“My lord,” he said.
“Master Tallspear.” Vaelin glanced behind to see the war party of Bear People emerge from the forest at a crawl, spears and bows held low so as not to break the silhouette of the skyline.
“You can see it’s as we said,” Tallspear said, nodding at the outlaws’ stockade. Over the course of recent years Vaelin had often pondered the fact that Tallspear’s face possessed only the most meagre vestige of the man who had once tried very hard to kill him. The Cumbraelin’s features were still the hardened, weathered mask of a lifelong hunter, but the fiery glint of fanaticism had long since faded from his gaze. Apart from the longbow he carried, his garb was that of the Bear People and he spoke their language, still beyond Vaelin’s skills to master, with an easy fluency. Although Vaelin still couldn’t help thinking of him as Cumbraelin, in any way that mattered he was now a hunter of the Bear People clan, evidenced by the name they had given him. Vaelin knew he would probably never learn the man’s birth name, and found himself content in his ignorance.
“You said you found this a month ago?” Vaelin asked.
“Twenty-five days, to be precise. It wasn’t here two weeks before. Our people come here fairly regularly, plenty of beavers to be trapped in the river.”
“So they saw you?”
Tallspear responded with a frown that was both amused and faintly insulted.
“Apologies.” Vaelin turned his gaze back to the stockade. “How often do they raid?”
“That’s the curious thing, my lord. They don’t, as far as we can tell. Very few tracks in the surrounding country, except what you’d expect from the occasional hunting party. For the most part they just stay in there. Truth be told, we were tempted to leave them be, but the elders felt we should honour our treaty with the Tower Man.”
Vaelin inclined his head in thanks. Since being granted leave to settle in the Reaches after their forced migration from the icy wastes to the north, the Bear People had consistently proven themselves loyal if insular subjects of the Realm. “Be sure to tell them their consideration is appreciated.”
“I will, my lord. Also, two-thirds of the spoils when we’re done would also greatly emphasise the honour in which you hold the Bear People.”
Vaelin bit down a sigh. After being spared execution and finding a home with the Bear People, Tallspear had forsaken the god-worshipping fanaticism that had brought him to this land intent on assassinating its Tower Lord. Instead, these days the Cumbraelin’s reserves of zeal were now fully employed in the role of chief bargainer for his adopted tribe, keen to protect them from the greed of the Realm-born.
“Half,” Vaelin said. “Including profits from the sale of any gold and bluestone we recover.”
The hunter seemed about to argue the point but fell silent at a loud click from behind. Vaelin turned to see a diminutive young woman crouched nearby, a small black bear at her side. The woman’s name was Iron Eyes, and it was easy to see where she got it in the scowl she directed at Tallspear. As the only shaman remaining to the Bear People, she was the closest thing they had to an overall leader. She was also Tallspear’s wife and mother to their three children.
She clicked her tongue again before telling her husband, “Don’t be rude,” in clipped but well-spoken Realm Tongue. “Half is acceptable, Tower Man,” she added, turning to Vaelin. “But there must be a blood price for any hunters called to join the Green Fire.”
“Of course.” Vaelin inclined his head before returning his attention to the stockade. He counted a dozen sentries on the wall, each bearing either bow or crossbow. Once they realised an attack was under way more would surely join them, meaning a charge across the floor of the gulch would inevitably cost lives. In addition to the forty or so Bear People, he also had another sixty North Guard, surely enough to put the matter beyond doubt regardless of how many arrows the outlaws cast their way.
“Best wait for darkness, my lord,” Tallspear said, evidently following his line of thought. “We can easily get within fifty paces of that wall come midnight, put up a volley to cover a charge for the gate. A few blows from a decent-sized ram should be enough to gain entry.”
“They’ll be expecting their scouts to return come nightfall,” Vaelin said, shaking his head. “Waiting for midnight will take too long.” He thought a moment longer before nodding at the small bear at Iron Eyes’ side. “Does he have a name?”
“Little Teeth,” Iron Eyes replied, running a hand through the beast’s thick fur. He let out a contented huff and nuzzled her side in return.
“Wise Bear’s beast was called Iron Claw,” Vaelin recalled. “He carried him all the way across the ice to the land of the Dark Hearts. There we fought a great battle. You know this?”
Iron Eyes scowled again, nodding cautiously. The old shaman had never returned from the ice and neither the Bear People nor anyone else had discovered his fate. Vaelin knew they still hoped for his return and that his continued failure to do so was a decidedly sore point. “I know this,” the shaman said.
“Iron Claw was brave,” Vaelin told her. “How brave is Little Teeth?”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
They set out the moment the sun dipped behind the eastern peaks. Vaelin, in company with Tallspear, Iron Eyes, Ellese and a dozen North Guard, made a silent descent into the gulch. They forded the narrow but swift flowing river running through the centre of the canyon and crawled the remaining few hundred paces to a shallow depression within bowshot of the stockade. Once halted, Vaelin nodded to Iron Eyes. The shaman briefly ran a hand over Little Teeth’s snout before fixing her gaze upon his. After a short pause both bear and shaman blinked in unison before the animal loped away into the gloom, making for the south-facing stretch of the stockade wall.
“What now, Uncle?” Ellese asked in a whisper that drew a sharp glance from Vaelin.
Use your hands! he signed in annoyance.
She lowered her head, hands moving in reluctant contrition. Sorry.
Now we wait, he told her, nodding at her bow. Be ready.
He watched her nock an arrow to the string, slender but firm hands grasping the intricately carved stave. The weapon was a true thing of beauty, fashioned from wych elm decorated in various martial motifs carved by an expert hand. A bow of Arren, Reva had called it. Quite possibly the last in the world. I lost her sister in the Boraelin Ocean. There’s a standing reward of a hundred golds for anyone who brings me another. As yet, no one’s claimed it.
He knew the weapon was said to possess some form of divine blessing, the more ardent followers of the World Father and his Blessed Lady ascribing preternatural power and accuracy to what was, in essence, a length of shaped wood. However, the feats he had seen Reva and her daughter perform with this bow often gave him cause to wonder.