Roper was silent again. Keturah’s warrior-ruler comment fitted with everything he knew about his role, but he had also been taught that the Black Lord was the ultimate servant of the realm. And if the realm suffered, surely he should allay that suffering.
But at that moment, there came a knock at the door. “Come!”
A Vidarr legionary entered and Roper recognised him as the one who had waited on Tekoa when they had first met. Harald, he thought he was called. “My lord? Tekoa is leading a party hunting in the Trawden forests and said it would be his great honour if you would join him.”
“That wasn’t how he phrased the invitation.”
“No, lord,” admitted Harald with a bemused smile. “It wasn’t.”
The Trawden forests were where the delicious boar from the night before had been hunted. They were part of the Vidarr estate and jealously guarded. The trees teemed with deer, aurochs and, it was claimed, giant elk with each antler as long as a man is tall. Tekoa was a keen huntsman and an invitation to the Trawden forests was worth having, even to the Black Lord.
Roper licked his lips and looked solemnly at Keturah. “Go,” she said shortly.
“Are you coming?”
“Almighty, no.”
It was a holiday, after all.
For Roper, the day was breathless. He had hunted before, of course. In the berjasti, the young apprentices were encouraged to hunt and fish to supplement their meagre rations. But it was for food alone. They would tickle trout from the brooks that ran nearby, floating their fingers beneath the bellies of the fish that sheltered beneath the overhanging bank and drawing them into their chests before throwing them, flapping, onto the bank. They would snare hares and grouse, dispatching them gleefully and roasting them right away. They would create little gallows for squirrels, wait for badgers to emerge at dusk and pin the snarling beasts to the earth with a spear. Little fishing lines with hawthorn or antler hooks would be set out, or else used by hand to tempt crayfish out from the shelter of the stream bed. Roper had set deadfalls that had caught foxes (tough, dry, not pleasant), hedgehogs (fatty and delicious) and marten (like fox, but a slightly sweeter taste). Sometimes, if they had time, they might find the tracks of a deer and pursue it with bow and arrow, but that was rare and successes were rarer still.
Hunting with Tekoa was nothing like this. They were after the giant elk, with the legate declaring that nothing else would do. “The stags aren’t in the best state this time of year. We should have more of a challenge if we went after them in the summer, but they still have their antlers. Look for the antlers, lord.” They rode out on coursers; a trio of enormous shaggy hounds loping behind them. It was Tekoa and Roper, a couple of Vidarr legionaries including Harald for assistance, and two other senior officers of the country whose names Roper did not know. They carried lances, and each had a bow and a quiver of arrows strapped on to their horse.
The snow was still falling, thick and soft, and the forests were a delight to Roper. They were somewhere between broadleaf and evergreen, with the skeletons of immense beech and oak standing out stark against the snow, their leaves long gone. Alongside them grew pine, spruce, larch and cedar, needles gleaming dark green beneath a white dusting. Thrushes squeaked and chirruped from the branches as they passed, cantering up a winding path, the noise of their horses’ hooves softened by the snow. They had barely entered the forest when they stopped at Roper’s insistence to listen. In the distance, a pack of wolves was howling, voices weaving in and out of one another as they claimed ownership over this stretch of the wild. It made Roper think of his time in the haskoli. Often in the evenings, they had been able to hear the wolves in the surrounding mountains. They rode on, Roper already beaming to himself.
“Quiet now,” said Tekoa after a time. “And look there!” Roper followed his finger and saw something immense and dark stealing away into the undergrowth. He waited some more but all was still. It was gone, leaving just the memory of its grace and power. “Bear,” said Tekoa. They were still for a time longer, though it was not coming back.
They would usually have taken a huntsman with them, but Tekoa insisted on directing everything himself. They rode on, passing trees with the familiar Anakim handprint carved into their trunk; people who had been to this place before them and declared their love for it. Each would be invested with memories, but only to the right people. Even beneath the snow, this forest smelt damp and intoxicating. Roper could feel eyes watching their progress as they moved through and he observed Tekoa, for whom this place must crawl with memories, stare distractedly at a particular spot every now and then, a slight smile coming to his face. No Sutherner would understand what this wilderness meant to the Anakim or their attachment to the land through which they moved. They were maskunn: exposed.
After an hour’s riding, they reached an immense central clearing. “Watch here; the elk come for the fresh shoots and shrubs that grow out of the shade of the trees. When we see one, we will drive it against the trees. We’ll trap it somewhere where its antlers are too big for it to fit through. Then we have a fight.”
They skirted the edge of the clearing. A herd of aurochs grazed in the centre, their breath rising as a mist above them. The hounds whined at the sight of the beasts, but Tekoa snapped his fingers and they went silent. Nothing but giant elk would do.
They followed the treeline for another half-hour, keeping a constant eye on the direction of the wind, which had begun to swirl somewhat. Finally, Tekoa
