On the second day of the festival, Dael invited Turgeon to join him on the King’s hunt in the Falkwood. Turgeon had been aware of the planned hunt, but hadn’t been expecting to be invited to join it. Over breakfast that morning, the Swordmaster had complained to him of the foolishness of the King venturing out into the deep forest with war looming over the Kingdom. King Maebric would not be swayed though, he was insistent that with the midsummer festival revived all of its traditions would be honored.

  With the hunt itself planned for early the following morning, the hunting party set out from the castle early in the afternoon that day. That day they would ride to a small fortified guardpost just outside the forest. Captain Grayson and the Swordmaster had stood up to the King together and insisted that if the hunt was to proceed, the barest precaution they could take was to spend the night securely within the guard post’s fortifications.

  From the moment he was invited to join the adventure Turgeon was a roiling kettle of emotions. Of course he was excited, a hunt like this was something he’d read about in stories as a boy and had always dreamed of being a part of. On the other hand, it would involve riding on a horse.

  Growing up on a farm just outside the city Turgeon had seen a lot of horses, and he’d seen a lot of other people riding horses, but he had never had an occasion or opportunity to ride one himself. He wasn’t exactly afraid of the animals, but he did have a healthy respect for them and was keenly aware of his own lack of experience. He expressed his concern to Dael, who told him not to worry and that he would make sure Turgeon was given a docile mount.

  As the hunting party gathered and prepared in the castle courtyard, Geoffry led a placid mare to Turgeon just as Dael had promised him and handed over the reins.

  “Do ya’ know wha’ yer doin’ with this beas’,” the stableboy asked in his clipped accent. Turgeon couldn’t help but notice his ex friend had left off the honorific, ‘m’lord’ he and the other stable boys used with the rest of the hunting party and he knew the other boy was still bitter about his own trajectory at court.

  “I’ll be fine, thank you Geoffry.”

  “Of cors’ ya will. Ye always ar’. Just put yer fee’ in the stirruhs, an’ ‘old tha reins lose. Don’ jerk em har’ or kack Millie wi’ yer ‘eels an shawl folla tha res’ of ‘em jes fine.”

  As Geoffry stomped off back to the stable the Swordmaster came over, leading his own massive black stallion by the reins.

  “I see they gave you Ole Millie,” he indicated Turgeon’s mount with a grin and was obviously struggling not to laugh out loud. “She’s a good mount for you, boy. This will be a good experience for you today, riding on horseback. It’s a skill you’ll be needing to develop quickly with the war coming.”

  Turgeon felt like a fool for not having considered that before. Of course if they were going to be heading to war there would be a lot of riding involved. He should’ve been learning to ride for weeks, months even probably but it was better late than never.

  Most of the party was gathered and mounted by now, so Turgeon pulled himself up onto Millie’s saddle, managing to do it by imitating how he saw the others putting one foot in a stirrup and pulling themselves up and over by the saddle horn. Dael, Ted and Ed were already mounted and ready to ride out. From horseback, Turgeon surveyed the gathered party.

  The King was of course there, flanked by the Swordmaster and Guard Captain Grayson. A full company of the King’s Own Guard, around thirty men, was also mounted and ready to ride out with them.

  A smattering of other nobles had joined the hunting party. Unsurprisingly, Duke Y’gurth and Y’graten were there. That should make things interesting. Y’gurth was conversing with a gray haired man so large it was amazing his horse was able to hold him up. The man was finely dressed in so much silk it must have cost a fortune and was perhaps the only member of the party who was unarmed.

  “Who’s that?” Turgeon asked Dael, discretely indicating the large man.

  “Duke Charbon of Meritinia has finally deigned to grace us with his presence it appears. I’m surprised he’s joining the hunt though, it’s probably been decades since that man has spent a night without servants and attendants to dress him and wipe his arse. Those three,” Dael indicated three men who sat astride their horses near the Duke, “are his sons. Geredon,” Turgeon indicated a severe and martial looking man who wore leather armor and had a longsword at his side, “Ferelan,” a handsome man with an oversized floppy hat to match his finely embroidered silk jacket and an ornate jeweled rapier, “and Tolein,” a plainly dressed man who looked confused by the whole scene.

  “What’s wrong with that one?” Turgeon indicated Tolein.

  “They say he fell and hit his head when he was a boy,” Ted chimed in, “he’s been an idiot ever since. It’s always baffled me that they even bring him along for things like this.”

  “Geredon is the one to watch out for,” Dael continued as if Ted hadn’t spoken, “he’s skilled with that blade and not shy about using it. Ferelan only cares about women and wine, but don’t let his demeanor or the foolish look of his rapier deceive you, he also knows his business with the blade and has fought and won more duels than any other Falkarian nobles.”

  “Duels? Like real to the blood duels?”

  “He prefers to the death.”

  “I thought those were illegal?”

  “He’s a Duke’s son, and Meritinia has always been far more lax in enforcing the dueling laws than the rest of the Kingdom. It’s just another example of the Duchy’s hedonism and depravity,” Dael obviously had a deep seated disdain for Meritinia and its people.

  Just then the King blew a large horn three times and the castle’s gates were opened for the group to ride out. They headed down onto the field where the festival was set up and still going strong with revelers filling the main festival grounds and the sounds of music and laughter rising into the afternoon sky. They rode past the festival and around the tent city, heading towards the Falkwood.

  The forest’s border was a few hours' ride from the castle, and once they reached it the party turned toward the north, riding for another hour to reach the guard post where they would stay the night. The ride was uneventful, and Turgeon was relieved to see the post’s wooden walls rising from the plain. His body ached in places he’d never even known it could before. Millie may be a placid horse, but the party had kept a strong pace all afternoon and the constant bouncing and jostling just wasn’t something his body was used to.

  At the fort, the King’s Huntmaster awaited them with a handful of scouts and they immediately went into the main structure of the fort with the King, Captain Grayson and the Swordmaster to plan the hunt for the next morning.

  Meanwhile, the hunters tended to their horses, Ted and Ed showing Turgeon how to remove his saddle, brush Millie down and hobble her with food and water for the night. The guardsmen set to erecting tents in the fort’s mustering field for themselves and members of the party who wouldn’t be staying in the fort’s permanent structures. It seemed that group would include Turgeon, Ted and Ed as well as the other Duke’s children and the dozen or so the lesser nobles that had joined the hunt.

  The friends settled in for the night around a small campfire. Dael, despite having been provided lodgings, chose to spend the night with his friends. They drank watered wine and ate meat they cooked themselves on skewers in the fire, laughing and telling stories of their childhoods. Turgeon laughed along and enjoyed listening to their stories, but despite their prodding was unable to share any of his own. He feigned ignorance, sticking to his story of having no memories from before that day in the market a year ago, but he suspected Dael was beginning to see through that lie.

  They were enjoying themselves immensely, until Y’grathen appeared at the edges of the firelight.

  “I see you’ve all made friends with the farm boy now,” he sneered at Ted and Ed, acting as if he didn’t see Turgeon sitting there.

  “His name is Turgeon, Y’grathen,” Ted responded, standing up and blocking the Duke’s son from coming closer to their fire, “And yes, we’ve become his friend.”

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  “I would’ve expected that from the Duke of Farms, but I’m surprised you two would stoop to spending time with a peasant.”

  “You didn’t hear then, did you?” Dael questioned him.

  “Hear what, Farm Duke?”

  “The Swordmaster officially adopted him. He’s legally a Falkar now. Your father was there when it happened the other day, where were you?”

  Y’grathen looked as though he might become ill. “I was recuperating from the journey… I, I fell ill along the way,” he seemed embarrassed to admit to weakness, and probably wouldn’t have shared at all if he hadn’t been caught off balance by the news of Turgeon’s adoption.

  “Well, now you know. That’s the King’s nephew you’re talking about. I’m sure he’ll let tonight slide,” Dael made a show of looking to Turgeon who nodded solemnly in agreement, using every bit of his self control to avoid grinning madly, “but you’d do well to consider your words more carefully in the future.”

  “King’s nephew in name only,” Y’grathen was struggling to come to terms with this news. “He has no Falkar blood in his veins. I heard your father enlisted you in the two handed sword duels, boy. We’ll see if you deserve the name Falkar soon enough. Hopefully I’ll get a chance to teach you a lesson myself.”

  “You will be competing in the duels then too, your grace?” Turgeon addressed Y’grathen as politely as he could manage, not wanting to stoke his anger any further tonight. He’d save that for the duels.

  “Of course I’m competing, you rube. The warriors and swordsmen of Fjaarlgard are the best in the Kingdom. When the festival was held regularly we won nearly every year.”

  “Only because the Swordmaster isn’t allowed to compete himself,” Ed said under his breath, but not quietly enough.

  “My father would crush him too, if he had ever been given the chance. It’s a stupid rule, and he just hides behind it.”

  “That’s enough, boys,” Duke Charbon’s oldest son, Garedon approached their firelight, “It’s time we were all abed and your immature squabbling is keeping me awake. We ride before first light tomorrow, and I would prefer to be well rested.”

  Garedon was not the type of man they wanted to anger, so the boys apologized and doused their fire, turning in for the night. Y’grathen stalked off for his own tent with a sneer.

  *****

  As promised, the hunting party was gathered and mounted long before first light the next morning. The huntmaster and his scouts had joined the King, Captain Grayson and the Swordmaster at the column’s van when they rode out of the guard post’s gates and into the gloomy forest.

  The Falkwood was an ancient forest, untouched since the days of the Empire and preserved for the King’s pleasures by royal decree during the reign of Gaerdryn II. Massive old growth trees stretched high above them, and the canopy mostly obstructed the light of the rising sun. They did not follow a set trail, though they did cross narrow deer tracks infrequently, the underbrush where they journeyed was so thin the party was able to spread out and easily cut directly through the trees.

  Dael had learned that morning that the Huntmaster and his scouts had been monitoring a large sounder of wild boars for days, slowly and carefully herding them towards the edge of the huge forest so the King’s hunting party could easily reach them with a short ride from the border. Everyone in the party had been provided with boar spears, distinguished from a typical spear by the strong crossguard placed just below the hardened iron spearheads. Boars were vicious animals, and their tusks could easily rip a careless man open. With the spears they would be able to dispatch their prey from a safe distance atop their mounts, and the cross would prevent their prey from attempting to run up a spear and gore its wielder.

  Riding into the forest as dawn broke was an exhilarating experience for Turgeon. This was hunting as he had lain awake imagining it in his bed in the small farmhouse as a child. A soft breeze stirred his hair and cooled him despite the already hot and sticky summer morning. The smell of sweat, campfire and horseflesh mingling with the fresh scents of the forest in the morning. A scout’s horn blew in the distance, alerting the hunting party as to the location of their prey. The men heeled their horses sharply towards the sound, Turgeon imitating them with only a modicum of cautious hesitation.

  Suddenly their dispersed column was in chaos. Men were screaming and shouting, and it took Turgeon a moment to recognize that waves of arrows were slicing through their ranks from a ridgeline maybe forty paces to the side of the route they had been taking.

  “Falkarians, on me!” he heard a shout from up ahead, and without hesitation kicked his horse towards the sound.

  “Guardsmen, to the ridge!” That was Captain Grayson, he thought, personally leading the majority of the guardsmen that had accompanied them to assault the ridge while the rest of the hunters formed up in a protective ring around the King.

  Turgeon’s own mount took an arrow in the flank, crashing to the ground and sending him flying and tumbling head over heels. He came to a stop just shy of where the Swordmaster was organizing their defensive stand. He briefly felt a pang of guilt for poor old Millie, she had been a good horse for him in his brief time with her. Millie wasn’t the only mount down though, while many of the men were unharmed it seemed as though their horses had taken the brunt of the archer’s attacks. Perhaps that had even been their intent, but if so the implications of that escaped Turgeon and his basic understanding of combat tactics.

  As a protective circle was formed around the King the guardsmen charged the archers on the ridgeline. Turgeon watched as they performed what he would’ve thought to be an impossible maneuver. That ridge should’ve been a safe location for the ambushing archers, tall enough to require an attacking force to ride far to either side to reach a point where they could push their mounts up the slope and flank a force atop it. But the King’s Own Guard were no ordinary soldiers. They charged their mounts directly up to the ridgeline, climbing atop saddles as they did so and at the last minute vaulting from the backs of their horses to gain the ridge. The company of around forty archers was not prepared for such a direct response to their ambush and the guard cut through them like butter. The remaining archers, only a dozen or so, fled the attack, dashing into the forest.

  Shouts and the clash of weapons from behind him forced Turgeon to realize he’d been too distracted and absorbed with the engagement on the ridgeline. Another flanking force of the ambushers had risen out of a low gully not ten paces from where they had formed up and was even now attempting to cut their way to the King.

  Fortunately for the King, the nobles he had brought on this hunt included among them some of the most skilled swordsmen and warriors in the kingdom. Duke Charbon wasn’t the fighting type, so Turgeon wasn’t surprised to see him cowering in the center of their defensive ring alongside the King, but the rest of their party had their swords drawn and were engaging the flanking force. The ring was breaking down a bit as the fighters rushed to one side to engage, but by this point the guardsmen were returning from the ridgeline to join the fight and protect their other flank.

  Turgeon entered the fray himself alongside the Swordmaster. He learned quickly that melee combat was nothing like the sparring he’d done in the salle. This was pure chaos, hacking and slashing at whichever enemy was closest and trying his best to avoid being slashed himself. His wasn’t the most astute eye, but the enemy force didn’t look like what he would think a band of forest bandits would look like. They were all dressed similarly, in well maintained leather armor that bore no insignia or military markings. For the most part they were clean shaven from what he could see beneath their uniform helmets, and they were all similarly equipped with well made long swords and shields.

  With the return of the guardsmen, the attackers begin to break and flee into the forest. One man attempted to rally them, shouting and calling them cowards. He wore chainmail armor, superior to the other men’s leather, and had a stocky build and deep booming voice. He wore no helmet, so Turgeon was able to see his dark matted hair and long black mustache. In the end, his efforts were futile and the band of imitation brigands dissipated into the forest, leaving their many dead behind.

  In the aftermath, the guardsmen searched the bodies for any wounded men that could be taken back and interrogated, but found none. When the survivors retreated they had cut the throats of their fallen comrades, likely to prevent just such an outcome.

  After the shock of his first battle wore off, Turgeon sought out his friends and was pleased to find they had all survived the engagement mostly unscathed. Dael had a nasty cut on his arm, but it had already been bandaged by members of the guard trained in combat first aid. Ed was worse off, a blow had struck his leg and while the cut wasn’t bad it had been hard enough to break the bone. He had been allocated one of their few remaining horses for the journey back to the castle.

  Once he had confirmed his friends were safe Turgeon made his way to where the Swordmaster, Captain Grayson and the King discussed their situation.

  “… no ordinary brigands, your majesty,” the Captain was saying. “I’ve never heard of a band of thieves that large in these parts, not in decades. And look at their equipment, this is all military issue gear.”

  His master was nodding his agreement with the Captain, while the King frowned and surveyed the scene. “This attack was a message from our enemies, your majesty. It may have been Summor, or Klaav… or perhaps they both participated in organizing it. For now, it matters not. What matters is that we aren’t safe out here.”

  The King didn’t respond to their comments, “How many casualties, Captain?”

  “Your majesty, we must mount up and move–”

  “How. Many. Casualties.”

  “Seven dead guardsmen, your majesty. Three wounded badly enough that they’ll need time to recover. Numerous cuts and scrapes. Duke Charbon’s youngest son, Tolein, was grievously wounded. He may not live.”

  King Maebric listened quietly to the litany, nodding at each point. He visibly steeled himself and turned to the Swordmaster.

  “You were right, brother,” even the Swordmaster’s usually stony face betrayed the shock he must be feeling at the King’s acknowledgement of their familial relationship and concession of the point from their arguments about the hunt. “This was a foolish idea in wartime. It seems I had to learn that lesson the hard way, as always.”

  For the first time since Turgeon had met him, the King seemed to actually be contrite. Even the Captain was unable to hide his surprise.

  “We will return to the castle immediately, Captain Grayson. Bring our dead. Leave theirs.”