Paul Thompson - Firstborn

“By Astarin,” muttered Kith-Kanan. “Is there anyone left in Silvanost?”

The nobles parted ranks, the lancers moved to one side, and Sithas rode forward. “Greetings, Brother. Is everything in order?” asked the heir to the throne.

Kith-Kanan grinned. “Not everything,” he said, looking up at Sithas. “But we’re doing well enough.”

The leader of the Wildrunners strode through the blocks of mounted elves toward his father. Soldiers, nobles, and courtiers parted for him with mechanical precision. There was Sithel, astride a splendid white charger, his golden mantle draped across the animal’s rump. The crown of Silvanos sparkled on his brow.

Kith-Kanan bowed from the waist. “Hail, great speaker!”

“Hail to you, my son.” Sithel waved the emerald and ivory scepter of Silvanos, and Kith-Kanan straightened, “How have you been?”

“Mostly well, Father. The militia has been a great success. Incidents of marauding have ceased and, until recently, everyone we met was with us.”

Sithel laid the scepter in the crook of his arm. “Until recently?” he asked with a frown.

“Yes. The inhabitants of the woods are not eager for our help. I believe we can eventually win them to our side, though.”

The speaker’s charger shook its head and did a slow half-circle. A groom ran forward to hold the animal’s bridle as Sithel patted his horse’s snowy neck.

“I would hear more about this,” he said solemnly. Kith-Kanan took the bridle from the groom and led his father’s mount toward the unfinished fortress.

The vast formation of soldiers and courtiers dispersed, and a regular tent city grew up on the plain in and around the stockade of Sithelbec. The speaker moved into the incomplete keep, as did Sithas. There, on a rough table of green oak planks, Kith-Kanan served them dinner and told them about the problems they’d been having winning the confidence of the woods elves.

“The impudence of it,” Sithas complained vehemently. “I think you should go in and drag the wretches out.”

Kith-Kanan couldn’t believe his ears. “And make them blood enemies forever, Sith? I know the Kagonesti. They prize freedom above all things and won’t submit even with a sword at their throat. Unless we’re willing to burn down the whole forest, we’ll never flush them out. It’s their element; they know every inch of it. Most of all, it’s their home.”

There was a moment of silence, then Sithel broke it.

“How is the hunting?” he asked pleasantly.

“Outstanding,” Kith-Kanan said, glad of the change in subject. “The woods are fairly bursting with game, Father.”

They gossiped a bit about life back in the city. Lady Nirakina and Tamanier Ambrodel were continuing their efforts on behalf of the homeless. The new Market was almost finished. Given the huge abundance of the coming harvest, even the new, expanded Market would be taxed to handle the volume.

“How is Hermathya?” Kith-Kanan asked politely.

Sithas shrugged, “As well as always. She spends too much and still craves the adoration of the common folk.”

They made plans for a boar hunt that would take place on the morrow. Only a small party would go—the speaker, Sithas, Kith-Kanan, Kencathedrus, another royal guard, Parnigar, and half a dozen favored courtiers. They would assemble at dawn and ride into the forest armed with lances. No beaters or hounds would be used. The speaker viewed such measures as unsporting.

Though the sun had not yet shown itself, there was an early heat in the air, a promise of the stifling day to come. Kith-Kanan stood by a small campfire with Parnigar, eating some bread and porridge. Sithas and Sithel emerged from the half-built keep, dressed in drab brown hunting clothes.

“Good morning,” Kith-Kanan said energetically.

“Going to be hot, I think,” appraised Sithel. A servant appeared silently at his elbow with a cup of cool apple cider. A second servant offered Sithas similar refreshment.

The courtiers appeared, looking ill at ease in their borrowed hunting clothes. Kencathedrus and Parnigar were more lethal looking. The commander leaned on his lance with an easy grace, seeming fully awake, the benefit of many years rising before the sun. The hunting party ate in relative silence, chewing bread and cheese, spooning porridge quickly, and washing everything down with cider.

Sithel finished first. He thrust his empty cup and plate at a servant and took a lance from the pyramid of weapons stacked outside the keep.

“To horse,” he announced. “The prey awaits!”

The speaker mounted with ease and swung the long ash lance in a broad circle around his head. Kith-Kanan couldn’t help but smile at his father who, despite his age and dignity, was more expert with horse and lance than any of them, except perhaps Kencathedrus and Parnigar.

Sithas was a fair horseman, but fumbled with the long lance and reins. The courtiers, more used to loose robes and tight protocol, wobbled aboard their animals. The nervous animals were made more so by the lances bobbing and dancing just behind their heads.

Forming a triangle with Sithel in the lead, the party rode toward the forest, half a mile away. Dew was thick on the tall grass, and crickets sang until the horses drew near. The silver rim of Solinari could been seen on the western horizon.

Sithas rode on the speaker’s left. Kith-Kanan rode on his father’s right, resting the butt of his lance in his stirrup cup. They rode at an easy pace, not wanting to tire the horses too early. If they flushed a boar, they’d need all the speed they could muster from their chargers.

“I haven’t been hunting in sixty years,” Sithel said, breathing deeply of the morning air. “When I was your age, all the young bucks had to have a boar’s head on their clan hall wall to show everyone how virile they were.” Sithel smiled. “I still remember how I got my first boar. Shenbarrus, Hermathya’s father, and I used to go to the marshes at the mouth of the Thon-Thalas. Marsh boar were reputed to be the fiercest of the fierce, and we thought we’d be the most famous hunters in Silvanost if we came back with a trophy. Shenbarrus was a lot thinner and more active in those days. He and I went down river by boat. We landed on Fairgo Island and immediately started tracking a large beast.”

“You were on foot?” asked Kith-Kanan, incredulous.

“Couldn’t get a horse on the island, son. It was too marshy. So Shenbarrus and I went in the spikerod thickets, armed with spears and brass bucklers. We got separated and the next thing I knew, I was alone in the marsh, with ominous rustlings in the bushes around me. I called out: ‘Shenbarrus! Is that you?’ There was no answer. I called again; still no answer. By then I was certain the noise I’d heard was a boar. I raised my spear high and thrust it through the thick brush. There was a scream such as mortal elf never heard, and Shenbarrus came pounding through the spikerod into the open. I’d jabbed him in, hmm, the seat of his robe.”

Kith-Kanan laughed. Sithas laughed and asked, “So you never got your marsh boar?”

“Oh, I did!” Sithel said. “Shenbarrus’s yells flushed a monster of a pig out of the brush. He ran right at us. Despite his painful wound Shenbarrus stabbed first. The pig thrashed and tore up the clearing . I got my spear back and finished the beast off.”

“Who got the head?” asked Sithas.

“Shenbarrus. He drew first blood, so it was only right,” said his father warmly.

Kith-Kanan had been in Hermathya’s father’s house many times and had seen the fierce boar’s head in the dining hall over the fireplace. He thought of old Shenbarrus getting poked in the “seat of his robe” and he burst out laughing all over again.