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COMRADES AND FOES

Do ye know Tom Steele with his cap dark green
And his long-range bow and his blades honed keen?
Soft through the leaves he goes creeping unseen,
Hunting deer in the glades of an evening.
TRADITIONAL HUNTING SONG

The world, a sphere of metal and rock scarfed in water, turned.

Above the churning vapours of the troposphere, stars appeared to glide across the heavens from east to west; from High Darioneth, across the Snowy River to the western shores of Tir. There, in Grïmnørsland, a hunting lodge perched on a stark crag, looking out over the ocean. Surf pounded the cliffs and a blood-biting wind howled in from the sea, smacking of brine. Around this building the landscape ramped into the stormy distance, gaunt and wild, rugged, roaring with cataracts, roofed by racing clouds in full sail, battered by salt winds, lapped by mists. This was a realm of black rock, grey sky and silver water, where dark green conifers, rank on rank, stalked up mountainsides to pierce steaming skies.

The hunting lodge belonged to the King of Grïmnørsland, Thorgild Torkilsalven. From here, on the twenty-first of Mai, five princes set out: Halvdan and Gunnlaug, the second- and third-born Sons of Thorgild; Kieran and Ronin Ó Maolddjn, the eldest Sons of Uabhar of Slievmordhu; and Walter Wyverstone, younger brother to Crown Prince William of Narngalis. Thorgild had invited the royal scions of his neighbouring kingdoms to be his guests in Grïmnørsland, where they might participate in games and divertissements, celebrating the sea son and reconfirming the bonds of solidarity between the realms. The monarch himself remained with his queen, their eldest son, Hrosskel, and their daughter, Solveig, at Trøndelheim, attending to matters of state, while the rest diverted themselves with blood sports.

Low in the sky rode the evening sun, drifting on a band of persimmon cloud. The five princes, accompanied by their retainers, moved on foot through harsh terrain, clambering up the sides of dim vales and following narrow tracks through forests of spruce, pine, birch and larch that soared out of shadow. The topmost tapered tips caught the last bright gleams of sunlight, so that they glistened like miniature trees dusted with gold. Against the glimmer of sunset, the black silhouettes of wind-gnarled branches wove elegant patterns. Falcons with outstretched wings hovered over sharp-toothed crags—Steinfjell, Isfjell and Galdhøpiggen, Sterkf and Skagastoistindane—heights with towering, majestic names.

‘It is a fact,' Prince Gunnlaug Torkilsalven was instructing Walter of Narngalis, ‘that some archers conceal themselves in thickets to ambush whitetail deer, or crouch behind woven blinds near lakes and streams to waylay roe deer as they come down to drink. The second approach is never successful after rain. Game will not visit watering places when there are small puddles to drink from. Therefore, the truly versatile huntsman must perfect the art of stalking on foot.'

Walter nodded brusquely, his lips compressed in a thin line. He found it insulting to be lectured on a topic he understood well, but was too courteous to protest.

‘Hounds would have been useful, of course,' continued Gunnlaug, ‘yet a man must learn to hunt without hounds, in case he ever finds himself alone in the wilderness.'

Gunnlaug of Grïmnørsland was a brawny youth, somewhat shorter in stature than his elder brother Halvdan, who walked ahead. His features were coarse, his pockmarked skin reddened and roughened by much exposure to wind and sun. Like his sibling he was flaxen-haired and hazel-eyed. As he and the other huntsmen made their way in single file along a precipitous goat track, he was sweating copiously and, to Walter's joy, after some time he began to lag behind.

‘There's a big-antlered beauty up there in Hoyfjell's crags, thinking he's too clever for me,' Gunnlaug called out, wheezing slightly. ‘But I shall nail him. He shall be no match for Gunnlaug Torkilsalven. I'll put him down for good and get a fine trophy this evening.'

‘Make speed, Gunnlaug,' his brother, Halvdan, called back over his shoulder.

‘There is no need to scuttle forward like a frightened pig,' panted Gunnlaug. ‘We have plenty of time. The sun is yet a thumb's breadth from the horizon.'

‘If you had not swallowed so much beer last night you might find it easier to keep up,' said Halvdan, but he said it in an undertone. His younger brother was easily provoked to wrath, and his inevitable outburst of rage would spoil the atmosphere of comradeship. Gunnlaug, perhaps guessing Halvdan's thoughts, turned his head and spat upon the ground in a gesture that might have been either a cleansing of the palate or contempt. He flicked sweat-drenched strands of blond hair from his eyes.

The huntsmen leaped from rock to rock and scrambled down scree slopes.

‘We have timed our excursion well,' said Conall Gearnach, mentor to the princes of Slievmordhu. ‘If we keep the sun behind us we can use the low light to our advantage. It will dazzle the eyes of our prey.' Gearnach, a doughty warrior who had weathered about forty Winters, was commander-in-chief of Slievmordhu's crack corps, the Knights of the Brand. Having earned himself a formidable reputation as a fighting man, he had risen to the position of one of King Uahhar's most highly respected knights. His nickname was ‘Two-Swords Gearnach', for he was as well able to use his left hand as his right, and he had taught himself to wield two blades simultaneously, making him an opponent to be reckoned with.

Although Conall Gearnach was liegeman to the King of Slievmordhu, and performed the duties of guide and counsellor to his sons, he was well acquainted with the princes of Grïmnørsland also. King Uabhar's eldest son, Kieran, had spent two years of his boyhood dwelling in the household of King Thorgild. The young prince had been under the auspices of Gearnach, who in those days held the second-highest office of the Knights of the Brand, that of captain-general. During that period Kieran had formed a fast friendship with Halvdan, second son of Thorgild. By chance, the two had been born on the same day, and they were like-minded in a great many ways: both enjoyed shooting at targets, and wrestling, and balladeering, and fishing in the deep fjords of the west coast. Both were young men of fearless honesty, who loved duty and honour as much as they loved good fellowship. Kieran Ó Maoldúin, a youth of considerable height, possessed a mane of dark brown hair that flowed down upon powerful shoulders. In looks he took after his mother; his nose was straight and thin, and his oval countenance sharp-lined with the clean contours of late adolescence. Tall and blond was Halvdan Torkilsalven, with a muscular torso: a physical match for Kieran. When the two wrestled, the outcome could never be predicted.

‘Continue to keep watch for unseelie wights,' Gearnach reminded the equipment-laden retainers as the party crossed the vacillating suspension bridge over the gorge of the great river Fiskflod. Far below, the torrent was gushing rapidly; droplets sprayed up like fans of threaded sequins as the water smashed against rocks in midstream and swirled around snags, gurgling and rumbling. Clinging onto the hand ropes to keep their balance, the huntsmen eventually reached the other side of the chasm. There, on the grassy flank of an outfiung spur of Hoyfjell, grew the stands of ancient spruce trees for which they had set their course. For a few moments the party halted beneath the needle-like foliage and swigged a draught from their water bottles. The bearers and equerries handed to three of the huntsmen their arrow-packed quivers and tautly strung hunting bows. Princes Halvdan and Kieran had carried their own gear, as had Gearnach.

Having outfitted themselves, the party moved quietly in amongst the rough-barked boles. They were wearing close fitting garments dyed with greens and browns, to blend in with their surroundings. Soft-soled boots shod their feet, and they sought to avoid stepping on twigs or dry leaves, looking for mats of fallen spruce needles or short turf on which to walk. A steady breeze rustled the fragrant foliage, creating a continuous whisper of silvery sound against which the hunters' slight noise of passage might pass unmarked. Branches dipped and swished as a couple of squirrels scampered by.

As they neared the high clearings where wild deer grazed, the huntsmen continually monitored the direction of the air currents, that they might approach the animals from down wind. ‘The evening breeze generally blows downhill,' Conall Gearnach murmured to Prince Ronin of Slievmordhu, who clambered close behind him. ‘We are still climbing. All is well, so far.'

Ronin—second in line to the throne of Slievmordhu—was of middle height and, like his father, had a somewhat square face. His nose was wide, with flared nostrils, and jutted above a downy upper lip. ‘I wish I were not downwind of Gunnlaug,' he commented with a wry grimace. ‘He stinks of stale sweat and beer.'

Gearnach chuckled quietly. As they climbed the spur, with the wind in their faces and the sun peering over their left shoulders, the knight hitched his baldric to a more secure position on his shoulder. He put on an extra burst of speed and pulled ahead of the group. Instinct warned him it would he wise to scout in advance.

His intuition proved well founded. From the corner of his eye he spotted movements that seemed out of place, above them on the slope and to the left. Instantly he extended his hand in a prearranged signal. The gamekeepers and other attendants, always alert to Gearnach's commands, took heed and relayed the message through the party: Possible danger ahead. Take cover.