Tales of the Archer: A Corthan Companion Page 3

  Reid had to laugh at that. “All right, but no more stories for the road. I don’t need to irritate him further.”

  His brother nodded understanding with a soft sigh of disappointment. Reid wrestled with the idea of his brother’s eventual departure as he watched Connor gather up some small branches to whittle into splints.

  Reid looked down at his hand. It was starting to swell and still didn’t feel like it belonged to him, but at least the fingers were intact. He had been lucky.

  Did he want to be a trapper? And if not, then what would he do?

  His brother returned and laid the splints across his palm and under the damaged fingers. Then he tied them with cloth strips to keep them still.

  “Connor?” Reid said.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you teach me to shoot?”

  “Oh, so you want to be a little archer now?”

  “If you’re right,” Reid said, hesitantly, “it would be wise to learn what skills I can. Besides, that’ll help to pass the time without getting us in too much trouble.”

  “But trouble is the only fun we get,” Connor said, grinning.

  Reid said nothing.

  “Fine. Tomorrow I’ll take you hunting.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The remaining days marched by with tedious uniformity. Hard climbs, quiet nights, and iron jaws. As for Connor’s promise, the brothers soon discovered Reid had Maclan’s aim, though he’d need practice to fully develop the skill.

  When they finally came down out of the slopes, Reid could scarcely believe it had been two weeks since the night he played for Maura. Two weeks since he’d injured his hand. The fingers still throbbed although he’d grown used to the discomfort. Tarhill had been right about time and a stiffer spine.

  When the three men crossed the river and trudged up the road to the village, they found the clan in an uproar. Unfamiliar bears and handlers crowded the pen yards; young girls hauled baskets of green lowland berries and wild onions; boys dashed about vainly trying to corral the unruly goats on their way to closer pasture.

  Maclan met them as they turned up the path to home. Old Man Tarhill grunted a soft greeting to his eldest, placing a fatherly hand on Mac’s shoulder before retreating into the hut. Maclan ruffled Reid’s hair in greeting as Reid tried to swat his hand away with annoyance.

  “A party? For me?” Connor said, nudging Maclan sharply in the ribs. “You shouldn’t have.”

  Maclan laughed and whirled on Connor, scooping the other young man into a head lock. “Cheeky runt, we’ve got hunting to do,” he said. “Quick now, grab a bow and meet me by the statue.” He dumped Connor on his backside with a wink to Reid and left with long, easy strides.

  Reid laughed, helping Connor to his feet. They ducked inside, dropped their packs, and grabbed their bows. With barely a peck on Brigga’s lined cheeks, they left at a run feeling the weightless freedom of their father’s absence.

  The stream that descended out of the mountains in the west, named Siaol by the Old Ones, ran past the village on its southern side, splitting into two beyond the farthest hearth. A gray boulder, as tall as two men, stared out across the glistening flow. Not a random stone tumbled from the mountains, but one carved in the likeness of the great bear spirit and placed with purpose at the edge of Clan lands.

  Aedan and Maclan paced under Borran’s stone nose waiting for them. Reid smiled at the bear statue. The applewood carving he’d been working on for the last week bore a respectable resemblance to it, a gift for Maura.

  “Have you heard? Fynan’s here,” Aedan said, interrupting his thoughts.

  “Chieftain Fynan?” Connor voiced Reid’s own surprise. “Is there trouble?”

  “No,” Maclan’s low voice was placid as a deep lake. “But we’ll need meat for dinner or there might be. There’s a story fire tonight.”

  Fynan was the leader of Seal Clan, a hard day and a half ride north. Their village clung to the cliffs above the sheltered bay they called home, their folk mainly fishers and woodsmiths. If Chieftain Fynan had a first name, Reid had never heard it. He doubted a single soul knew it, not even the man’s wife. Deeply tanned and wiry, ageless in the way of those well-seasoned by life, he was as much an enigma as the sea itself.

  The Seals’ visit explained the busyness. Entertaining the leader of Seal Clan required utmost hospitality. Excited, Reid opened his mouth to ask Aedan what their first song should be. Then he snapped it shut when he realized he wouldn’t be able to play. His thumb rubbed anxiously along the makeshift splint bracing the wounded fingers of his left hand.

  Between Connor’s tracking and Maclan’s aim, they brought down two sizeable bucks before the sun hid behind the peaks. With the carcasses slung on poles between them, Aedan regaled Reid with the latest gossip. Apparently, Tarhill’s plan to distance Reid from Maura had become the tug that set the hook, as the Seals liked to say. His sudden departure sparked heated speculation among the ladies, Maura in particular. At least, that’s what Aedan’s sister Gwenna said. While his wounded return might be overshadowed by Seal Bay’s visit, Aedan assured him a story would be demanded of him and that he’d better live up to his reputation.

  Of course, it was Reid’s own brothers who threw him to the wolves. Deep in their ales, Maclan and Connor eagerly shoved Reid to the center, calling for a story about his hand. The clan held its collective breath, like a creature eagerly waiting to sate its appetite.

  Grateful for the bonfire’s gift of ruddy cheeks and the fact that Old Man Tarhill remained at home with his wife, Reid forced a pleasant smile and waved at his drunken brothers. “If you wish to hear the tale of how I tripped over a flower and tumbled down a hill crying like a child, brothers, then you must tell it, not I.”

  Laughter circled the fire although the curious stares remained. A story had to be told and Reid must tell it. He turned to the group of children gathered at Bradan’s feet and, as usual, little Ruari was right in front.

  The boy was two, maybe three, winters old. His ‘story’ was that he was a foundling, a child from the wilds who had been adopted by the clan, much like Tamrach Tarhill all those years ago. The sad truth was that he was the son of a man who tumbled a girl and cast her aside, abandoning the clan and the family he should have made a hearth for. Ruari’s mother had been very young and it was decided she deserved a second chance to find a worthy husband. No one would ever breathe a word about Ruari’s true origins nor would his real mother ever reveal her identity. In fact, no one except the three oldest women in the clan even knew who she was. Far better to be a beloved foundling than to carry the shame of a father’s desertion.

  The boy’s beginnings mattered little to Reid; he loved Ruari. The child was keen-sighted and deeply kind. He leaned down to address the children, his eyes on Ruari’s round face. “Would one of you little kings and queens like to request the night’s first tale?”

  Excited by the honor, they all clamored at once, but it was Ruari who shot to his feet first. He toddled straight to Reid’s knees, his cloth doll dragging in the dirt behind him.

  Reid knelt next to the boy and Ruari thrust the doll towards Reid’s face. Its long, wide, black nose and round ears grinned. “Bear,” the toddler said. “A story about Bear.”

  “And war,” another boy burst out. Ewan was older than Ruari, old enough to be eager for adult things. The other children clapped their approval.

  Reid eyed the two boys thoughtfully. “You are young for war stories.” Ruari stood straighter with a serious face as if trying to look older. “But I do have a tale of bears and war, if you are brave enough to hear it.”

  “I is brave,” Ruari said, plopping down in the dirt next to Reid. “Tell it,” he commanded.

  Reid stared at the stern face of the toddler before him, trying not to laugh at his imperious act. Then his gaze swept the circle of clan members.

  “This little king of the future requests a hero’s tale,” he announced. “Shall I tell him of Brar and the Drakairreg?”

&n
bsp; The adults murmured hesitant approval and the children’s eyes went wide for Brar’s tale was not a child’s tale. Most of the ones before him had not heard it, yet some instinct nudged Reid to tell it.

  “A fine tale,” Bradan agreed, one bushy eyebrow raised in challenge, “if you can do it justice.” Reid stood a little straighter and cleared his throat.

  “There was a time, little lords and ladies of the pines,” he said addressing his smaller audience, “when men could speak with the white bears Borran had given them, the ones he’d shaped by his own hand to be our brothers, our defenders, our friends. The power of such speech has been lost, but that is not this night’s tale.”

  Reid pulled a low stool over and sat so he didn’t tower over the children. Ruari clutched his bear doll eagerly to his chest and thrust his thumb in his mouth. The children breathed not a word to disrupt the story.

  “In those days, the chieftain of the clan was Brar O’Mara Tolleson. A man who earned the title by being the bravest warrior in an era when giants came frequently though he was not born to Bear Clan. You see, Brar was a foundling,” Reid smiled to himself as Ruari’s eyes grew wide.

  “Some say he was half-bear himself, being a hairy man and large. His beard, even braided, dangled below his belt.

  “Back then, every warrior had a bear-brother. One chosen for them when they were both young. Brar’s bear was called Tarien and he considered the beast such a true brother; he entertained him in the dining hall where the two of them would drink ale together. That is, until they got drunk one night, broke the tables and nearly burned the hall down. Then the wise woman drove them out and forbid them to return. Ever after, Brar was forced to drink his ale down by the pens with the bears.”

  The children giggled as eager anticipation burned in their young eyes.

  “One day, guards brought word of a disturbance in the south. Some creature was destroying the pines and killing game. Its path led north along the Siaol River toward the village. Brar and his warriors put on their armor. Their bears put on armor, too. Then they traveled south in a grand company prepared to do battle. But what Brar found in the creature’s wake made him fearful. This was no ordinary adversary.

  “The pines had been flattened in a wide swath, so wide three bears could walk shoulder to shoulder along it. But worse were the small stone statues of birds and squirrels and foxes they found. Brar knew those weren’t really statues and the creature they sought was something only heard of in legends—a stone drakairreg.”

  Reid stopped and looked quizzically at the huddled young faces. He leaned over to Ruari, “Do you know what a drakairreg is, little prince of the future?”

  The boy shook his head, his eyes apprehensive.

  Then Reid pointed to another child. “Do you, little princess of the pines?” He asked each child in turn, but they were all mute with suspense.

  “Drakairreg means dragon,” he said drawing gasps of surprise from the group of children. “This was a stone dragon. A great scaly thing, bigger than the hall. Now stone dragons do not fly or breathe fire like dragons of the Southlands. Oh no, it is far worse than that. If a drakairreg looks you in the eye, you turn to stone.”

  One girl squeaked and was hushed by her older sister. Reid had them well in hand now, his little listeners. He had the adults enthralled as well, and Maura’s honey eyes never left his face.

  “But Brar was a strong chieftain and his warriors knew their duty. They trailed the creature, catching up to it in a small glade. They attacked from behind, hoping to surprise it. But for such a large creature it was quick. Its long neck could swivel around faster than they could look away. One by one, bear and warrior were turned to stone.” He stopped for a moment, letting the story settle into the crowd. There was no sound now but the crackling of the fire.

  Older siblings reached out to hug their younger brothers and sisters to them as the sea of tense faces waited for Reid to continue.

  “More than a dozen were lost before Brar called for retreat. The defeated warriors backtracked through the woods, running south until they couldn’t hear or see the beast anymore. Then they crossed the river and raced north for the village. Angered, the dragon crashed after them, not heeding the water one bit as a fire dragon might.

  “Realizing his men were leading death straight to their village, Brar decided he had to turn it from their path. He and Tarien whirled around and charged the drakairreg. He unslung his bow and before they could see the beast’s eyes—before it could see them—he shot an arrow at it. He wasn’t trying to kill it you see, he just wanted it to follow him away from the clan. Which it did with a roar that even made Tarien tremble. They ran up the river to a large field at the edge of Clan lands. And there they stood, man and bear, and waited for the drakairreg.”

  The children huddled together, anxious over the fate of Chieftain Brar and his bear.

  “Now Brar loaded two arrows on his willow bow,” Reid said, mimicking the drawing of a bow. “He knew there would be no time for a second shot if the creature turned him to stone. Brar was not afraid. He would willingly sacrifice his life for his clan, his adopted family, but he had to make sure the danger did not outlive him.

  “He turned to Tarien and said, ‘When it looks at me, brother, you must kill it.’

  “The great bear looked back at him in distress and said, ‘I cannot let him kill you, my chief. I will distract it and when it turns to me, you must kill it.’

  “This upset Brar very much for he loved his bear more than anything, more than he loved his wife even. ‘Do not argue,’ he said to Tarien. ‘I am your chieftain. You will do as I say.’

  “The forest’s shuddering cut short their argument. Brar drew the bowstring to his chin, balancing the two arrows carefully. Trees shook and leaves rustled and he put the danger from his mind.

  “When the scaly head thrust through the foliage, its baleful eye swept the clearing. Brar readied himself to meet its yellow gaze and loose the arrows the moment before he became stone. But Tarien’s roar distracted it at the last minute. There was nothing to be done except to use the opportunity that had been so dearly bought. With no time to argue his bear-brother’s choice, he let fly the arrows. Straight and true, they flew. One striking the yellow eye that would have taken Brar’s life and the other piercing the dragon’s throat. The creature thrashed in the river, its black blood turning the water brackish. Brar drew his sword and hacked off its head.”

  Unable to contain himself, Ruari lurched to his feet, shock on his face. “But Tarien!” he cried, his lip trembling.

  “As I told you, lordling of the pines, you must be brave,” Reid reminded him softly.

  Ruari nodded through fat tears, his doll clutched tightly now.

  Reid picked up the small boy and put him on his knee. “Tarien had done what he promised and saved the chieftain, the brother that he loved. But alas, he had been turned to stone.”

  “No,” wailed Ruari.

  “That is exactly what Brar said,” Reid told him, wiping the toddler’s wet cheek. “And this…” He held up his wet fingers. “…is exactly what Brar did. Our brave and mighty chieftain wept.

  “You see, even the bravest feel sorrow and fear. The mighty chieftain wept so hard that he made a stream. It flowed south and west and touched the feet of Borran himself who came to see what had happened. When Borran saw Brar’s sorrow and Tarien’s sacrifice, he knew he must do something.”

  “Did Borran bring Tarien back?” Ruari asked, trying to hide a sniffle.

  “Ah, my little lord, even the most powerful spirits cannot reverse death,” Reid said. “But Borran did gather Tarien’s brave soul from the stone. He put it in a totem that he gave to Brar to wear around his neck. He told Brar that if he dipped it in ale in the light of the last full moon of spring and recited a particular incantation, his bear-brother could return to him for a night. For though the spirits cannot reverse death, neither can they remove love and Brar and Tarien truly loved each other.”

 
“So he kept him next to his heart?” Ruari asked, looking sadly at his doll.

  “Yes,” Reid hugged the little boy, “those we lose are always next to our hearts.” He looked around at the children. “You have all seen him, you know. You’ve seen Tarien with your own eyes.”

  At that, the children crawled closer on curious knees. “We have?” Ewan asked, his face wet too.

  “Why yes. The stone bear that stands at the fork in the river. The one that many say is the image of Borran is actually Tarien. That very vale is where Brar slew the drakairreg. The western stream is called Deora, isn’t it? Named so for Brar’s tears.”

  The children wiped their cheeks and whispered to each other excitedly. Reid turned his attention back to Ruari who turned damp eyes to him and said, with great seriousness, “I’m a foundling.”

  “Are you?” Reid feigned shock, as if he hadn’t known. On impulse, he drew the small wooden bear from his pocket. The one he had carved for Maura, the one that looked like a stone Tarien. He held it aloft by the leather cord. “Then this must belong to you, king of days to come.”

  Ruari was so surprised he dropped his rag doll. “For me?” he asked. As he retrieved the toy bear from the ground, his eyes never left Reid’s gift.

  “Yes, for you,” Reid said. He looped the leather cord around the toddler’s neck.

  The boy clutched the token to his chest with a pudgy hand. “Tarien,” he breathed with awe.

  Reid leaned over to whisper in Ruari’s ear with a stern but kind look. “If I catch you dipping it in ale, you’ll be dining down at the pens, understand?”

  Ruari nodded and gazed with amazement at the small wooden bear. “Thank you.” He surprised Reid by throwing his arms around Reid’s neck. In the next instant, the child hopped down and ran to his mother to show her the little idol of Tarien. Bradan nodded his approval.

  Then over the children’s heads, Reid caught Maura’s eye wondering if she knew he’d just given away the gift meant for her. But her eyes were as wet as the children’s and she mouthed the words “thank you” in the dark.