Deathsworn (Wattys 2018 Winner)

13 - The Hare and the Bear

It was in the sparring yard that Bard crossed paths with Orl Ejjar. He was searching for Orel, hoping to hand her an apology that would both heal the wounds of the morning and take his mind off the worry.

Instead he had found her father. The Orl of Hammar was watching his youngest son, Ulf, be put through his paces by the master-at-arms, the grisly old man Orel had called Torf.

Orl Ejjar looked to be in a foul mood, yet his face lit up upon spotting Bard struggling through the yard, doing his best to pass unnoticed.

'Lord Eran! How did you sleep? The kennel-master tells me hounds were loose in the night.' He had to boom over the din from where Ulf was pounding a quintain. Bard noticed then that the orl had an ale-skin clutched in his fist. The sun was barely risen.

'I didn't hear them, my lord. I slept well, in any case, the chamber was most comfortable. Your daughter hasn't passed by this morning, has she? I must speak with her.'

Orl Ejjar threw forth a chuckle. 'Which one?'

Bard joined him with his laugh, until he realised it had been a serious question. 'Orel, my lord, I was with her at the dinner last night.'

The Orl waved a meaty hand to show he wasn't concerned. 'How fare the injuries? Stiffer than a night in a whorehouse?'

'They fare well, my lord. Your physician, Oyvin, is most competent. Orel has not been here?'

'Tell me, Lord Eran, how will you spend such a fine day?' Orl Ejjar threw his arms up to the sky.

It was true, the Elders had blessed them with weather scarcely seen in Scavania. There was no real bite to the breeze, the sun invading the darkest corners of the keep.

'I would seek out your daughter. She promised to show me the catacombs today.' And there are many things I must say to her.

'Nonsense! Dark places are for dark moods, Lord Eran. We shall go to the archery this morning, we shall watch the delicate flowers and their fancy shooting. Come, you must join me. I have much to speak with you about.'

Bard felt his shoulders slump but the protest died before it left his lips. It would be wrong of him to refuse Orl Ejjar's request, particularly since it was so reasonable. And how much ale has he had? If I refuse him, he may take offence and expel me from the keep. What then? 'As you wish, my lord, it would be an honour to accompany you.'

When Bard eventually lowered himself into a seat beside Orl Ejjar he was convinced he would shortly lose consciousness. The gallery was exposed to the eastern sun and it had taken tremendous effort to walk the distance from the keep to the archery range, more so at a speed Orl Ejjar was happy with.

Upon first arriving, he had hoped Bodkin might be present somewhere. Bard could find no sign of him, though. Nor Taaj, but then, he supposed, that was difficult at the best of times, even when he was bedecked in his fiercely bright robes. Instead, he sat in the main viewing gallery with Orl Ejjar, his wife and Hogstas Kyro, Lord of Giants Fort, fighting against the urge to use his tunic to mop the sweat from his face. At least there was no sign of Erikk. Bard didn't want to see him again until it was all over, the deed done.

The archery range sprawled out before him; a long strip of field separating the archers and their marks. Four men had made it to the final, three of them from Ark, but there would be many arrows fired before a winner was declared. Orl Ejjar entertained himself by laughing about how cowardly they were to enjoy such a sport, though Bard reckoned him merely bitter not a single Mountainman had made it to the last stage.

'It takes a great deal of skill, my lord,' Lord Hogstas countered, after a time. He supped wine in place of ale and watched on keenly as the four archers loosed practise shafts at the targets.