Fallen Embers (The Alterra Histories) (2 page)

He drew a deep sigh, shook an errant lock of reddish-brown hair from his eyes, and thought about his brother, whom he could hear rustling and crackling around even from this distance.
We came into the world at the same time, yet we are nothing alike,
he thought. Tarmagil stood both taller and broader, and he was an inept archer, though he was almost phenomenal with a broadsword. He tended toward impatience, and he made more noise than most, especially when climbing trees. In fact, he was not in the least bit stealthy.

He might have been an inept hunter, but when enemies threatened the borders of the forest Tarmagil would put his considerable talents to good use. He fought without equal as long as he could use a blade, hence Tarfion wondered about the wisdom of placing one of the Greatwood’s best swordsmen up in a tall tree. An archer was well positioned to end the misbegotten lives of any Ulcas who wandered by, but what was Tarmagil supposed to do, hurl his sword at them?

Well, no one forced him to be a hunter-scout. And I know how disappointed he is to be missing the greatest chase of the year—terrible hunter or not.
Tarfion understood that disappointment, for he felt it himself. Nearly every Elf in the Greatwood loved the chase, to fly across the open lands on a good horse in pursuit of something swift, wild, and dangerous.

There would not likely be a chase more dangerous than the one presently underway, for the King’s hunters pursued the great tusker known as “Turoc,” the Black Boar. Turoc was known to have killed perhaps sixty Elves in his life, but the number was probably far greater. Almost six feet tall at the shoulder, he weighed nearly a ton. Though well over a hundred years old, he was still strong enough to bring down a mounted rider by first ambushing and crashing into the horse, then attacking the fallen Elf or man as he lay dazed on the ground. Once dead, the rider would be eaten. Turoc had displayed an unsettling fondness for the brains and livers of his victims, who would be found with skulls crushed and bellies ripped open. A crafty beast, he studied the habits of his future prey so that he knew their daily comings and goings. He also learned to lurk along hunting trails, ambushing the last rider in the line. With the chase in full cry, the others were unlikely to notice the fallen one until it was too late.

Tarfion recalled the sad tale of the last great boar-hunt. Nearly two months ago, one of the realm’s best hunters, a tall, strong fellow named Quanto, had vowed not to return without Turoc’s head. Quanto had killed hundreds of wild boar for the King’s tables, and he was as wise in their ways as anyone, but he was far too sure of himself in Tarfion’s opinion.

Turoc seemed to know when his welcome had worn out, for he disappeared without a trace as soon as anyone came looking for him. Apparently he had many hunting-grounds, but he seemed to prefer the lands near the eastern borders of the forest, and eventually he would resurface. He would prowl there day and night, a silent shadow, alone and hungry.

Quanto had returned empty-handed, having lost the other four members of his hunting party, all but one of the horses, and his right arm at the elbow. Tarfion remembered the haunted look in his eyes, and shuddered. He doubted Quanto would ever hunt again.

Now the great boar’s hour would come, for the King had called out every rider who could wield a bow or a spear. Quanto had wounded Turoc—the shaft of a great spear still protruded from behind the top of the shoulder on the left side. According to one of the few folk ever to see Turoc and live to tell about it, it was finally taking its toll. The boar had lost condition and his gait indicated discomfort. Now was the time to take him down.

Tarfion imagined the thrill of chasing down a creature that weighed as much as two smallish horses, foot-long tusks cracked and stained from many battles, tiny eyes filled with malice. He wondered if Tarmagil was imagining the same thing.
He probably sees himself
mounted on his favorite war-horse, drawing abreast of the charging boar and leaping onto it, or something equally absurd.

Distant hunting-horns to the east interrupted Tarfion’s reverie. By the sound, he could tell that quarry had been sighted and the hunters were giving chase. This would be a sight to see, even if he couldn’t be part of it, but he was at his post and could not leave it. Alone and on foot there would be little he could do anyway, other than let them ride past him.

Then he heard a series of whistles and hoots coming from Tarmagil’s direction. Apparently his brother had decided that abandoning his post was acceptable behavior, as he appeared to be heading toward the sound of the hunting-horns.

Stop! Don’t you dare!
Tarfion hooted back, fully expecting to be ignored—this was exactly the sort of circumstance in which Tarmagil would mysteriously lose his hearing. When no response came, he knew that his headstrong brother had given in to temptation. “Oh, fine. And I suppose he’ll have made up some excellent excuse, some urgent threat that demanded his attention elsewhere.”

Grumbling under his breath, Tarfion prepared to climb down from the tall tree, just in case.

Prince Aruin, only son and heir of the King, lay dazed where he had fallen. He had begged his father to allow him to be in charge of one of the hunting parties, and Osgar had relented, but only on the condition that three of the realm’s best archers accompany him. In addition, he was to stay with the main group of mounted horsemen until the horns signaled that the beast had been found. Aruin, desperate to prove himself, had elected to disobey his father’s orders and had split off from the main group.

To his delight, he had been the first to spot Turoc’s great, limping form, head down, pulling at the tender herbs growing near a thicket of thorn-bushes. He sounded his royal hunting-horn and charged toward the boar with his three companions, all of whom had arrows already nocked.

Turoc raised his huge head in alarm, gave a great, startled squeal that sounded more like a bellow, and ran into the thicket, disappearing from view. Undaunted, Aruin urged his horse forward, using the trampled vegetation to guide him. His powerful bow was ready, and his companions were close behind.

He knew how dangerous Turoc was, and he slowed to a more cautious pace, looking all around for his quarry. His heart was racing now, and not just with the thrill of the hunt.
Come on, you ugly nightmare! Show yourself,
he thought, just before a flurry of alarmed cries and frantic, irregular hoof-beats told him that Turoc had charged in from behind. Aruin cursed his carelessness—this tactic was well known.

He wheeled his horse about in time to witness the disarray behind him as three panicked horses reared and plunged, screaming, while the massive bulk of Turoc rooted and lurched among them, swinging his massive head back and forth. Two of the archers were unhorsed already, though one had managed to place an arrow in the great snout before the crushing weight of one of Turoc’s massive hooves silenced him forever. Turoc gored one of the horses, who fell, thrashing, on top of the other unfortunate archer. The third was nowhere to be seen; apparently she had been borne away by her terrified mount.

Aruin drew his powerful bow, knowing that his best chance at killing the beast was a shot to the eye, but his horse was so distressed that it jostled him, spoiling his aim. The shaft went wide, grazing the boar’s cheek to lodge in the left forearm. With an outraged squeal, Turoc slammed into Aruin’s mount, throwing both horse and rider hard onto the ground.

Turoc turned, seeming to know that he could take his time, as Aruin’s horse struggled to its feet. Picked for beauty rather than steadfastness, it turned and trotted off after its two surviving fellows. The Prince lay dazed with his broken bow beside him, helpless, the tiny red eyes of the great boar fixed upon him. Later, Aruin would swear that the ugly, panting jaws twisted into a wicked grin just before it charged.

“It’s not bad enough that you leave your post, but you force me to leave mine. Just
wait
until I find you,” Tarfion muttered, cursing his irresponsible brother yet again. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were the son of a…of something other than our mother!”

He had followed Tarmagil straight toward the hunting party, but pulled up short as he arrived just in time to witness the fall of Prince Aruin in the distance. To his horror, a hulking mass of enraged muscle, pawing and snorting, faced the fallen Prince—Turoc, the demon-boar, was obviously preparing to charge! He could also see Tarmagil running toward the scene, his broadsword flashing, but knew he would never make it in time.

I’ve got one chance
…thought Tarfion, frantically pulling an arrow from his quiver and nocking it. The shot was long—impossibly long—and across the wind. He had no time to wish his younger brother, Turanen, widely acclaimed as the better archer, could take the shot for him. He had no time to think at all—he simply drew back, took aim, held his breath, and released. He was already preparing his second shot when the first one struck Turoc in the left eye. The beast kept charging straight for the Prince, who had regained enough of his faculties to realize his predicament but not enough to move out of the way. The second shot buried itself immediately behind the boar’s left elbow, piercing the black heart. Turoc appeared to have had his legs cut from under him, falling like a stone, and Aruin had to scramble as best he could to avoid being crushed. As it was, his left leg twisted severely, leaving him in great pain.

Tarmagil and Tarfion managed to bear the Prince out into the open, where they soon met with the rest of the boar-hunters, who had been drawn to the call of Aruin’s horn.

When everyone realized the incredible feat Tarfion had performed, his name and future status were assured. King Osgar presented him with many gifts, including a great brooch wrought of silver in the shape of a charging boar with tiny ruby-red eyes. Thereafter, Tarfion was nearly always chosen to accompany the King whenever he set forth, and was proclaimed as the best archer in all the realm.

Now, twenty years later, Aruin was still alive and healthy, and Tarfion sat waiting for his daughter, about to take her on her first really grand adventure. This had not been the easiest thing in the world to arrange. He recalled when, only two days ago, he had begged an audience with King Osgar to ask that Gaelen be allowed to travel with him so that she might become familiar with the route to Mountain-home.

“Gaelen? The little one with the short hair?” Osgar shook his head. “She’s quite feral, you know. As her father, you should be teaching her better manners.” He frowned, his dark eyebrows drawing together beneath his crown of woven silver.

“Begging your pardon, Lord, but I believe she has shown great potential as a hunter-scout. If she would one day follow in the footsteps of her kin, she will need the experience. She is nine-and-forty, and yet has rarely ever ventured beyond the boundaries of our lands.”

“Yes, I know,” said Osgar. “And the one time she did was in disobedience of her father’s orders, as I recall.”

Tarfion bit his lower lip briefly, but continued to defend his daughter. “She’s high-spirited and independent. I was once rather the same.”

“Tarfion, I have known you since you and your brother came into the world. You always knew your place. It’s my opinion that your daughter takes after Tarmagil, and if that is so, then heaven help you.”

“But Tarmagil is going to the council, and both he and I will swear to keep Gaelen in her place.”

“Tarmagil has proven himself in countless skirmishes,” said Osgar. “He is now part of my personal guard, even as you are. He has matured beyond foolhardiness—I’m not convinced about Gaelen.”

“She has a good strong heart and a ready mind. She knows how to use it,” said Tarfion.

“She had better,” growled Osgar. “I still haven’t forgotten the pit-trap incident.”

In spite of himself, Tarfion smiled, though he covered it quickly. Gaelen, with the help of two of her friends, had dug a rather impressive trap in the hope of ensnaring large game. Regrettably, they had mistakenly ensnared Osgar in it, along with a rather irate weasel who had thought nothing of discharging scent all over the outraged King. Osgar had locked the young offenders up for nearly a week to teach them the folly of carelessness, almost as long as it took to get the stench out of his hair.

“Will you agree, my lord? I promise she will do exactly as she is told, will not get in the way, and will throw herself into whatever task she is given. I would be most grateful.”

Osgar drew a deep sigh. “I suppose she really can’t get into too much trouble, not with your supervision. And I owe you a debt that can never be repaid. If it means so much to you, then I will grant your request.”

Tarfion understood Osgar’s concerns. The High King, Ri-Elathan, had called an important council to decide how best to deal with Lord Wrothgar, known as the Black Flame, who had been gathering his followers in anticipation of war. Ri-Elathan, it seemed, would now lay plans to march northward to engage the enemy before Lord Wrothgar could fully prepare. It was also known that Kotos, the dark Asarla and right hand of Wrothgar, was readying an assault on the northern realm of Tuathas. Therefore, the council would include many of the mightiest and most respected leaders of Elves and Men.

Osgar, of course, had been included in that number. He wanted to meet with the High King to pledge the aid of the Elves of the Greatwood, and he would tolerate no mistakes. He faced Tarfion with an expression indicating he had not forgotten the humiliation of presiding over the Greatwood while reeking of weasel. Tarfion placed his right hand over his heart, bowed respectfully, and took his leave. He intended to have a very long talk with Gaelen, assuming he could find her.

F
ew Elves were more difficult to find than Gaelen of the Greatwood, and it took time for Tarfion’s message to reach her. Giron, her father’s falcon, had been specially trained to seek out certain individuals, including any and all family members. An excellent scout himself, Giron had also learned to recognize enemies. He could relay their nature, numbers, and approximate location through elaborate head bobs and wing movements, provided Tarfion had enough dried meat to reward him with. When Gaelen saw the triangular, white form circling above her, she knew she had been summoned.