Blackheart gazed at the knoll and told him, “Because if I were wanting to do that, I’d just gig you instead and tell my old man about your friends on the hill. Now, are you coming?”
Sylvertre nodded, blushing at the blunders he’d made, at the ones he was likely making now as they climbed together into the broad, flat boat. Gregander hooked his lantern to the bow, and with the squire in toe, shoved off his vessel with a huge, spruce pole. They were on the water a few minutes or so before the first word was spoken. They were an eerie few minutes. Every direction Ogdon looked was yellow-tinged mist reflecting the light of their candle lantern. Nothing else seemed to exist except them and the boat and the cold, black, bitter water. An owl shrieked from the darkness beyond the fog, then Blackheart spoke, his breath joining the bog-mist.
“So, what were you planning on doing with that sword all on your own? I don’t imagine I found you on the bank by chance.”
The squire blushed again. “I thought you were a bounty hunter. I thought that if there was just one that I could handle it on my own. The others look down on me because I’m a lord’s son—they’re all kin to lowly knights or disfranchised nobles. I wanted to prove to them wrong, that their opinion of me is just jealousy. I wanted—” Sylvertre stopped and considered if he might be saying too much. He didn’t know this man sitting across from him, bearing the symbol of a treasonous house, but somehow he trusted him. He’d not told Ogdon to shut up or that he was an idiot. He seemed truly to be listening. “I wanted Jael to respect me, for her to look at me the way she looks at the captain. If you’d been a mercenary instead and I’d beaten you myself, she’d have no choice but to be impressed.”
Gregander sat arms crossed and shaking his head. “I should have known a lass was involved. What else makes a man do something so foolish? Well let me tell you, lad, you had the right idea. Only, killing a man is messy business. Just look at your poor Captain Gildmane. He lops off one reprobate head and half of the west is out to hang him.”
“Aren’t you angry about that too?” the squire blurted, regarding for the first time the familial connection. “Wasn’t Harold your brother?”
“Aye,” Blackheart spat into the impenetrable waters, “he was my brother, and more so than I, he was my father’s son—Pa’s favorite, I mean—both him and Byron. The day they left for your damned capital, I prayed neither would ever come home again. Now my brother’s back and with a fire in his eyes, ambitious. But that’s another tale for another time. I want to hear more about this girl.”
“Well,” answered Ogdon, unsure how to approach the question. He’d never truly thought it through before. Now that he tried, he found himself less and less certain of his own emotions so that his feelings fumbled out of his mouth. “She’s… unique. Like a daylily: sensitive and delicate yet tough as any of our squires, and better with a sword too. I only wish I was half so skilled. She learned it from her father, and he was a knight of the Temple Guard. Paladin Gardner said she moves just like him.”
The heir of Duskhall mussed his thick black hair. “God save you southerners. Why you would want a woman who moves like a man is beyond me, lad, but if the sword hasn’t turned her into half a lad herself, I think I can help you out. You see, we in the west haven’t lost our common sense. For instance, this lassie you’re fawning for. Every man north of the Serpent’s Tail could tell you that daughters with strong fathers want strong men. It’s just a common fact. So, I know you’re wondering, ‘how do you show a lass how tough you are?’ It’s like I said, you’re in the right boat with your heroic notions, but I say you need a better pole to push with.” Gregander held out his bifurcated spear. “Tell me, lad, have you ever done a gig?”
And from that second onward, for hours drifting atop the algae-green lake, Ogdon listened to his host recount half a dozen exploits of what he dubbed, “maidenhead hunting.” With zealous jubilation, he described every element: whether it was predawn or dead of night, the stars and the season and the shape of the moon, what kind of gig he used and what kind of girl he was after, and the stories he told to get her heart rapping hard in her chest and breathless at the size of the brackdragon when finally they found it.
Then Gregander delved into the details of his western tradition. In this, he became increasingly enthused, raving happily on the proper way to thrust, where to aim, what to do when the brackdragon dives or rolls or tries to bite back. By then, Sylvertre was lost in his imagination. Already was he contriving his night with Jael. He had the perfect tales in mind—one to get her on the water, the other once they found themselves adrift in the mist under a pale, gray moon. His night of head hunting couldn’t come soon enough.
A warmthless, white sun had long topped the trees to the east of camp by the time Ogdon found the bank again. He’d passed it several times during the final hours of night with only a dying lantern to guide him—one of three parting gifts: a gig, a boat, and an old candle lantern bestowed by the heir of Duskhall with wishes of good fortune as they separated on the southwestern bank. They’d provided no such luck thus far, thought Ogdon after scouring the southern and eastern shores for his companions. He hoped that meant the gifts had saved their luck
