by Chris Turner
She looked away, fuming, refusing to look at him.
The hetman lifted his cup of wine and made a toast to all gathered. “Four prime stags, four ribbons. That’s what is awarded the best hunters of the day. The stag, the symbol of beauty and prosperity, has offered itself for our sustenance. None match its supple grace, save the unicorn.” He lifted a ringed finger in the air.
“Except the unicorn,” repeated Arcadia, shaking her head. “And these foul brutes would have killed them all and made doormats of them.”
Risgan nodded, commiserating with Arcadia’s frustration and contempt.
Mygar merely shrugged with a grin.
Ale guzzling competitions were soon in full swing, starting early this evening. Risgan motioned to one of Mygar’s bearded rogues, Svengar who was laughing, and downed a huge jack of ale that spilled foam down his jerkin. “Who are these dolts? Where did they come from? I don’t like the look of them. Here in your village they are like sharks among minnows.”
Arcadia exhaled an angry breath. “They’re not part of our clan as my father explained. They just think they are. They came from the east a year ago, hooligans and warmongers. Expelled from their own clan, the Svengari, following a blood feud. Mygar rallied them; he assumed leadership. He came to us all blood-smeared and yelling in his foul tongue, a fierce, uncouth barbarian. Since then, he has installed himself here with his wolves as our ‘protectors’. Pah! He rules and my father is nothing more than a puppet. That bastard over there to his left is his lieutenant and nephew, Svengar, a man as mean as a rattler. His uncle obviously taught him everything he knows.”
Risgan peered over at Svengar, a sinewy brute with bronze warrior rings on his arms and hair like his uncle’s down the middle of his back. Though this was dirty blond with a dyed strip of black, it had no less menace and denoted a rising champion of the hunters.
Mygar and he clasped hands.
“And the druid?”
“Dodonis is halfway between the two, my father and Mygar. He’s split between the old ways and the new. Ever looking for a chance to grab at some power and opportunity at the expense of anyone who gets in the way.
“A pack of thieves and vipers,” Risgan muttered. “Your tale sheds more light on the situation at least.”
Lokbur came by to pay his respects to Arcadia. His face had a red welt which he tried to hide in an awkward fashion. He seemed almost shame-faced about it.
“Arcadia.” He tipped his head with a forced smile.
“Lokbur. I thank you for coming to my defence back there.”
He nodded grimly and looked at her with obvious fondness. “Ever am I watching out for you, huntress. Seems you’re a magnet for trouble.” He gave a tense laugh. “Remember the time you got into the bee hives a few years back, licking your fingers of honey? Ha. Oh, what a mess that was. How many villagers got stung?”
She chuckled. “Too many. I remember well, Lokbur. All just follies of a rebellious childhood. Remember when we used to hold hands by the river? I fell in and you rescued me. You pulled me out by the hair and it hurt, if I recall. We’d talk for hours, catch fish in the sun, then bask in the shade, sometimes even sneak a kiss, or two.”
“I remember.” He grinned and blushed with clear enjoyment of the glimpse from the past. “We were not even twelve or thirteen.” His eyes glazed over and grew bright and dreamy at their shared memories. Then they dimmed, as if such things were only ghosts of yesterday. “And yet, thirteen is an unlucky number.”
His voice was drowned out by the drunken whoopings of the wolf-hunters. “We got four stags today, not a bad haul, but could be better,” clamoured one.
Risgan murmured under his breath, “Pity to slay such magnificent beasts.” He shook his head.
The hunter, one of Mygar’s rogues, overheard the remark and gave an angry shout. “Who are you to make a judgement on us, outlander? Would you rather eat turnips tonight?” Others laughed.
Risgan shrugged. “I was merely appreciating the majesty of the beasts.”
“And the isks are majestic and we slay them too.”
This raised jeers. The fur-cloaked wolf-hunters catcalled.
Dodonis the druid spoke in a commanding tone, waving his staff. “The unicorn leathers and hide are magical and essential for our charms and spells.”
Svengar flashed Risgan a contemptuous glance, “I say we slay these knaves, as Mygar suggests.”
Others of Mygar’s band voiced their agreement.
“Silence your tongues,” the hetman called. “They have undergone a proper trial and are under my protection.”
“You forget,” said Mygar in a quiet voice, “we don’t obey you.” He approached, his eyes glassy with mead, somewhat placated by the spoils of the day. He lifted a hand. “Peace, comrades. It is a time of feasting and celebration!—didn’t you hear?” he roared, slurring his words, “your ‘chief’ has said it himself, a sacred day for the hunt. The outlanders will live—for now!” He raised his sword high in the air and cast Risgan an evil look. Risgan bared his teeth, not liking what he saw.
“Brute,” hissed Arcadia. She turned her head aside.
Traditional wrestling matches began, accompanied by music with lute and drum and other instruments that Risgan had not heard before. Some with long hollow cylinders carved of wood and a place for a musician to blow into.
Caerlin clansman built a second bonfire that soared up into the black night, dispelling the gloom and chill of the change of season. Children ran amuck, wearing hats and eye-patches, playing blind man’s bluff, with Arcadia playing monkey in the middle—all to the delight of the children. She even got her sister to join in, then Jurna and Hape. Others played a variation of hide and seek while rowdier youths bobbed for apples in barrels filled to the brim. Moeze went even so far as to demonstrate a magic trick or two, but Risgan came up behind him and offered a cock-eyed smile and whispered in his ear. “Moeze, I know you like to impress the children, but stick to the disappearing bead under the three-cups-trick, okay?”
The magician frowned at him, then smiled. “Yes, Risgan, simpler is better.” He tapped his chin. “And yet, this is not what I expected—but certainly better than taking residence in Afrid’s lair. Speaking of which, I wonder how our hag is faring?”
Risgan gave a brief mutter. “As you witnessed, she has been confined to the druid’s hut. Douran only knows what he will do with her. Frankly, part of me is relieved to have her off my hands. I only hope the idiot does not let her escape.”
“Aye, pray that he does not,” said Jurna.
Kahel lifted a cup of mead to his lips and drained it in a single gulp. “Bah, this is mere goat piss! I’ve tasted stronger water than this.”
Arcadia laughed. “Let’s see you say that after twenty more cups, archer.”
“Why, mistress? You challenging me?” he chuckled.
“Judging from your size and capacity, no.”
Kahel smiled, a rare happening for him.
Musicians brought out deerhide drums while others clutched lute and fife and started up a lively tune that had many tapping their feet. A chorus of singers joined in. The village folk kicked up their heels and danced around the fire. A high-spirited mood had them striking up a jig that involved deep knee bends with hands on hips and high-flinging kicks. Risgan chanced to make eye contact with the lady Thrulia, the hetman’s older daughter who watched with some interest. With a shrug, he sauntered over, knowing he had nothing to lose. So, he put on his best smile, eager to start up a conversation.
“Lady Thrulia,” he said with a bow. “We have not formally met. I’m Risgan, a relic hunter of small repute.”
“Pleased to meet you.” She lifted her had in offer. “Shall we dance?” He accepted and they promenaded with the others around the fire.
“You have the look of an adventurer to you,” she remarked. “The fit, wiry type with a dash of sandy-haired mystique thrown in. It speaks of mischievousness. I’m a good judge of men…Those vagabondish lea
thers of yours—they have the looks of an outlaw.”
Risgan shrugged. “Others have said as much.”
She nodded. Perhaps a handful of years older than Arcadia, Risgan guessed, but she exhibited the same fiery spirit, the same bright inquiring green eyes, and slender figure, though she was not as tall, but no less striking.
“You are an odd sort, Risgan, for you have the gentlemanly quality of an older man, yet the look of a far younger one.”
“It’s an odd combination,” Risgan said, bowing again. “I take pride in my upbringing at an early age.”
“Oh? And from where do you come that demands such upbringing?”
“Zanzuria.” He grinned. “A fiefdom several leagues distance. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
She nodded. “In name only.”
“A proud kingdom ruled by a proud man. Although sometimes I wonder who rules: him or his queen.” He laughed.
“Lady Farella is quite a handful—from what I’ve gathered.”
“Oh, she is.”
“Zanzuria…one of the old kingdoms, blessed with an opulent palace and elegant gardens. One day I hope to see it and experience its charms. Our humble village of Caerlin, as you can see, is not much to speak of.” She arched her back. “But—it’s not often that a woman rules a kingdom, is it?”
“Farella is a spirited maid.”
“More than I?” she asked in a playful voice.
Risgan spun about. He lifted his long legs in one of the scissor kicks demanded of the dance. “I do not like to compare women. Not very gentlemanly, you see.”
She chuckled. “Don’t shove your foot deeper into the mire, sir Risgan. Let’s just enjoy our dance.”
“Of course.” Risgan was relieved to drop the conversation, which he found bordering on stressful, considering the carnal nature of his liaisons with the lady Farella, which Thrulia seemed so cunningly to have guessed.
Thrulia’s long rose-coloured hair gleamed in the crackling flames. How he would like to stroke it. The flushed faces of the dancers mooned around them. Risgan tried an innovation to the ‘kick’ which earned her laughter and everyone’s admiration.
“You seem quite adept at those high jumps and kicks.”
“And I no less envious of your dexterity, milady.”
“Indeed, have you danced the riga before?”
“No, this is my first time.”
She sputtered out a laugh. “Of course.”
She drew in close and gripped his waist and spun him around.
Risgan stumbled, surprised at the bold manoeuvre. But he quickly recovered and echoed the move, grinning and twirling her with more force than she expected. Was she testing his mettle? When she landed on her feet and turned back to face him, she was slightly breathless. He grabbed her and tossed her high in the air. Wild cheers rose from the spectators, many of whom had stepped back to observe and give them more space.
“Well, wasn’t that fun?” he asked with a broad, disarming grin. “But you, lady, you have not said much of yourself.”
Thrulia shrugged. “What is there to say, sir Risgan? I am a hetman’s daughter, no more, no less. Destined to become some poor huntress like my sister, though I’ll never be as good as her. Likely my father will wed me to some savage boor like that thuggish, lank-toothed Svengar over there. See how he watches me with an obnoxious leer pasted on his ugly face. He makes my skin crawl.”
Risgan’s head turned as the dance steps slowed and indeed he saw the chief’s lieutenant crouched with his bearded cronies over grogs on tree stumps for tables, eyeing the women with lascivious interest and trading rude jests.
Risgan’s expression grew sombre. “I’d rather see all hell freeze over than you wed to that mongrel.”
She grinned. “That is sweet of you to say. Yet somewhat of an inevitability. As it is, I feel sick at heart knowing that Arcadia must become bride to that savage brute of a chief.” She shivered at the thought. “Even the rebel that she is, he’ll break her spirit.”
“Can nothing be done?”
She frowned; a pained look surfaced on her comely face. “And what would you have us do, Risgan—declare open war on these animals? They’d tear us apart. We must appease them, as my father has stated.”
He grunted, pondering this defeatist attitude. He missed another step and almost pitched himself into the fire. He regained control and faced her with a faint smile. A fight lost was better than slavery. But what could he do? Leave them to blunder along with their own battles? For the moment, he’d watch and wait and enjoy these halcyon moments with this captivating woman while he had the chance.
Mygar, inebriated, staggered about, his hair askew, deliberately dancing with every female in the two clans but his future bride. Perhaps to spite her? wondered Risgan. It suited the hetman’s daughter just fine. She sat out and rebuffed all dance partners save Lokbur.
The dance came to an end; sudden loud shouts erupted from a disorderly cluster of Mygar’s huntsmen as another fight broke out, apparently over who claimed title to the last stag slain in the hunt. Mygar allowed it, even encouraged it, punishing the loser with a cane-whipping. Risgan and his men were not alone in their sullen misgivings about this rowdy clan.
The hour grew late and even more boisterous tumult echoed from the Svengari huntsmen, though many had returned to their squalid camp next to the village on the shores of the swamp. Risgan, enlivened by the dance and a growing passion for Thrulia, drowned himself in grog. There seemed to be no end. The hypnotic voices of Jurna and Moeze blurred together in a background hum of boasts and threats, the clash of swords in mock battles becoming one; all the while the two bonfires continued to burn as the raucous music progressed to the rhythmic beat of drums, and whistling and wheezing of multiple wind instruments accompanied by the drunken singing of ribald verses decidedly off key, until Risgan had finally had enough.
He and his crew stumbled back to the blacksmith’s longhome and flung themselves on the dusty blankets slung out in front of the hearth. The fire had long grown cold. After a time, the master of the house came stumbling bleary-eyed upon them where they snored away. Risgan sprang upright at the sound of the blacksmith’s sandal scuffling on the dirt.
“Sorry sir, not my wish to wake you,” the blacksmith apologized. “Just wanted to check everything was alright.”
Risgan nodded and yawned. Likely not checking on their comfort for altruistic purposes. Rather, verifying that they hadn’t made off with his valuables, despite the assurances of the hetman that they were not thieves or murderers. “Quite alright, master Kevil. I always sleep with one eye open.”
The blacksmith wandered back to his quarters with a doubtful glance over his shoulder. Trust, it seemed, was not easily gained in these parts.
2: The Magic Arrow
After a hurried breakfast of hot meal and oatcakes, Kevil hustled Risgan and his gang off to the fringes of the village. “Where are we going?” Risgan asked.
“You’ll see. Hetman’s orders.” The dawn’s pearly light filtered through the trees to pierce the mist and glaze the trampled grass a washed-out silver. On cresting a small rise, Risgan stared with some awe upon a tall palisade with stout, close-set poles—a gigantic corral, about three hundred feet long. It was shaped in the form of a long oval of sand, mud and grass clumps. Several complicated walkways, towers and observation platforms formed parts of the wall. Evidently the villagers had the craft of clever builders.
Within, several animals, horses and riders milled about. Also of note were stacked bales, targets for archery practice and what appeared to be a track and obstacle course for training purposes.
At the gate, a watchman beckoned the newcomers in. Risgan gave a cheerful smile and Kahel shoved past him with a surly grunt.
A variety of weapons hung from the inner palisade: swords, axes and shields. A dozen young hunters spurred their wild-eyed mounts forth, amidst much clamour and gesticulating. In the high-spirited tumult, they whipped lassoes over their head to tak
e down young stags, in preparation for live hunts, capturing either young deer or horses for breeding and training purposes. Others drew their bows and fired arrows from their mounts at the targets. Others stood at a hundred paces and aimed at smaller or larger targets depending on their marksmanship. A group to the side wrestled with each other or sparred with mixed weaponry—sword and staff. Risgan’s crew stood about, watching with curiosity and amusement, along with several others who had gathered to watch.
A mixture of male and female hunters of both bands, young and old, participated. The clansfolk, it seemed, gave no preference to gender or age.
Kahel sauntered over to examine a trio of young hunters aiming longbows at targets about fifty feet distant. With steely-eyed inspection, he sized up a blond-haired youth wearing red cap and green jerkin who consistently kept missing his target.
“Let me see that bow,” Kahel grunted. The boy obliged. “Your bow’s of good quality but you’re holding it wrong.”
“What do you mean?” The boy looked up at him blankly.
“Watch.” He raised his brows. “You don’t believe me? Try it.” He positioned himself behind the boy and placing hands on his, guided his fingers along the smooth curve of the wood. “Grip the middle hard, boy. Yes, like a sword! Squint with your one eye, straight along the shaft as close as you can. No, aim a little higher, yes, that’s it, you were shooting too low.”
As a team, Kahel and the youth aimed and the bow twanged.
The arrow struck the edge of the target high to the right with the fletch quivering like a peacock’s fan before it fell to the ground.
The boy blinked in surprise. “Wow, did I do that?”
“Of course. Your turn. Try it solo.”
The boy bit his lip and squinted in deep concentration. His arms trembled, not used to seeing so many eyes on him.
“Wait—aim a little higher,” admonished Kahel. “Hold your breath and stop your quivering. You’re like a tail-wagging puppy. That’s it. Now shoot!” The boy’s arrow caught the edge of the butt closer than the last shot. Certainly far from a bulls-eye, but a significant improvement.
