This is the fourth part of the story, you can find the earlier parts here:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

* * *

On the day before commencement, I finished up my duel with Edvin Klaus, giving him a decorative scar along his cheek. The city guard was still preoccupied with the drunken stragglers from the jubilee, and couldn’t spare the men to roust the Garden of Blades again. I went through the ceremony marking my departure from the University with proper decorum. I even went so far as to refrain from telling the Provost that I was okay with going from a University student to merely being a blood relative of the Furst of Karststadt.

In the days before we left, I was in the little-used forge within the castle walls. My aptitude as a smith was severely lacking. I did learn that when you hit hot steel with a hammer, it thins and spreads out in all directions – not just the one you wanted it to. This meant me roughing out an edge on a perfectly straight billet led to it bending backward into a crescent. It was a very neat crescent., one I would never have been able to create intentionally. Even so, I was torn. Part of me wanted it to break and force me to start fresh, and another part of me didn’t want to go through all that work again. I threw about arguments for why I should toss it, and how it could still be made functional. The thoughts plagued me, even as I drew out a tang, then fought to straighten the lopsided tang. With a guard and a grip in line with both points of the crescent., the knife resembled a miniature kopesh. Still, it was done, it was sharp, and, despite by best efforts, it hadn’t broken.

While most of the visitors for the jubilee departed by the Salzheim road, Hermann, Peter, and Alvar went north. A large coterie of retainers surrounded the pack of kings, though by necessity, Hermann’s was the largest contingent. The Slagveld was an oddly beautiful country. It wasn’t home, but from the high road, it was a treat for the eyes. In a great many places, the land was the gray of weathered limestone. Throughout, however, stubborn plants rooted in their patches of green. The tops of the plateaus were all level with each other, creating the illusion of an open plain. This plain was riven by valleys, canyons, ravines, caves and sinkholes in a chaotic and crazed pattern. More plant life sprouted in these wherever sunlight fell. It would have been a nightmare to navigate before Prince Kord’s half century of road building. Few areas lent themselves to the plow, but the shepherds found good grazing for their flocks.

The high road went from plateau top to plateau top, the spaces in between bridged with causeways and viaducts. Roads and trails had been cut linking the various plateaus to their surrounding valleys, regardless of whether they were on the route of the high road or not. Somewhere in the distance, this arrow-straight span of limestone paving setts would reach the city of Nordpunkt. We had no intention of following the road that far. Of course, a mob of riders and wagons the size of ours did not travel that fast. Aside from being tied to the speed of the slowest mule, there were countless causes of delays. However frantic some of the servants became, the men around me stayed congenial. Peter chatted with the Snaerveldi court wizard in a language I didn’t understand. My father jotted things down in his little notebook. Hermann sat upon his horse calm and contemplative, though he never seemed to have fallen inattentive when someone directed a remark his way.

The biggest problem was that we had more people than the inns had space. The protocol was decided early that the youngest children got rooves first, and everyone else slept in tents. The baggage contained a great deal of food, so we didn’t deplete the local supplies. It also contained a great deal of crap no sane person needed to haul along the road for a short trip. The grand carriage for the queen of Neph looked like a palace on wheels. It certainly had enough gilding and handsomely carved exotic woods. It was also bigger than the cargo wagons, with eight wheels and pulled by a team of eight horses. Its shape and the stained glass windows made it look more like a building that had been uprooted than a vehicle. I suppose it was comfortable inside, as the Queen opted to sleep there.

I didn’t mind the tent. I had a good bedroll, a comfortable blanket, and rolling up a cloak made a passable pillow. It would have been simple to get more elaborate accommodations, but then someone would have had to deal with them. I was much happier being first done setting up or breaking down my section of the camp. Sure, I could have foist the work on Wendel, but he had enough to do. My little tent was easy to take care of.

* * *

Hermann didn’t speak much. The most verbose he got was when giving archery instructions. I was not that good. I could generally hit the target, but not intentionally hit the bullseye. Hermann had to try to miss the bullseye. His sons were better practiced at the art, and easily outperformed me.

“Kord, you need to draw to the same spot every time,” Hermann said. “Ideally, you want to draw to your ear, but so long as you get to the same spot. That way the arrow flies with the same speed and you can begin to predict where it goes.”

“I understand,” I said. My arms were not accustomed to the work of drawing a bow over and over again. I would have to practice drawing in of itself just to follow my uncle’s advice. Though waiting until I felt the knuckle of my thumb touch my earlobe tightened the cluster of arrows in the target, I still wasn’t getting close to the bullseye.

“Have you ever fired a bow before?” my cousin asked. I glanced to my left. The young man standing there had copper-blond hair, round spectacles and a stupid grin. He looked to be half a decade younger than I was, give or take.

“Halvdan,” Hermann said in a warning tone.

“I didn’t mean it like… I mean, how much practice did he even get at that school?”

“More with the sword than the bow,” I said.

“How good are you?” Halvdan grinned.

I shrugged. “Better than some, worse than others.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down.”

“I don’t have an objective measure of aptitude,” I said.

“Then we have to have a fight.”

“Why?”

“To answer the question.”

“No,” I said.

“Really? Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to humor you.” I nocked a new arrow and took another shot at the target.

“Then humor me,” a voice behind us said. Lowering the bow, I turned to see Peter standing there. The self-made King of the Rustshades was dressed in neat blue robes and blindfold. Nothing was regal about his attire, though he carried himself as such

“Why would you want me to fight Halvdan?” I asked.

“Not him,” Peter said. “Me.”

“What are you up to, Peter?” Hermann asked.

“We put all that effort into making those swords, and we haven’t seen them in action.”

“That sounds awful in more ways than I can think of at the moment.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Peter grinned.

I raised an eyebrow. “That seems like an… odd request. You’ve got something up your sleeves.”

Peter pushed the sleeves of his robe up, revealing pale forearms. “Sleeves are not much use without something in them.”

“You really want to do this with sharpened blades?” my father asked, arriving behind Peter.

“Antal will patch up any scratches, won’t you?” Peter turned towards an empty patch of ground. He waited as if expecting a response from thin air.

“Gentian went back to his tent,” my father said.

“But he’s not that far away.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “But I don’t think there’s an upside to fighting a blind man. Win or lose, I come out looking bad.”

“This is why I don’t visit more often,” Peter said, “My family is no fun.”

“I thought it was because you were too busy trying to not be overrun by Zanthan warlords,” Hermann said.

“Well, there is that. It’s probably that.”

“How bad is the war?” Halvdan asked, a bit too eagerly.

“Mostly cross-border raids, none of the Zanthans can afford to commit to a big attack without first gaining the throne.”

I stopped listening as the conversation slid further into politics and turned my attention back to archery.

* * *

The ‘North Tower’ was not an impressive structure. Even expanded to provide services for caravans traveling between Nordpunkt and Karststadt, it was a small, cramped castle. Wedged in the only pass from the Slagveld to the Hookwood, it had strategic significance. The rest of the boundary was a sharp cliff dropping from the uplands of the Slagveld. There were actually two towers, one on either side of the pass. Though it looked like one was newer, and was part of Prince Kord’s expansion. Past the cliff sprouted a dense forest of ash and fir trees.

The trees closest to the road had been cleared, originally to impede ambushes. Now that land was crowded with goblins. Their small farms ringed clusters of huts made from wattle and daub. Drystone walls separated the village plots from their neighbors, constructed by heaping up those rocks dug from the dirt by the goblins’ hoes. Fences of bare wattle enclosed pig stys and pens for basilisk skinks. The eight-legged reptilians were big enough for a goblin to ride, but useless in front of a plow or cart. They were there to provide mounts for the warriors. These warriors were descended from the tribes that had willingly pledged to Prince Kord during the conquest of the Hookwood. They’d been rewarded with dominion over the survivors of the tribes that had to be brought to heel by force. A dominion that could be revoked if they failed to keep order.

Standing on the wall spanning between the towers, I realized I was looking at perhaps the most pure expression of the vassal-liege relationship in the world. It hadn’t brought civilization to the goblins, but it had brought order. They still fought each other, but attacks on merchants and human settlements had stopped.

“So what are you doing up here?”

I looked at Halvdan.

“Planning.”

“Planning what?”

“How to approach the hunt when we get into the Hookwood,” I said.

“What can you do from up here?”

“I have a good view of the cliff.”

“Are you just going to speak cryptically?”

“The cliff is limestone with bands of chert. It’s sitting on a layer of shale. That tells me what types of loose stones are liable to be found on the ground below it. Thus I can plan on making use of the properties of those stones. The trees are ash, pine, and fir, each of which has components which will be of use. It also gives me a view of at least three small creeks, with an indicator that there will be more. All of these components contribute to how I will approach the challenge.”

“So what’s your plan?”

“I’m still formulating it.”

“Just a knife? Nothing else?”

“I’ll be clothed,” I said.

“You know what I meant.”

“Yes, I know what you meant. But that’s the point. As I understand, it’s a trial of determination, resourcefulness, and cunning.”

Halvdan looked discomfited. “But we have bows, steel, and horses.”

“And pillows and palaces, but that’s exactly the point. It’s a demonstration that you’re not less than your forebearers.”

“That seems absurd.”

“Talk to the men of Snaerveldi, it’s their tradition.”

“So why are you doing it?”

“To prove I’m not less than my father.”

Halvdan looked sullen and leaned on the battlements. “That’s a high enough hurdle with your father’s reputation. There are some people who are already calling mine ‘Hermann the Great’. You know his reputation; killed a dragon; got an army down the Rustshades road – then back again; literally went to war with corruption in Neph and won. How do I live up to something like that?”

“I have no idea,” I said.

* * *

I also had no idea how to approach my uncles with the sheer number of people vying for their time. Or rather, I couldn’t talk to Hermann. Peter had fewer people pestering him, but something wasn’t quite right with him. At best, he had a sense of humor that didn’t sit well with me. His random swings from serious to what he called joking made it impossible to tell where I stood with him. That made trying to come up with a response awkward. That pushed me to the perimeter of the conversation, and I ended up sitting with my back to a tree. I picked an ash because it was less likely to get resinous sap all over my shirt. The northern road through the Hookwood towards Neph and the Raven Coast was less well populated with inns and other trappings of civilization. The sound of whining from small children carried rather far from where their minders were trying to rein them in.

I watched the social orbits as the conversations dragged on. My father had attached himself quite securely to King Alvar’s side, and the two had slipped into the language of Snaerveldi. Two youths of Halvdan’s age were seated on either side of the prince. Despite his placement in the way, the two engaged in a conversation that Halvdan had clearly disengaged from. At another edge of the fire, Peter waved away the people around him and retreated to his tent. I looked at the spot he’d vacated and asked myself if it was acceptable to take it. Before I made up my mind, Hermann’s skald sat down there instead. The people displaced by Peter’s departure shifted and repositioned to find new conversational clusters. I was surprised when the pale man sat down next to me.

Antal Gentian was an Ivory Wizard, and as such dressed in white. His narrow face and lank hair were also exceedingly pale, but his vibrant green eyes looked intently out from the pallor. He was Alvar’s court wizard, and had been so for a long time. He was not born of Snaerveldi, but I wouldn’t be surprised to hear he’d lived more of his life in that land than elsewhere. The winter pelt of a stoat hanging over his left shoulder blended in with his attire in hue, but contrasted in texture.

“You underwent the Rite of Manhood,” I said.

“Is that a question?” Gentian asked.

I sighed. “More of an observation. There are few other reasons to hang a weasel on your lapel.” I closed my eyes and cursed myself. “I’m sorry, that was… poorly phrased.”

“Though not inaccurate. I underwent the rite as a formality to properly join the King’s retinue. So I didn’t care what I caught, as long as I wasn’t out in the cold for too long.”

There was a moment of silence. A question insinuated, yet unspoken.

“You want to know why I’m undergoing the rite,” I said.

“I fear I may already know. There are many fires in the camp. You choose to sit by the one with the kings, as is your right by blood. But push yourself so far into the fringe as to have almost left it.” Antal paused to see if I reacted. I sat sullenly, and he continued. “Whatever you may achieve or fail to achieve, it will not bring you closer to the others around that fire. All you really need to do is stand up and walk forward.”

“Easier said than done.”

“Yes, the simplest things can be the most difficult at times.”

“You speak as if from experience,” I said.

“I was young once,” Gentian said. “But the question you should be contemplating is not ‘what does this middle-aged wizard regret?’ It is, ‘why do I feel the need to perform this foreign rite?'”

My sigh bore the sound of exasperation.

“You need not tell me the answer, but ruminate on it.”

“I made a decision, and there’s no good reason not to see it through. At worst I’ll spend a few days grubbing around in the dirt.”

Antal turned slowly to look me in the eye. “The snow lion Alvar wears very nearly ripped half of his face off and badly mauled the rest of him. I was brought to Skogahaugr because the wounds were not healing and he was threatening to turn gangrenous.”

“Snow lions don’t live in the Hookwood.”

“They are not the only beasts which can threaten a man’s survival.”

“Antal, I appreciate the sentiment, but I have already come up with a plan.”

“Care to share?”

“Not really. But I do have one question.”

“What is that?”

“Would the rite end if I happened to catch a fish?”

Gentian blinked a few times.

“I don’t think so. I’d have to ask Alvar, but I don’t think fish count as beasts of the woods.”

“Good,” I said. After a pause, I switched topics. “Is it true you once used the flesh from a horse to save a man’s life?”

“I suppose something like that would get talked about,” Gentian sighed.

“If it’s not something you want to talk about…”

“It’s not the act of saving the man I find uncomfortable, it’s the reminder of what the Zanthans did to leave him in that state which I dislike.”

“I see,” I said.

“He’d been sent as an envoy to the court of Zanthas after the death of Tabris the Fifth. Their torturers were… creative, and somehow left him barely alive. I can not force new flesh to grow where none exists, and had to take it from somewhere. Even then, it was difficult, as the pieces were not meant to fit together in that way, and the body dislikes foreign matter. But he lives still.”