Chapter Forty-Two

Sleep had nearly claimed him when a horse's whinny brought him out of his light slumber. He scanned the area, discerning naught but forest. Another whinny sounded off to the right. Tarn stood up and moved in that direction while noting the birds and squirrels and insects had gone quiet. He was not alone. Only man's intrusive company silenced birds and animals. No other predator was feared as greatly. Forty or fifty yards to the west, movement caught his attention. Another horse whinnied and blew air noisily between its lips, making a whuffling sound.

Loud voices pinpointed location and presence long before the five mounted riders came into full view beyond a thick copse of wood. One of the horses in the middle of the group, an eighteen-hand tall bay stallion, screamed fright and reared, half hopping on two legs, almost unseating its rider.

Barath stood defiantly between the horsemen and a slain adolescent white-tailed deer. Although he might have darted under a horse's belly to safety, he refused to surrender his kill. Instead, he paced back and forth in front of the buck, growling menacingly at the laughing, but wary horsemen. Tarn saw that Barath was not in any immediate danger. A couple of the riders held drawn swords but made no large effort to do other than attempt to harry Barath from his kill for sport. They employed shouts and short lunges with their frightened horses toward this end. Tarn circled to the side and behind while Barath held their attention. Barath was no small wolf to toy with absentmindedly.

"I grow weary of this sport. Let us kill the beast and begone with the spoils," said one of the horsemen. Somewhere in his early twenties, the man was of average height, was dark-haired, and wore a close-cropped beard. Light and shiny chainmail coated him from shoulder to mid-thigh. A well-kept sword with a jewelled hilt was grasped in a gauntlet covered fist. Red woven pants were tucked into finely tooled riding boots.

"What be thy haste, Sir Goth? Have ye ever glimpsed a braver beast? 'Tis a noble wolf, stout of heart," said the eldest man of the group. "Let us be on our way, and leave him to his fairly won kill." Silver-haired, with neatly trimmed beard flecked with dark hair, the man exuded a distinguished presence of natural authority. It was blended with the warrior the man had been in his youth, and the respected leader he had become today. He still wore a chainmail coat as easily as a cotton shirt.

"'Tis a danger to our livestock, milord. This time he takes a buck, next time our cattle," predicted Sir Goth.

Barath turned toward Sir Goth and growled fiercely.

"Methinks the beast doth fathom Sir Goth's wish to administer dire injury," proclaimed the horseman sitting beside the elder man. "Let him have his fairly won kill, sir Goth," the man voted. He was clean-shaven and dark-haired with the same bone structure as the elder man. Somewhere in his mid-twenties, he already exuded authority. Though it was an easy authority that he bore lightly. Instead of chainmail, the young man wore a set of forest hunting leathers decorated with pictures of deer and birds and bears. Bright reds, and greens, and tawny browns brought the scenes to life. Upon his feet, he wore supple riding boots that reached halfway up his calf.

"Aye, milord. He doth hasten most strangely to Sir Goth's slings and jeers," said the young man beside him.

"He'll respond naught when his hide lays stretched in front of my hearth," Sir Goth exclaimed vehemently.

Barath ignored the other riders, focusing his amber eyes on Sir Goth. Lord Landrew, the leader of the group, watched the wolf's behaviour wearing a quixotic expression etched on his creased brow. Tarn chose that moment to reveal himself, and stepped out from behind the tree, immediately behind Barath's bristling form. To the mounted men, it appeared as though Tarn materialised out of thin air.

"May I be of assistance, brother?"

"Yes," Barath barked once, turning his head to answer Tarn��s question.

"The odds appear uneven. Perhaps we should grant them leave to flee?" Tarn replied mordantly, grinning at the horsemen.

Barath barked agreement and bestowed him with a wide, praise-worthy smile that was all tooth and fang. The five men were speechless at the sight of the barbarian youth—a youth who stood fearlessly beside the wolf and seemingly conversed with it. Sir Goth was the first to realize that Tarn mocked their lordly presence.

"Ye speak beyond thy station, boy. Know that ye trespass before the lord of these lands. By my leave, ye have not been granted permission to hunt. Begone and we will consider leaving thy worthless skin intact. Stay, and ye shall share this mangy wolf's fate, or worse. Away now while ye are able!"

Beside the speaker lounged two horsemen, who by their similar faces, height and colouring could only be brothers, nodded their heads in agreement with Sir Goth's words. Further consent was revealed in the way they banged their swords against the heels of their riding boots, and by their words, "Here. Here. Well said Goth."

Tarn's green eyes blazed emerald challenge, his voice bleeding anger as he growled his response in a deadly tone, "Twice now, do ye threaten and insult weary travellers unprovoked. Shorten thy tongue, lest ye be willing to give challenge."

Lord Landrew recognized Tarn's stance and the unconcerned lilt in his voice. Despite outward appearances, this man-child was battle-seasoned, no matter how smooth his face. And the size of him. Why even the wolf seemed dwarfed in his presence. Lord Landrew recognized the accent and the clothing as being from Asgard. Asgard barbarians were not to be taken lightly. Anyone could see the lad possessed the unmistakable confidence born of victories. Look how he stood on the balls of his feet; the ease with which he had entered the glade unheard and unseen; the steady voice; and his eyes which constantly roamed their group calculating position and battle strategy. Only a battle-tested veteran stepped forward to oppose five mounted men. There was more to this outlander and the wolf than meets the eyes. Before Lord Landrew spoke to halt the imminent escalation of hostility, Sir Goth recklessly spurred his horse forward, raising his sword to strike Tarn down.

When Tarn saw Sir Goth's leg muscles bunch, he was already drawing his sword. Despite fearing the scent and sight of a large black wolf, Sir Goth's well-trained battle-mount rocketed forward, startled by the sudden pain inflicted by spurred heels, whinnying shrilly. Barath barked twice, moving to the right. Tarn took a step forward, loosing a hair-shivering cry that woke the subdued forest.

While Tarn blocked Sir Goth's slash, Barath lunged for the frightened stallion. Sharp fangs sank into the horse's tender throat. Barath hung off the ground, suspended by teeth locked tight in horseflesh. As Tarn blocked the heavy slash, he grabbed a fistful of tunic and chainmail and yanked Sir Goth out of the saddle. Sir Goth landed heavily on his back, the air nearly driven from him, stunned by the quickness of the outlander's unanticipated response. He had expected Tarn to give ground, not to move forward. He did not expect to find a sword at his throat, and his sword arm pinned to the ground under a booted foot.

Barath turned toward the other horsemen, leaving Sir Goth's horse lying on its side, dying from the savage wound in its neck. Bright arterial blood pulsed from the neck vein with each heartbeat, pulsing weaker with each beat as the horse died. Neither Lord Landrew, nor the man dressed in the forest leathers beside him, failed to note the ease with which Tarn executed his bold move, nor how man and wolf reacted in perfect harmony, instinctively. This was not a wild wolf after all, but a fighting companion more lethal than the most savage dog. They were a fearfully beautiful sight to behold.

The other the horsemen, the brothers, who had begun to move their horses forward, stayed their hands and mounts at the sound of Lord Landrew's authoritative shout, "Hold thy positions! 'Tis Sir Goth's words and deeds he pays for." To Tarn, he asked, "Would ye slay a man floundering belly up?" recognizing the balance in which Sir Goth's life hung—at the hands of an outlander, an Asgard barbarian who defended his own life.

Tarn never took his eyes from Sir Goth's prone figure as he responded to Lord Landrew's plea for chivalry. "This cur would already be dead if I wished him so," then backed up slowly and sheathed his sword, willing to dismiss Sir Goth's insults and his reckless charge. "'Tis a small matter," he said with a little shrug.

Sir Goth climbed to his feet, rubbing his wrist gingerly where Tarn's heavy boot had pressed it into the ground, seething prideful arrogance. He glared at Tarn and eyed the wolf apprehensively.

"Ye need a dose of manners taught to ye, boy. This is nobly owned land, barbarian, and ye have not sought our leave to trespass," he said, too angry and brimming with red-faced shame to see past Tarn's youth to recognize the competent warrior standing before him.

"Stay thy legs Goth," warned Lord Landrew too late to do any good.

Sir Goth rushed forward with his sword raised over his head. Tarn's hip sword appeared in his hand ere Sir Goth's blade came within two feet of his throat. He beat aside Sir Goth's sword and drove the heel of his right palm into Goth's exposed solar plexus. The air whooshed out of Sir Goth's lungs. Sir Goth crumpled to his knees in front of Tarn labouring to draw a deep breath and raise his sword.

"Bravo! Well done. A fine display of speed and cunning," shouted the man wearing the forest leather clothes beside Lord Landrew, in noble appreciation of Tarn's fighting skills, realizing that Sir Goth would have been dead twice over if the agile outlander had wished it so.

Ignoring the praise words, Tarn elevated Sir Goth's head with the tip of his sword until their eyes met. All of the fight, all of the indignation and insult, had drained out of Sir Goth's brown eyes. In their place, shone newly discovered respect for the large outlander who had spared his life when he, if the situation had been reversed, would not have acted with equal charity. Goth looked at the situation through less harsh eyes. The loss of one deer by a hunter who did not intentionally steal the beast was of little concern to him. The charitable action would be to forgive the outlander.

"A barbarian and youth I am, but my boyhood is long since destroyed. Rise, ye showed courage, however reckless."

"Accept my apology, sir. My previous words were unduly harsh and undeserved," Sir Goth offered humbly, accepting Tarn's hand to help him to his feet.

"Bah," Tarn denounced, amicably shaking his head. "I'm called Tarn, son of Connor, from the mountains of Asgard. Call me not sir. I am long undeserving of so ancient or so noble a title."

The four men on horseback laughed lightly at Tarn's good humour and the mixed expression on Sir Goth's perplexed face. A moment later Tarn joined the laughter and slapped Sir Goth on the back so hard he stumbled forward under the force of the impact.

"Ye were always prone to rash acts as a boy, Goth. It follows ye would grow up to become a rash man," Barath exclaimed.

"Mithras blessings be on me!" Sir Goth exclaimed, turning at the sound of the familiar voice. "Barath? Where in the Seven Hells did ye come from?"

"Under thy gentle nose all the while," quipped Tarn, his words unheard by all except Barath who grinned tightly.

"Barath! "Tis truly thee?" said the man in the forest leathers jumping off his horse.

"Aye, Tarl. It's me," answered Barath as Lard Landrew's son, Sir Tarl, lifted Barath's feet off the ground in a great bear hug.

Holding his boyhood friend at arm's length by both shoulders, smiling ear to ear, Sir Tarl asked, "And Valna. What about my dear Valna. Has she also returned from the dead? Favour us with the tale that explains why thy deaths were reported and thy home now a temple and barracks to Mahnaz."

"First I must correct my manners and greet thy father, Tarl," temporized Barath.

"Give us thy arm then, but no more for the moment, lad," answered Lord Landrew reaching down with his right hand to clasp Barath's arm. "Bar, good to see ye, my boy. Ye've been well missed. 'Tis been too long since Tarl and thee have raced through my hall with half the kitchen staff hot on thy mischievous tails and Aliesha screaming bloody revenge upon thy heads."

"Barath," Tarn called out, interrupting the reunion. "Full night quickly approaches. What is thy intent?"

"Aye," started Barath moving away from Lord Landrew to stand beside Tarn, and said to all present, "'Tis a long story I must share and there is little time in which to do so. Part of which I may tell, and part my brother, Tarn, must choose to share."

"Brother?" asked Sir Tarl. "Pray tell thy adventures."

"Aye, Tarl," Barath nodded. "Tarn has pledged himself my avenger to Valna. We have sworn brotherhood. Just as we are oath-brothers, Valna is now Tarn's oath-sister. Better and longer friends I have many, but a more valued and honourable oath-brother there are none. I'm proud to be considered oath-kin."

"But…but he's a barbarian?" Sir Goth said skeptically.

"Hold fast thy wounding tongue, Goth! Insult my brother's honour in my presence again, and it will be at thy peril," Barath growled fiercely.

Sir Goth stared disbelievingly at his boyhood friend—at the change that had come over him. They were of noble blood and honour, what could a barbarian know of such things?

"No brother," said Tarn before Goth could reply. "I am a barbarian, and proud to be called such. No man may take my honour by calling me what I am proud to be. We have heavier matters more deserving of our ire." After a short pause, he added, "Let us away."

"I could almost forget among friends," said Barath, sighing lightly. "We need allies, my brother, to set a snare for this priest Pentath. What say thee of my boyhood comrades?" At Tarn's nod, Barath turned to Lord Landrew and the others. "My time grows short. Descend thy horses and gather round. Pray silent attention whilst I recite a woeful narrative. All of thy questions will be answered by its conclusion."

Seated comfortably on the leaf- and pine-needled carpet, Barath's friends listened in disbelieving silence while he told of the curse placed on him and Valna. They of course already knew his father's death and shared similar suspicions. Barath carefully omitted any part of Tarn's tale, selectively regaling their listeners with the events leading up to their first meeting, and their adventures since. When Barath told of Valna's offer to Tarn, and his response, Lord Landrew glanced at him respectfully and bowed his head in thanks.

Once Barath finished speaking, Lord Landrew announced, "I am in thy debt, son of Connor. Valna be my Goddaughter. Barath's story fails to include why ye swore vengeance. Pray tell, lad?"

Tarn offered Lord Landrew an abbreviated version. He omitted mention of Kalen's sword, the Song of Steel Scroll, and Kalen's prophecy, deeming these items beyond their ken. Truth be told, Tarn had yet to accumulate a complete understanding himself and had yet to accept other parts. The five men sat in stony silence, until Lord Landrew heartily asked, "How may I be of service to thy quest?"

"Aye," Sir Tarl agreed. "I, too, pledge myself."

"And I," Sir Goth said.

"As do my brother and me," Nogeron said.

Barath studied each nobleman, and then turned to Tarn, announcing, "It begins, brother."

"Aye," Tarn replied, grasping Barath's proffered right arm. "In victory or death, our fates be one."

"Many are the threads of destiny's loom, but none stronger."