by Chris Turner
The druid held up a hand. “This is no time for a house call, Moeze. Be gone, I am busy.” He moved to shut the door.
Moeze stuck a foot in the door. “Wait! My associate Hape the Homeless and I, have come to discuss business—
“What business?”
“Magic, what else?”
The druid sneered at that and cast the intruders dire looks. “I haven’t time to waste on tyros. Why are you two skulking like spiders in the dark? I have an important task entrusted me by Mygar—which will have no end, and this cursed witch of yours, is not cooperating.”
“You don’t say? You mean, Afrid? I can help you with that.”
“How?—You know her spells?”
“By heart. All of them.”
The druid scowled and looked left and right. He worked his lips then beckoned. “Come in.”
Risgan covered his mouth in a snicker of triumph. Hape and Moeze doddered in.
Risgan risked a peek through the window. The golden arrow sat on the table amidst pots of steaming liquids and unguents, glowing a golden red. The druid had been dipping its diamond tip in some mixtures, but seemed entirely dissatisfied with the results, judging from his flushed scowl and his animated gestures. From what Risgan could grasp of the ensuing conversation between him and Moeze, it seemed that Mygar had entrusted the druid to infuse the arrow with an extended magic so that he could kill all the isks in one go and gain ultimate power over all the clans. A lofty goal. Risgan curled his lip. Dodonis was just arrogant enough to think he could pull it off.
Moeze gestured and laughed with carefree ease, showing a face of cheeky confidence. Lifting his disc, he rubbed the magical shimmering side.
The druid’s face darkened in a scowl. “Put that away, Moeze. What are you crazy—”
He had no time to finish. An explosion racked the confines, blowing up in everyone’s face.
The three of them went flying. Hape banged against the wall. The hut dipped, sagged and seemed to press outwards, as if the most foul wind blew through it, tousling the druid’s sandy-coloured hair, and rifling the straw bales and pitching him backwards. Moeze was thrown sideways.
Risgan gasped in horror as he saw the smoking hole in Afrid’s cage. She staggered out, eyes agleam with fierce triumph.
Risgan gave a sharp intake of breath. Here she was, crawling across the mud-packed floor. He was about to burst in, but stopped. Let Moeze and Hape handle it. The plan would either sink or swim on its own two feet. He heard Afrid’s hissing and blubbering like a baby in an attempt to mouth spells to lay waste her enemies in the hut.
“Contain that witch!” bellowed Dodonis. “Idiot!” He groped about in the smoke. The sounds of shouts and the pounding of feet of villagers grew. “What were you thinking, magician? My precious sanctuary—my herbs, staves, ruined!”
Moeze bit his lip. He coughed and lifted his blackened disc in the direction of Afrid. To no avail. The magic was spent.
Afrid stumbled out of the hut whose door now hung on its hinges. While the druid’s attention was diverted, the magician’s fingers grabbed at a black-wrapped object that had tumbled to the floor.
The village grounds swarmed with figures. Hands tried to snatch at Afrid. She slipped through their fingers like a greased pig. She fled off into the night. All was an indistinct blur; figures rushing hither and yon and Risgan skulking by the pile of firewood and the waste barrels of compost. He laughed when he heard the screeching oath of the druid and a similar howl of an enemy huntsman victim of Afrid’s teeth.
Moeze and Hape tottered out of the hut, blundering into Risgan, soot-blackened and scratched. Risgan steered them away from the hut. Moeze and Hape were out of breath, their eyes gleaming in the dim light from the dying fire. Other torchlight brands bobbed nearer.
Risgan seized the arrow from Hape’s nerveless grip. “Good work, Hape!”
“A messy night’s work,’ Moeze professed.
“And the other item?”
Moeze shoved the black fabric in his palms.
“Good lad!” Risgan’s lips curled in exultation. “That nephrite means more than you can think.” He tucked the package under his belt. “Quick! Let us bury this arrow while the hubbub is about. Back to the blacksmith’s! When our druid finds the arrow gone, there will be hell to pay.”
They bumped past several panicked villagers eager to discover the source of the explosion. “Hurry!” Risgan hissed.
He turned to address the villagers in an overloud voice, “There’s been a fire and a terrible accident! Fetch buckets of water from the swamp. You there, young stalwarts—form a brigade!”
While the village youths filed in confusion to obey, Risgan motioned Hape and Moeze on, then trailed after with a sly grin.
Jurna was waiting in the shadows, crouched by the door. Kahel was inside snoring. “Took you long enough,” said Jurna. “Well?”
“The good news or the bad news?”
Jurna rolled his eyes. “The good news, Risgan, please start with the good.”
While Risgan hastily buried the arrow in the shadows back of the longhouse, Hape told Jurna in a few words what had transpired at the druid’s hut.
Jurna went suddenly tense and looked left and right. “So Afrid’s escaped?”
“Vanished.”
Jurna sucked in a wild breath. “That’s bad news.”
“She—”
Risgan put a finger to his lip. “Quiet. We’ve not time to waste on Afrid now. Quick, inside.”
* * *
A rigorous search of the fugitives yielded nothing in the morning. The obvious suspects had been ruled out—Moeze and Hape. No magic items could be found on their persons. Vardot and Mygar stood around arguing, glaring daggers at one other.
Risgan took Arcadia aside to whisper in her ear that he had buried the arrow behind the longhome and described the place exactly where she could find it.
She blinked in surprise. “Relic hunter, maybe you are a miracle worker after all…”
Risgan tipped his head. “At your service. The least I can do, milady.”
Afrid was still at large and nobody knew where she was.
Kahel stood about in slack-jawed wonder, his throat thick with a derisive snort. “How far can a baby-faced midget get?”
The question sat heavily on the members of Risgan’s company. They knew only too well the witch’s capabilities.
After a time Mygar gathered his hunters and brandished his sword. “Move out!” he bawled. “We can’t be worried about some dumb witch and a missing arrow. The hunt goes on! Be ready in a half hour.”
* * *
The day dragged on. Grey skies stretched from horizon to horizon, east to west, investing the twitch woods of Fandar forest with an eerie silence. Majestic trunks ranged to either side with thick ropy bark, trees too old to fathom, trees beyond the clutch of time. Boughs creaked to the movement of vagrant winds.
Risgan and his band were not outfitted with mounts as he had earlier hoped. Instead Mygar and a dozen of his grubby, fur-cloaked rogues forced them to scout on foot with many huntsman’s bows trained at their backs as horseman kept them under constant watch. Risgan, Jurna and Kahel were prodded along as the main band rode behind them with bows trained ahead. Kahel alone had his bow to scout ahead and flush out animals while Jurna kept his hunting gear and sword for tracking, and Risgan his knife, sword and club. If Kahel tried to shoot at the horsemen, he would be quickly arrowed down. So, Risgan and Jurna made no attempt to escape.
Moeze and Hape had stayed back at the village. Moeze was still detained under suspicion of colluding to steal the arrow, Hape deemed totally incompetent at such thievery.
Kahel’s dark scowl bore testament to his disgust with the whole thrall of indenture and his wish to be free of this damp, woody place. “This land and its endless salt marshes and midges has none of the charms of my eastern hill country,” he complained.
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have wandered so far afield then,” posed Jurna.
“And what of your own falling afoul of Afrid? It doesn’t count? Speaking of which, I hope that hag has wandered far and will cause no mischief?”
Risgan held up a hand. “I have no doubt she’s up to more shenanigans. Dodonis will have a fine time catching her.”
“You think so? I don’t trust that hedgehog farther than I can throw a paper bag. Conniver’s got his fingers in every pie in the oven.”
“Shut up, you weasels,” growled Svengar. “There’s hunting to be done, not gibbering. You’re scaring the animals.”
“What animals?” croaked one of the huntsmen. “There’s not a gopher in sight in ten miles.”
Jurna knelt and felt the soft earth. Certain patches showed the outline of the hooves of stags. “Look, stags roam these lands. These prints are fresh, not an hour old.”
Mygar jumped off his horse to examine the tracks. “So it is, tracker.” He cast Jurna a look of new respect.
Risgan waved a fist. “Onward then. Let us catch these four legs and be done with it.”
Mygar looked at him with amusement. “We’ll go when I say we go, outlander. Don’t give my men orders.” He gave his men a curt nod. “Onward, Svengar.”
Risgan shook his head with a bitter laugh. Oaf. He mumbled under his breath, then traded meaningful looks with Jurna.
The next two hours passed with fruitless return. No stags, no unicorns. Not even a measly hare. Perhaps the animals shunned Mygar’s stink and and the land on which they trod? Risgan couldn’t quite comprehend it. Likely it was the isk attacks of the other day that had spread a taint over the lands.
Ever were the hunters’ eyes turned to the sky, dreading the swoop of another renegade isk. None came, perhaps daunted by the loss of their unlucky brethren not three days ago. Arcadia had gone off on her own again, much to the vexation of Mygar. “Where is that wench?”
Svengar shrugged.
Kahel grumbled. “This is useless. The stags are too aloof and canny today. Let’s all spread out to flush them out.”
“No, we go as a group,” muttered Mygar. “I don’t trust you rabble to beetle off in the bush—or scare the animals off.”
Kahel shook his head. “At least, let us fire-flush the stags out then.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What, you’ve never heard of fire-flushing?”
The horsemen flashed the archer blank looks.
“You know, set some bonfires at strategic places—spook the stags? Get them running out of their places of hiding, so then your hunters can take them down.”
“Sounds like a worthwhile plan,” one dusty horseman grunted. He rubbed his chin. “It might work.”
“Of course it’ll work,” scoffed Kahel. “Just make sure you don’t burn the woods down. Otherwise you’ll have no stags to hunt.”
Mygar took a breath with an effort of patience. “That goes without saying! You think we’re a bunch of idiots here? We’ll try out your idea, but not today.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.” He gave his head a mulish shake. “Might burn the forest down.”
Kahel just shrugged. “You’d be surprised. I’ve seen it done before.”
Mygar rolled his rangy shoulders. “I said, we’ll try it out one of these days. Keep your eyes trained ahead.”
Upon Kahel’s continued glare and no sight of game, he sighed. “Okay.” He signalled Svengar with a brisk chop of hand. “Go! Escort these outlanders. Light some fires, or whatever tricks he speaks of.” He squinted at the sky. “With rain coming, I don’t see how effective anything involving fire’s going to be.”
A grim smile broke out over Kahel’s cracked lips. Risgan grinned.
* * *
The fires were set and the hunters drew back into the thickets, waiting with drawn breath as smoke drifted to their nostrils. Motion came from the nearby woods. Kahel beckoned them down.
Two stags came bolting through the underbrush. “There!” he cried. One of Mygar’s men’s arrows caught the fleeting shape high in the midriff. Svengar’s arrow nailed the second.
The horsemen reined in on Mygar’s signal and circled the fallen prey. They looked on in triumph.
“Chock that up for our count, Mygar.” Risgan said with triumph.
“I might,” said Mygar. “But I’m thinking that these two stags are largely a product of my men’s efforts, not yours, building fires and whatnot.”
Kahel lanced him a silent glare while Risgan and Jurna rumbled oaths from the depths of their throats.
Arcadia happened to gallop in on her grey mare. Her heart sank when she saw the slaughtered animals, especially as it triggered the inevitable memory of the head tacked to Mygar’s door. She had lost all desire to kill animals. Her quiver was still full of arrows and her hair held a garland of twitch sprigs and a may flower.
Mygar roared in displeasure. “What have you been up to, little flower? Collecting herbs?”
That got some laughs out of his men.
“None of your business,” she said.
Risgan allowed himself a grin as he cast her a thoughtful glance. Her left hand dug into her jerkin pocket. Probably fingering that unicorn amulet of hers. He didn’t doubt she had been praying to Driadis more often than not. He knew the feeling, praying to gods, magical powers. His own hand strayed to his wishbone many a time and not without some success. The magic was real, though he hadn’t a clue how it worked.
Ever since the attack on the unicorn, Risgan noted how Arcadia had been less keen on killing animals. Specifically, she had refused to take part in target practice in the last two days as if she had lost all appetite for blood, unlike the other enthusiastic hunters.
Only two stags had fallen to their credit. A poor showing if Risgan ever saw one. Stomping out the fires, they all made their way back to the village, practically empty-handed.
Tempers had flared upon the low yield of the day and a palpable tension settled over the group. Jurna accidentally trod on Kahel’s heels and Kahel rounded on him in anger. “Careful there, journeyman.” Kahel wrinkled his nose. “You reek of burnt ash.”
“What, and you don’t?” said Jurna.
“Quiet down back there,” called Mygar. “A day’s a day. Sometimes the hunt yields few fruits.”
One of the hunters muttered, “We’d have got none without Kahel’s innovation.”
Mygar hissed and gave his head a sour shake. Risgan thought it was a sullen acknowledgement of the truth.
Tired, exhausted, scratched by brambles, the companions examined each other and their soot-grimed faces with weary scowls. Their ragged leathers clung to their skin, soaked in mud from plunging through creeks and marshland.
Risgan, dissatisfied at the turn of events of the day, frowned. At this rate it would take weeks before they could wipe clean their indenture. He planned on getting away from Caerlin before then and its breed of roughnecks. But maybe not too soon with luck like this. He fingered his wishbone and discarded the idea of using it. An overused magic was a weak one.
A fugitive form, a wispy white tail and a white and black body, eased out of the brush. He could not be sure, but he guessed it must have been the unicorn. Why was it following them? Didn’t it sense the danger? He opened his mouth to alert the others but closed it once again. What was the use? These brutes would slay the creature without a moment’s thought. It was bad enough to have to kill stags, let alone majestic animals such as these. At least the villagers, unlike these barbaric hunters, used the meat and hides for sustenance and clothing, whereas Mygar and his bullies would nail their antlered heads to doors and hunt them for sport.
* * *
The wedding was fast approaching and much preparation was in order: a grand feast and celebration that included dancing, drinking, various entertainment, acrobats and a new village play, whose subject matter still remained a mystery. The call for extra stags and drink was on and hunters scoured the woods searching for any game possible. Vardot could expect extend
ed peace with the alliance of the factions so he was particularly pleased. Arcadia was not pleased and she sat with Thrulia by the fire, downcast and wringing her wrists. Risgan a put in an encouraging comment as did Jurna.
Moeze told stories around the fire of the old magicians of Romaric. A topic that aroused some small emotion, but even this did not cheer Arcadia or others like her sister. Risgan was about to ask Thrulia for a dance, but he thought better of it. Better to let her console her sister. Kahel approached with an armful of sprig and threw it on the fire, sending it crackling and hissing. A tart smoke wafted in Risgan’s direction.
Arcadia waved a hand to ward off the stinging cloud herself. She leaned into Risgan, brushing his arm. “It seems your magical wishes have availed one thing at least,” she murmured, forbearing to mention the arrow.
Risgan leaned over to whisper in her ear. “The item is safely hidden?”
She nodded.
Risgan loosed a breath. Thank Douran, she had recovered the arrow. He hoped it would take down many isks. “Do not give up on the other matter, milady. Miracles are known to happen.”
She shrugged. “They’d better happen quickly, Risgan. The wedding is in five days. It will have to be a rather large miracle.”
He turned to see the enemy chief stumbling over on heavy feet. He plopped himself down at Arcadia’s side, wrapping an arm around her shoulder with an oily leer. “Arcadia,” he jeered, slurring his speech. “So good to see you. Why so dour? Not becoming of a pretty maid to shed tears. Aren’t you happy? Your nuptials should be a source of joy.”
Arcadia shirked away as if the rank-smelling chief were the bearer of some plague. Svengar moved in to take a seat at Thrulia’s side. He was wearing his usual foxish grin.
Risgan stiffened. His hand instinctively reached for the handle of his club. But he hesitated, recalling what had happened to the last horseman who had crossed Mygar.
Lokbur spoke in a frost-laden voice, “Don’t you have other business to attend to, chief, like stripping hides or gutting eels?”
“Go back to your cave, Lokky boy. Your place is back there in the outhouse.” Svengar laughed along with other hunters of Mygar’s band who had gathered. The chief leaned in to place his lips on Arcadia’s ear in an oily kiss. “Come, Arcadia, my dear. Let us repair to a more private surroundings so we can test each other’s mettle before our nuptials.” He laughed, an ale-ridden laugh, gross and reeking, as he placed a meaty mitt on her shoulder.
