David Gemmell - The Swords of Night and Day

He saw Longshanks staring at him. Stavut patted the chestnut. ‘I wasn’t going to jump,’ he said. The horse snorted. Stavut imagined the sound to be derisory. ‘You’re not as clever as you think you are,’ he told Longshanks. ‘And I won’t be criticized by a horse.’

Climbing back to the driving seat he settled himself down and took up the reins. Releasing the brake, he flipped the reins and began the long descent towards the valley.

Stavut always enjoyed his visits to the small settlement — and not just for the opportunity to seek out Askari’s company. Though the dark-haired huntress was dazzlingly attractive, and fired his blood as no woman ever had, there was a spirit of calm and joy that radiated throughout this mountain village. The people were friendly, the hospitality warm, and the food from Kinyon’s kitchen extraordinary. Kinyon was a stout and powerful man, whose house also doubled as the village inn. The first time Stavut had visited the settlement — two years ago now — he had found the arrangement faintly comical. Looking for somewhere to dine he had received directions from a woman outside the bakery, and had drawn up his wagon outside Kinyon’s small house. It was an old building, with tiny windows and a thatched roof.

Stavut had wondered if he had misunderstood the directions, though that was unlikely in a village as small as this one. Climbing down from his wagon he had approached the open front door. It was coming towards dusk, and he could see a man within, lighting lanterns and hanging them from the walls.

‘Good day,’ called Stavut.

‘And to you, stranger. Are you hungry? Come in. Set yourself down.’

Stavut had walked into the room, which was no more than twenty feet long and about fifteen wide. A fire was burning in a stone hearth and there were only two armchairs, set to the left and right of the blaze.

It was an ordinary living room, excepting that it contained three rough-hewn tables, with bench seats. ‘I have a venison pie, with fresh onions, and a raisin cake, if you have a taste for sweet delicacies,’ said the tall, sandy-haired man.

Stavut looked around. He could not understand how any profit could be made from a dining hall in a village as small as this. ‘Sounds fine,’ he said. ‘Where shall I sit?’

‘Anywhere you please. My name is Kinyon,’ said the man, thrusting out his hand. Stavut shook it, then walked to the furthest table, set alongside a narrow window overlooking a vegetable garden.

‘I also have some ale. Dark ale, but tasty if you have the stomach for it.’

The ale had been extraordinary, almost black, but with a head that was white as lamb’s fleece, and the food was the best Stavut had enjoyed for a long time. Later that evening other villagers had turned up, and had sat in Kinyon’s house, chatting, laughing and drinking.

Askari had entered the small room late in the evening, resting her longbow against the wall by the door, and laying her quiver of arrows alongside it. Stavut had been transfixed. She was tall and slim, and wearing a sleeveless buckskin jerkin, leather leggings and calf-length moccasins. Her long dark hair was held back from her face by a black leather headband. Stavut had sat very still. He had seen some beautiful women in his twenty-six years — had even had the extreme joy of sharing their beds — but never had he seen anyone as beautiful as this girl. She laughed and joked with Kinyon, and then sat down at a table close by. He waited until she looked at him, then gave his best smile. All the women he had known always complimented his smile. He had come to think of it as his strongest weapon of seduction. The girl had nodded to him, then looked away, apparently unimpressed.

Undeterred, he leaned forward. ‘I am Stavut,’ he said.

‘Of course you are,’ she responded. Then she ignored him. She had eaten a meal, and then left.

Later that evening, after the villagers had gone, Stavut paid Kinyon for his meal and made to leave.

‘Are you intending to sleep by your wagon?’ Kinyon asked him.

‘That was my plan.’

‘I have another bed. Use that. I think it will rain tonight.’

Stavut had accepted gratefully, and after seeing to his horses he had sat with Kinyon by the fire, chatting about life and his travels, and entertaining the tanner with amusing stories from Outside. ‘Who was the girl who came in with the bow?’ he asked at last.

Kinyon laughed. ‘I saw you looking at her. I think your tongue almost flopped to the table top.’

‘That obvious?’

Kinyon nodded. ‘She is Askari. Extraordinary girl. You should see her shoot. She can bring down a running quail with a headshot. Can you believe that? I’ve seen her do it. More like magic than skill. And that bow has a sixty-pound pull. You’d think a slim young child like that would never be able to draw it.’

‘Is she a relative of yours?’ asked Stavut, anxious not to say anything which might offend the man.

‘No. She was brought here as a child with her mother. Nice woman. Looked nothing like Askari.

Sweet and diffident. Weak lungs, though. Always coughing. Died when Askari was around ten. After that she lived with Shan and his wife. . the baker who was here earlier.’ Stavut recalled the man, small and round-shouldered, but with powerful forearms and large hands. When the girl had left she had walked to him and kissed his brow.

‘Is she betrothed?’

‘No,’ said Kinyon. ‘And unlikely to be to anyone here.’

‘Why is that?’

Kinyon suddenly looked wary. ‘The lord Landis sometimes visits, and often rides out to speak with Askari. I think he entertains a certain fondness for her. Still, best we don’t speak about the ways of the mighty, eh? I’ll show you your room.’

It had taken Stavut three visits to the settlement before he managed to engage Askari’s interest. The merchant had given the matter a great deal of thought on his travels. She was obviously not interested in his smile, and therefore he would need to plan his campaign with care. There would be no point in bringing her jewellery. People in Landis Kan’s realm wore none. Perfume would be equally useless. No, the girl was an archer. So Stavut sought out bowmen in other towns, and asked about the craft. He learned there were many different arrowheads, some heavily barbed, some smooth, some were cast in iron, some in bronze. He knew from Kinyon that Askari fashioned her own from flint. He had purchased twenty arrowheads, said to be perfect for the hunting of deer. Askari had looked at them with interest, but with no enthusiasm. Stavut had finally taken the problem to the Legend Rider, Alahir. His warriors all carried bows, and were highly skilled with them.

‘Her biggest problem is probably with the fletching of the arrows,’ said Alahir. ‘The thread which binds the feathers also separates them. This affects the accuracy. The thread needs to be strong, but very thin. Were I you I would take some high-quality fletching thread.’

‘I’ll try that,’ Stavut told him.

Alahir grinned. ‘You want a little more advice?’

‘As long as it’s free.’

‘Don’t give her the thread.’

‘What then would be the point of taking it?’

‘Sell her the thread. A gift will make her nervous, and she is likely to refuse it. If you sell her the thread you’ll have opportunities to talk to her about how effective it is.’

‘And then I can use my charm to win her over.’

‘You have charm? You have kept it well hidden.’

‘ Ha!This from a man who has to pay for female company?’

Alahir laughed. ‘I choose to pay. I am cursed with a staff a stallion would be proud of. It takes an experienced woman to accept it. There are even some whores who hide when they see me coming.’