along, playing the part of hunters. Tomas led the way as they left the footpath, heading for the watering pool they knew lay not too far distant. It was improbable they would spot game this time of the day unless they simply blundered across it, but if any were to be found, it most likely would be near the pool. The woods to the northeast of the town of Crydee were less forbidding than the great forest to the south. Many years of harvesting trees for lumber had given the green glades a sunlit airiness not found in the deep haunts of the southern forest. The keep boys had often played here over the years. With small imagination, the woods were transformed into a wondrous place, a green world of high adventure. Some of the greatest deeds known had taken place here. Daring escapes, dread quests, and mightily contested battles had been witnessed by the silent trees as the boys gave vent to their youthful dreams of coming manhood. Foul creatures, mighty monsters, and base outlaws had all been fought and vanquished, often accompanied by the death of a great hero, with appropriate last words to his mourning companions, all managed with just enough time left to return to the keep for supper.
Tomas reached a small rise that overlooked the pool, screened off by young beech saplings, and pulled aside some brush so they could mount a vigil. He stopped, awed, and softly said, ‘Pug, look!’ Standing at the edge of the pool was a stag, head held high as he sought the source of something that disturbed his drinking. He was an old animal, the hair around his muzzle nearly all white, and his head crowned by magnificent antlers.
Pug counted quickly. ‘He has fourteen points.’
Tomas nodded agreement. ‘He must be the oldest buck in the forest.’ The stag turned his attention in the boys’ direction, flicking an ear nervously. They froze, not wishing to frighten off such a beautiful creature. For a long, silent minute the stag studied the rise, nostrils flaring, then slowly lowered his head to the pool and drank.
Tomas gripped Pug’s shoulder and inclined his head to one side. Pug followed Tomas’s motion and saw a figure walking silently into the clearing. He was a tall man dressed in leather clothing, dyed forest green. Across his back hung a longbow and at his belt a hunter’s knife. His green cloak’s hood was thrown back, and he walked toward the stag with a steady, even step. Tomas said, ‘It’s Martin.’
Pug also recognized the Duke’s Huntmaster. An orphan like Pug, Martin had come to be known as Longbow by those in the castle, as he had few equals with that weapon. Something of a mystery, Martin Longbow was still well liked by the boys, for while he was aloof with the adults in the castle, he was always friendly and accessible to the boys. As Huntmaster, he was also the Duke’s Forester. His duties absented him from the castle for days, even weeks at a time, as he kept his trackers busy looking for signs of poaching, possible fire dangers, migrating goblins, or outlaws camping in the woods. But when he was in the castle, and not organizing a hunt for the Duke, he always had time for the boys. His dark eyes were always merry when they pestered him with questions of woodlore or for tales of the lands near the boundaries of Crydee. He seemed to possess unending patience, which set him apart from most of the Craftmasters in the town and keep.
Martin came up to the stag, gently reached out, and touched his neck. The great head swung up, and the stag nuzzled Martin’s arm. Softly Martin said, ‘If you walk out slowly, without speaking, he might let you approach.’
Pug and Tomas exchanged startled glances, then stepped into the clearing. They walked slowly around the edge of the pool, the stag following their movements with his head, trembling slightly. Martin patted him reassuringly and he quieted. Tomas and Pug came to stand beside the hunter, and Martin said, ‘Reach out and touch him, slowly so as not to frighten him.’
Tomas reached out first, and the stag trembled beneath his fingers. Pug began to reach out, and the stag retreated a step. Martin crooned to the stag in a language Pug had never heard before, and the animal stood still. Pug touched him and marveled at the feel of his coat – so like the cured hides he had touched before, yet so different for the feel of life pulsing under his fingertips.
Suddenly the stag backed off and turned. Then, with a single bounding leap, he was gone among the trees. Martin Longbow chuckled and said, ‘Just as well. It wouldn’t do to have him become too friendly with men. Those antlers would quickly end up over some poacher’s fireplace.’
Tomas whispered, ‘He’s beautiful, Martin.’
Longbow nodded, his eyes still fastened upon the spot where the stag had vanished into the woods. ‘That he is, Tomas.’
Pug said, ‘I thought you hunted stags, Martin. How—’
Martin said, ‘Old Whitebeard and I have something of an understanding, Pug. I hunt only bachelor stags, without does, or does too old to calve. When Whitebeard loses his harem to some younger buck someday, I may take him. Now each leaves the other to his own way. The day will come when I will look at him down the shaft of an arrow.’ He smiled at the boys. ‘I won’t know until then if I shall let the shaft fly. Perhaps I will, perhaps not.’ He fell silent for a time, as if the thought of Whitebeard’s becoming old was saddening, then as a light breeze rustled the branches said, ‘Now, what brings two such bold hunters into the Duke’s woods in the early morning? There must be a thousand things left undone with the Midsummer festival this afternoon.’
Tomas answered. ‘My mother tossed us out of the kitchen. We were more trouble than not. With the Choosing today …’ His voice died away, and he felt suddenly embarrassed. Much of Martin’s mysterious reputation stemmed from when he first came to Crydee. At his time for the Choosing, he had been placed directly with the old Huntmaster by the Duke, rather than standing before the assembled Craftmasters with the other boys his age. This violation of one of the oldest traditions known had offended many people in town, though none would dare openly express such feelings to Lord Borric. As was natural, Martin became the object of their ire, rather than the Duke. Over the years Martin had more than justified Lord Borric’s decision, but still most people were troubled by the Duke’s special treatment of him that one day. Even after twelve years some people still regarded Martin Longbow as being different and, as such, worthy of distrust.
Tomas said, ‘I’m sorry, Martin.’
Martin nodded in acknowledgment, but without humor. ‘I understand, Tomas. I may not have had to endure your uncertainty, but I have seen many others wait for the day of Choosing. And for four years I myself have stood with the other Masters, so I know a little of your worry.’
A thought struck Pug and he blurted, ‘But you’re not with the other Craftmasters.’
Martin shook his head, a rueful expression playing across his even features. ‘I had thought that, in light of your worry, you might fail to observe the obvious. But you’ve a sharp wit about you, Pug.’
Tomas didn’t understand what they were saying for a moment, then comprehension dawned. ‘Then you’ll select no apprentices!’
Martin raised a finger to his lips. ‘Not a word, lad. No, with young Garret chosen last year, I’ve a full company of trackers.’
Tomas was disappointed. He wished more than anything to take service with Swordmaster Fannon, but should he not be chosen as a soldier, then he would prefer the life of a forester, under Martin. Now his second choice was denied him. After a moment of dark brooding, he brightened: perhaps Martin didn’t choose him because Fannon already had.
Seeing his friend entering a cycle of elation and depression as he considered all the possibilities, Pug said, ‘You haven’t been in the keep for nearly a month, Martin.’ He put away the sling he still held and asked, ‘Where have you kept yourself?’
Martin looked at Pug as the boy instantly regretted his question. As friendly as Martin could be,
