Michael Manning - Mageborn - The Blacksmith’s Son

The bond between a mage and their Anath’Meridum is poorly understood but it is known to link the lives of both individuals, such that if one were to die the other would immediately follow. Anath’Meridum were trained to kill their charges if they should be corrupted by the enemy or betray their oaths. Failing that, they would kill themselves, thus ensuring the safety of all.

Getting into a fight with someone is an excellent way to ensure that you will get the worst possible sleep. Someone was knocking on the door. In my head I could hear a voice saying, please please go away and let me sleep. Unfortunately reason reared its ugly head and explained to that voice in no uncertain terms that I would have to get up, since they would not go away. Reason is a bitch sometimes. “Alright, hang on!” I shouted at the door.

Benchley stood outside, “If you had left the door unbarred I could have woken you a bit more carefully sir.”

“People like you are exactly why I barred the door to begin with,” I grumbled to myself.

“Master Marcus told me to get you ready for the hunt this morning.” He had a set of riding leathers draped over one arm. I decided then and there, that if there were ever to be hunting on the Cameron estates it would have to be an afternoon affair. The idea had merit. I should probably issue a proclamation requiring all the animals to stay in bed till noon as well, to even the playing field. I tried to explain my idea to Benchley but he seemed to be related to the voice of reason that had made me answer the door in the first place. Both of them ignored me.

A quarter of an hour later I was dressed and more or less awake. Benchley had a lot of experience at this sort of thing and had come prepared. Black tea, hard bread and a bit of sausage followed him in the door, carried by Timothy. “Breakfast for you sir!” Timothy still had that gap toothed grin that always cheered me up.

Soon enough I was down at the stables where everyone was gathering. I had never been on a boar hunt, so I didn’t realize what a large production it was. The good duke had a large kennel with a variety of hunting dogs, and there were two particular kinds that would be used today. The ‘bay’ dogs would find the boar and alert us to their location. The ‘catch’ dogs would attempt to hold the boar in place, a dangerous task. Apparently it was not uncommon for one of the large mastiffs to be killed.

The Duke’s master of the hunt was a man named William Doyle, who also happened to be my friend Timothy’s father. As I came up he was explaining the lay of the land, where the boars were to be found that morning. I found out later that it was customary for him to go out before every major hunt, a ‘quest’ it was called, to find the game before the hunters rode out. I guessed he must be a masochist, since he had been up several hours before the rest of us.

Sir Kelton, the marshal was out as well and he had the grooms running back and forth, fetching horses for the participants. As was usual, we were all to be mounted on coursers, their speed being preferred for the hunt. I found myself on a dun horse and carrying a boar spear. The spear itself was interesting. The ash shaft was about six foot in length and terminated with a long leaf shaped blade that probably added another foot or so to the overall length. A small crosspiece behind the blade was there to protect the hunter. I checked the head and found my father’s mark impressed on the steel there.

Marc rode up beside me, his face flushed with excitement, “You know what to do right?!”

I shook my head, “Not a damn clue.” Apparently my remark was funny because someone behind me started laughing. Dorian had ridden up.

“I can sympathize with you my friend, I never got a taste for these sorts of adventures either,” said Dorian. “I always feel sorry for the poor boar.” Despite his position and training as a warrior Dorian had always been a gentle boy as we grew up. He often played peacemaker when others lost their temper and he had a great affection for animals.

“Just listen for the hounds Mort! When you hear the baying start you know they’ve found one, so ride quickly or you’ll be late for the kill.” My experience with killing was limited to chickens and considering how enjoyable that was I didn’t really know if I wanted to be the first to find the boar anyway.

We set out riding across the fields around Castle Lancaster, spreading out as we cantered along. Dorian and I took a position on the right hand side and soon we were more than a hundred yards from the nearest riders on either side of us. We reached the edge of the forest and then we were among the trees. The ground was dappled with spots of sunshine coming through the leaves, and a light breeze kept everything in motion.

The air was sweet with the smells of spring and green things growing. Despite my early morning crankiness I had to admit that the idyllic scenery around me worked a subtle magic. The wind ruffled my hair as the powerful horse beneath me walked easily along. Dorian and I spread apart as well, and soon even he was lost to sight. Closing my eyes I could feel the forest around me, tasting it with my mind in a way that was almost spiritual.

I relaxed and soon forgot the hunt. If I heard the hounds I decided I would ignore them, the day was too beautiful to spoil with blood. Or maybe I was just lazy. I continued to expand my awareness, startled at how much life there was around me. Things unnoticed by the eye, the badger in his lair beneath an oak thirty yards away, the finches fluttering in their nests high above, mice and small creatures filtering through the grass, searching for seeds. These were things I had never known before, not in such an intimate way. Reaching further I felt Dorian more than a hundred yards to my left, fighting to get through a thick patch of brambles. I couldn’t ‘see’ him, but somehow I knew it was Dorian, it felt like him.

I laughed thinking of his predicament, for I knew he was in no serious trouble. Then I felt it behind me, a tight knot of hatred, a man and horse, emanating that sickening purple aura. Devon Tremont was following me cautiously. He was still at a distance, but he was closing steadily, so I picked up speed. I would rather not encounter that unpleasant man on such a fine day.

Within a minute I knew he had sped up as well, he must be at a full gallop in fact, since he was closing quickly. Lets see how he handles this then, I thought to myself, and I switched directions, heading to my left. That would put me across Dorian’s path eventually. Assuming that Devon wasn’t able to track me he would wind up quite some distance from me very quickly. As a precaution I made sure I had myself completely shielded, I had forgotten to do so that morning.

Sure enough Devon turned to follow… he must be able to sense me, in much the same way I could sense him. Does that mean he’s a mage also? I had been wondering that since seeing his purplish aura the first time, this seemed to make it even more likely. I kicked my horse, breaking into a full gallop now, if he wanted to catch me I would lead him a merry chase through the woods. I smiled to myself as the trees raced by… the wind was in my face and I could not help but laugh.

Glancing over my shoulder I saw Devon come into sight through the trees, he was bent low over his mount and pressing it for all the speed his horse could muster. He looked serious, which only made me laugh harder, so I gave him a cavalier wave. “Ho Devon, it seems you want to race!” I shouted back, although I have no clue whether he could make out my words as the wind and trees whipped by me.

Then I felt something. Something against my shield, pressing, trying to reach my mind. After a moment it was gone and I laughed even harder knowing that he had failed at whatever he planned. Have I mentioned that I sometimes lack all common sense? Finding his target unreachable, Devon did something I should have expected, if I had been thinking rather than laughing at him.