<html> <body> Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats by Charles Matthias and Ryx Pars I: Disipicio (g) While the midday hours offered them little in the way of game both young men returned to the hunt with renewed focus and verve. They rode deep into the woods north of the Glen, following darkened tracks, beneath misty boughs, and along streams flush with the thaw gouging their way between roots and rocks. The beaters followed, flushing the brush where it clung to hillock and dale, ever letting the two nobles move at the front of their party to best see their quarry. They had finished the bread and cheese that Kimberly had given them well before mid-day and felt little hunger as they eschewed the lunch meal in order to forge on through the afternoon. The season was still young and the chill of the night kept guard in the forest understory, retreating only when the sun above finally began to seep the warmth of the day into the forest. Argamont drew up short when a coyote, dressed in the eye-defying mottled leathers of the Glen Avery scouts, melted silently out of a bush and held up one hand to touch a claw-tipped finger to his whiskers. Charlie reined in his mare beside them. “Hush now, milords,” the coyote whispered, motioning toward the beater masters to stay their men's valiant noisemaking. Word was sent down the line and, within minutes, silence fell. “Spied yon milk-white beast, nae a quarter league deeper in.” The coyote motioned back the direction he had come, “Nae half a candlemark past.” “A good eye, Willem.” Bryn smiled, casting a sidelong grin at Charlie. “Lead on.” He turned in his saddle toward the nearest of the beaters. “Have the men remain here. Charlie and I will progress forward alone.” “Aye, milord.” The man knuckled his brow and walked away to spread word. With a beckoning motion of one hand the coyote slipped into the bushes again, silent as a cat. Not twenty minutes later, as they made their way north down a small slope toward the glade where once a star had struck the coyote motioned for them to slow. “Beyond yon crest o' stone, milords, be where I spied the beast. Ye may wish t' dismount, t'is a steep climb an' t'would be makin' noise a'horseback.” They slipped quietly from their mounts and recovered their bows and a few arrows from quivers behind their saddles. Argamont used his shoulder to guide Charlie's mare toward a small sunlit glade where they might graze a short distance away. Walking quietly, which for Bryn was something of a challenge with hooves, they made their way up a jumbled scree of rock cast up when the star-stone fell long ago. “I see him” Bryn whispered when they crested the rock among a dense thicket of young spruce, pointing with the tip of an arrow. “A hundred yards?” Charlie nodded. “And upwind from us. We should be able to get closer. You'll never make that shot.” The hart stood, head bowed, in a copse of aspen as it grazed on early season flowers, ears lowered but twisting. His antlers were still in velvet, as white as the rest of him, but it was impossible to see how large they were, or know how large they might become if their arrows did not fly true. They moved slowly through the slender trees down the inner curve of the boulder strewn bowl, careful not to disturb stone or branch, while the hart grazed, for the moment unaware that it was stalked. The hart moved only when he'd eaten all the flowers in front of him. The bowl-shaped depression had only been a meadow in their father's time and even now none of the trees had branches high enough to block the sun. With no clouds in the sky they felt for the first time that day the rays of the sun. If not for their quarry so close its warmth would have relaxed all of their muscles and soothed every nerve. Now it just made them blink and cover their eyes, casting their gazes to the yellow, blue, and purple wildflowers gathered round their legs. They slowed until their eyes adjusted to the light, anxious that the hart might hear their careful approach down the slope. Bryn moved into the lead, while Charlie hung back just far enough that both of them had a clear view of the hart and the coyote pacing them slightly higher. Their chests tightened when they saw the white stag finish denuding the flowers about his hooves and move behind a cluster of pine and out of sight. Both held their breaths until they had climbed down far enough to see him on the other side. Now only forty yards away they could see that the deer had four points on either velvet covered antler. Bryn's equine lips stretched into a hungry grin as he raised his bow and drew an arrow. Charlie unslung his from his shoulder and knocked an arrow. His claw-tip steadied the haft and he felt the wind and aimed. “Willem,” Bryn hissed as he took one knee and half drew his bow. “You spied the beast, the first loft is yours.” “Milord?” the coyote asked in surprise, his ears springing up. “Limber your bow, Willem, and cast the first shot.” The coyote was quick to oblige, unslinging his bow and knocking a short hunting arrow. The stave creaked as he drew back smoothly, the bows the lords accompanying him offering similar sounds of wood under strain. The coyote's arrow leaped forth with a twang and, even as it was in the air, Bryn raised his bow and loosed, with Charlie's arrow not an eyeblink behind. The first arrow nicked the Hart's breast and its head jerked up in surprise, Bryn's arrow taking it behind the ear with a meaty whack while Charlie's whistled through the empty air where it's bowed head had been a moment before. With a single half-step to one side the hart's head bowed forward again as if it might graze, only to be followed down as its body slumped and crashed to the forest loam. “A valorous shot, milord!” Willem barked in surprise at the young noble's arm. “Cleanly done!” They descended the final lengths to the floor of the bowl and trotted toward the unmoving white form of the felled hart. “How did you know where to place that arrow, Bryn?” Charlie challenged with warm humor as they drew up to the beast, feathered neatly behind both ears by the stallion's arrow. “I was a shade slow.” Bryn slung his arrow and knelt to rest his thick fingers upon its breast to seek signs of life, but found none. “I thought it would hear the bows drawn and raise its head sooner.” He cast a smiling glance at the coyote. “Your shot could've taken him, Willem, had you not drawn it short.” The coyote looked down, his ears backed in mortification at the young noble's chiding. “I dinna', sire. I've jus' a shortbow, not so strong as ye' longbows. M' shot lost loft too swiftlike.” Bryn stood and brushed the grass from his knees. “You did a splendid job nonetheless, Willem. A huntsman's prize is yours, this day.” He clasped the coyote's shoulder warmly. “Argamont!” he bellowed loudly, “Fetch the butchers!” He lowered his voice and stretched with a triumphant smile. “Let's bear this prize home.” For the first time that day, Charlie smiled and felt both joy and the thrill of his youth. ---------- It was almost four hours later when a triumphant procession returned to the mighty, towering trees of Glen Avery. Leading the procession with regal poise was Bryn, a proud and confident expression gracing his youthful countenance; Argamont trotted with the courtly rearing of each hoof before crushing them into the ground with practiced dignity. Charlie rode just behind his friend, the mare beneath him performing the same proud gait. And behind them both plodded a tall broad-shouldered horse bearing the body of the white hart across its back so that all could see what the eldest son of the Duke had brought down. Just to deliberately draw attention for their victory over the elusive hart, a pair of their soldiers following closely behind the hart drew out trumpets and blasted a short fanfare as they turned from the road into the main clearing of the Glen. The peal rent the quietude of the Glen, shaking branches, scattering birds and startling the simple townsfolk unused to such displays. Curious residents emerged from their homes among the trees; beastly heads poking up through roots or down from branches to see what the commotion was about. And when they saw the nobles from Metamor they all came out to do them homage and to admire the remarkable buck they had claimed. Even young Fallon Avery dangled from a rope hanging off one of the higher branches. His whiskers lowered and his tail drooped. “Oh nuts, you caught him!” Bryn snorted at the squirrel and patted the end of his bow slung across his back. “I told you I would! Now get down out of there and come celebrate with us!” “I like it up here!” So saying, the squirrel scrambled back up the rope and disappeared into the foliage above. Charlie shook his head while Bryn laughed. “Milords!” A more respectful voice echoed from the western and higher end of the clearing. Garbed in a simple green doublet and flanked by a rough badger, a grizzled skunk, and two other squirrels, identical in appearance, who had the bearing of competent warriors as well as the inkling of mischief which consumed their youngest brother, was the Baron Brian Avery of the Glen. His fur was a lush slate gray, but there was a subtle brightening around his snout and along the back of his tail that spoke of his age. He saw the white hart draped across a horse and applauded with a few short, echoing claps. “Well done, Lord Thomas, Lord Charles. Well done on your victory!” “Thank you,” Bryn grinned as he rode Argamont several more paces until they were only a few feet from the lord of the Glen. “It was a difficult but exhilarating hunt. Your good huntsman Willem led us to the completion of our quest. Tell us, what fine libations can we expect to toast and drink heartily to our victory?' “Lars has brewed many fine beers this season. The bock is particularly rich and satisfying. I am sure that you lads will find it to your taste.” Bryn turned back to the rat and snorted. “What say you, Charlie? Shall we feast at yon bruin's brewery?” Charlie had been to the cave in which the bear Lars had built his establishment many times before, nearly every time that he had visited the Glen in the last few years. There was no question that Lars was an inventive and competent distiller of liquors and ales, and some of the fine recipes he concocted were the envy of the Valley. But this was the first time he could recall being promised an entire selection at once! He intended to try them all too. Charlie almost managed to laugh. “If a feast awaits us in the caves, then why are we still standing here? Lead on, Lord Avery!” Roars of approval followed and the procession, now joined by Lord Avery, his advisers, and curious townsfolk always eager for an excuse to drink, made its way to the famous bruin's cave. ---------- May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love, Charles Matthias </body> </html>