.
March dropped his aim slowly. He wanted to see if Brendly was about to take the shot, but he was afraid to take his eyes off the rare beast that stood before him. Thousands of campfire stories ran through his head, all of them about this legendary creature. He was taken by its beauty, and suddenly he didn’t want Bren to take its life. This was the moment in time that he wanted to remember when he thought about his home and his friend. No matter how far away he traveled, or what his situation might be, he wanted to be able to close his eyes and know in his heart that this creature still roamed the valley around Prominence. He would live his life knowing that he and Bren had been graced by its presence.
Brendly’s heart was trying to pound out of his rib cage. Instinctively he began to calm himself enough to steady his aim. What a reception they’d have if they returned to Prominence with such a kill. His father would beam when he told folks of his son’s bounty. All the other hunters would envy March and him forever.
Brendly took his time and lined up the shot perfectly. He wanted to hit the stag’s heart. He carefully checked the range to determine the slight arch he had to consider to place the arrow where he wanted it to go. It wouldn’t do to let this creature suffer. He finally got the white-furred buck sighted. He knew his shot would swiftly end its life. With a sigh of resignation, he let out his breath and made to let his shaft fly.
Suddenly, March jumped from the bushes, waving his arms like a mad man. “Run away!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
Brendly’s arrow went astray, flying well over the stag and disappearing into the forest. The stag raised its head from the pool and snorted its disapproval over the interruption. Proudly, the magnificent animal strode out of the clearing, disappearing as if the two boys were of no concern.
“Don’t stop running!” March yelled. “Don’t ever stop.”
“Why, March?” Brendly asked. He wasn’t angry, but he was far from pleased. He had his shot lined up perfectly. He could already see the look of pride in his father’s eyes at the sight of such a kill. He could even feel the congratulatory pats on his back from the other hunters. Then March had jumped out and ruined his moment. He looked at his friend with a questioning glare.
“Promise me, Bren,” March started with a look of wild elation. “Promise me that you’ll never kill that stag! I don’t care if you see him a thousand times after I leave.” March waved his arm around stupidly causing Bren to laugh and lighten his mood. “You can’t ever kill such a majestic and beautiful animal!”
“You’re as crazy as a bald-eyed giboon,” Brendly said as the tension fell completely away from him. “I had him, you know!”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I scared him away.” March’s smile was wide and infectious as he walked over, putting his arm around his friend’s shoulder. “Just think, if you’d killed him, then we’d have to pack him back down into town and our hunt would already be over. This way you can live all of your days, knowing in your heart that you had the white stag in your sights but chose to let him live on.”
Brendly thought about that for a moment, then laughed at March’s cheer. “So what do we do now?”
“Let’s go back to camp and eat a bite, then go exploring.” March was feeling electric. His blood was charged. He felt immortal. “Let’s go all the way up to the ridge!”
“To the ridge?” Bren questioned, with only a hint of alarm in his voice. He too was feeling the invincibility of youth coursing through his veins. He was now bound and determined to make the best of what was sure to be the last hunt he ever had with his best friend. Adding a little danger to the kettle only seemed to make the idea of it all the better.
They ate and then broke camp. Neither of them was able to sit still for any length of time. To make it to the ridge before nightfall would be easy, but to find a safe place to camp up there might take hours. They moved with intensity and purpose as they gathered their things and loaded their packs. Neither of them wanted to have to search out a place to camp in the dark, and building a fire too close to the ridge would only serve to alert the wilder things to their presence. As adventurous
as they felt, there were things in the Teeth with which they didn’t ever want to cross paths, and they both knew it.
The climb grew more laborious the higher they went. With every step the air grew thinner, the foliage thicker, and the ground less agreeable to their soft leather boots. When they were finally forced to make camp, the ridge was still a quarter mile above them. It was getting dark and they were relieved they could make a fire. They were still well within the kingdom’s patrolled boundary. They didn’t have to worry about anything attacking them. This would allow them to sleep without watches. This way they would be able to explore the ridge in the morning, in the daylight.
The colder, higher altitude demanded they keep warm, and they wasted no time using the dusky light that was left to gather wood and get a blaze started. They strung their canvas on a rope between two pines at the edge of the tiny clearing they had chosen, and settled in for the night.
Unlike the previous night, there was no glorious view of the valley below. Pine trees, shrubs, and boulders spread out in every direction, as far as the eye could see, which was only about twenty paces. They sat and ate dried beef from their packs as the last of the sunlight faded from the world. After a time, March started rummaging through his pack, with a wicked grin on his face.
Noticing this, Brendly spoke up. “What is it?” he asked.
“I was gonna save it for after we got a kill, but now seems like a better time.” March handed something to Brendly.
It was a silver flask. Brendly could tell by the weight of it that it was full.
“It’s Master Beryll’s strongest plum brandy!” March informed before he snatched it back from Bren. He pulled the stopper, took a long pull, and then nearly spewed it back out of his mouth as the burn of the fiery stuff hit his throat.
Laughing, Brendly took the flask back from his red-faced friend and took a few small sips. “You sip a brandy, March,” he said knowingly, before the burn hit his throat as well. “Whew, you could burn green wood with this stuff. This is raw brandy hooch, not plum brandy.” He passed the flask back to March.
They each took a few more sips and agreed to save the rest for another day, but they’d each had enough to get them warm and lightheaded. Around them, the night song of the higher altitudes began to sound, reminding them that they were close to the boundary.
“Do you really think I’ll marry Canda Shellings?” Brendly asked after the long silence. He was trying to take his mind off of the eerie sounds of the night.
“Her, or Deanda,” March teased. “They both giggle and blush, and carry on when you pass them.”
“No more than Jeana Hallin does you,” Brendly returned defensively. He noticed an immediate sadness take hold of March at the mention of her name. “What does she think of you leaving?”
“She’s so perfect and understanding sometimes, but lately she’s hard to be around.” March sat up quickly. He was determined not to let his good mood slip away. “All in all I think she’s just another sad sack, like you.” He punched Bren lightly on the shoulder. “She’ll get over it.”
“It’s not that I’m a sad sack, March. I just--” He looked around the camp searching for the right words, as if he might find them roosting in the pine trees or hiding in the thicket. “Who’s gonna help me terrorize Quinton? And who is gonna race me to the short dock when the krill begin to spawn?” Bren forced a laugh. “And who’s gonna come out here and traipse through the woods with me and scare the white stag off when I have the perfect shot lined up?”
March smiled broadly at his friend. “He was magnificent, wasn’t he? Did you see his antlers? They looked like flaming ice.”
“Yup, he was amazing.”
“I won’t ever forget that moment as long as I live, Bren, the way he snorted when I jumped out of the bushes. I think he was laughing at us.”
“He wouldn’t have been laughing if you hadn’t jumped out when you did.” Bren smiled at the thought.
“I don’t think you’d have done it,” March’s voice turned serious. “When it came time to loose you would have balked, or missed on purpose. Not even you, the great Brendly Tuck, could have killed such a creature.” March stood and yawned as he stretched out his arms.
“Maybe not,” Brendly conceded. He wondered if March was right. He lay awake a long time after his friend was asleep, wondering about just that.
The First Dragoneer (2016 Modernized Format Edition) Page 2
