The sun of the bright mountain sky glared down on the highlands underneath, illustrating the shapes of a small herd of stags at the edge of the river meandering down the face of the land into the golden desert below. If one could see as well as a hunter of the sky, the shapes of two men could be discerned from the bright reflections of the semi-arid land, crouching near the herd in a sparse clump of undergrowth that was able to grow in the relative shadow of the mountains.
One of them tested his hand-carved yew bow, his keen eyes trained on one particular stag just at the edge of the group. Not one of the group noticed the dark-haired figure with bright blue eyes remove an arrow from his quiver in the thick scrub. Arnoan Tlamris keenly observed his unsuspecting prey at the waters edge as he crawled through the small patch of undergrowth.
Breathing in the autumn air, he nocked the arrow and steadied himself for the final shot. His target, a young auburn stag, was almost carelessly taking a drink at the river, the morning daylight and its close comrades relieving most of its fears. It knew the animals around the mountain but it must have never met a hunter before. Hunters were seldom here, and the many did not brave the cold, treacherous mountain paths.
The stag foolishly wandered a few metres away from the main group. Arnoan held his breath and prepared to inevitably release the arrow from his hold, the animal in his sights. The stag was just about to take one more draught… Suddenly an arrow, not unlike his own, whizzed past his ear, startling him and striking the animal through the head, while his own misfired into the other copse where the herd had sought shelter.
Immediately, the whole pack of spooked animals bolted back towards the mountain forest from whence they came, the quick movement of the arrow signalling a predator amongst their midst. Arnoan gazed back at his greying uncle in the sand behind the thicket with a disapproving frown. A lined face grinned back insolently, the blue shining blue eyes and the brilliant white teeth contrasting with the black hair and desert tan. Sometimes, he thought, that old man goes too far with his competitiveness.
'Uncle, why didn't you let me take the shot? It is my birthday after all, and have you ever seen me steal your shot? Plus that arrow nearly nicked my ear' Arnoan complained with false contempt to his uncle's frequent immature gestures at challenging him at every turn. Strangely though, those challenges made Arnoan attempt even harder to beat him at his own game.
'Well,' replied he, his azure eyes glinting with hidden amusement 'I couldn't have you take all the glory. And, as you well know, I never miss.'
Arnoan rolled his eyes. 'Well, at least we got the meat,' he muttered under his breath as he went to retrieve his arrow. It was never a good idea to contest Freor in anything; the man had the unreasonable sense of an arrogant boy and at what looked to be the age of forty, that particular trait had not diminished.
Plus he was actually good at debating when he wanted to be and, for a man who had only ever claimed to have wondered through Aollane and the mountain forests, he had in fact claimed more exotic knowledge than Arnoan had ever seen anyone speak of. As for his age, his mother had always hushed him with complaints of his behaviour…
Actually, Arnoan puzzled, Freor had never given him an age or even a hint of it. He dismissed the unusual thought. It was considered rude to ask another's age and he based his misinformation on that rather than a deliberate ploy to keep his age hidden. But still, it was a strange thought.
Freor was practically the most at ease person Arnoan had ever had the pleasure of knowing, though there were times where he could have skinned the marrow out of people if he wanted to.
Tall and lean, with only a small streak of grey in his black hair, Freor was a very robust person. Though how he managed to keep such a figure, Arnoan could only guess. Maybe it was those jaunts of his which he occasionally went on, but they did not happen often. Many times, these travels of his lasted half a week, but once it had been a few months. That had troubled Arnoan's mother to no end.
He found his best arrow's splintered remains near a tree, where it had deflected against the smooth wood and practically fragmented against the resistance. That was the price of letting down your guard; Freor had often lectured him in his one thousand tips to good hunting. He collected the pieces and found Freor skinning the meat, packing the goods in a leaf wrapping.
As Arnoan approached holding the ruined arrow, Freor stuffed the wrappings in a meat pack and, with eyebrows raised, promptly asked 'What are you doing holding a piece of wood? Come and help me, boy!'
They were a good ten leagues from home, which was situated just at the edge of the Dividing Desert, near enough to the mountain forests of Aollane to gather food and seek shelter in times of danger.
They refilled their water skins at the river, prepared the meat properly for travel, and shouldered their bulging survival packs, hiking north down the gentle mountain slope. As always, Arnoan took in the golden beauty of the desert, its ability to bring death but also create some of the hardiest forms of life he had ever seen. He remembered how the desert turned into a huge sparkling; colourful painting of life after a good amount of rain had dropped on the area a year ago.
Plants of every description had sprouted from nowhere in the middle of the once deathly dry land, astoundingly colouring the whole landscape like a rainbow as they all grew, flowered and pollinated within the space of a few days. But as the moisture ran out, one by one they all died and their detritus joined the sands. But, in balance, they had sowed the seeds of a new generation, the desert covered with pods, ready to germinate the long gone splendour of the wasteland once the rains again arrived.
In these parts, witnessing this power of nature was a once in a lifetime event. Even Freor, who had lived a very long time in the desert, said he had only seen this phenomenon only two times in his lifespan, each lasting only a week.
After five leagues of travelling and in Arnoan's case, thinking, the land turned semi-arid and sand started to appear in greater amounts amongst the resisting plants. They made it to the edge of desert at sunset, arriving to the small farm under the shade of the mountain. From the distance of only a mile, Arnoan could make out the silhouettes of the thin cattle in the paddock and the short stone fence along the perimeter of the ranch, still defying the hunger of the desert.
His aching feet longed for him to get there faster, the soft chairs and, more importantly, his bed beckoning him. Both of them made the distance quickly, each with his own physical hindrances and longing thoughts of home.
His mother, Shandris, greeted them from behind the smooth gates into the front yard, the stinging hot sand in the wind having filed it away over the years. She was a strong woman with an energetic stride and penetrating green eyes, with dark hair and with a tan equal to that of Freor's. Only of middling height, both Freor and Arnoan surpassed her in stature, but that did not make her any less intimidating. As they stepped up to the gate in even strides, Arnoan was glad to be home, observing it appreciatively as he always did at the end of every hunt.
Their tracking in the nearby mountain forests for food were becoming more vital and more frequent. Their resilient herds of cattle were growing thin, even though they were devouring the fresh grasses of the mountain plains. It was becoming necessary for their survival as fewer butchers and tanners brought their wares and unrest inside the community started to affect the markets.
Money was becoming scarce and everyone below the level of nobles was being affected, as people ran out of money and jobs and businesses went bankrupt. All this for some war in the west with a far off country Arnoan had never even heard of. He was pulled out of his thoughts as his mother started to speak.
'How did your hunting go? I hope you let Arnoan at least take a few shots, Freor. It is his eighteenth birthday after all and both of you can get your childishness quite out of hand over it sometimes,' she asked serenely, smiling at Arnoan while somehow scorning Freor.
'Me, childish?,' replied Freor, hands in the air in an effort of innoncence. 'I think you might have mistaken me for the boy. He is the one who makes the trouble, while I hunt the meat.'
Shandris was experienced with Freor and knew the connection with him and conversations stating his flaws, which he debated to the point of ridiculousness. He could be quite immature at times, though Arnoan knew that there was a serious side of him buries deep inside. She looked coolly at him and replied, 'Perhaps. But perhaps you're the real boy of the family, though a remarkably big one' and with that went inside.
Freor chortled in a silent laugh and told Arnoan how his mother might just be starting to go blind like he had predicted. As they entered the kitchen from the outside veranda, they could hear merry sizzling from a pan and the smells of cooking vegetables. Though they had a highly coveted stove and coal storage, they all voted to have their dinner out in amongst the late sunset, and soon, the stars.
Their efforts then roasted over the fire for dinner, and the three of them ate and drank to their contentment, exchanging merry banter and debating over the finer points of hunting, skinning and cooking. For Arnoan, this was a routine which he often enjoyed. His small family were not often serious, except perhaps in times of crisis. He had often wondered who his father was or if he had any other family members other than his mother and uncle.
He had noted that his mother, and more incredibly his uncle, was tight-lipped about those delicate subjects. He had not asked about it since he was fifteen, sensing danger in upsetting his mother approaching those particular topics. But he had always wondered, when he saw the families that his friends had. Finally, they had settled down in the kitchen, with their bellies bulging with meat, bread and for his uncle, beer.
'So, what will be the schedule for tomorrow?' asked Shandris to Freor. Freor digested his food for a moment before replying.
'Well, I thought me and Arnoan could go to the market to see if there's any change. We should also get some news. And don't worry, we'll keep the purse tight,' he added, contentedly grinning.
'Make sure you do. Arnoan, you can go to bed now, and we'll see if we can meet some the buyers at the market for our wares. I will tie them up in packs by the door tomorrow'.
Arnoan obliged his mother and walked out of the kitchen. He entered his small bedroom, the work of the day wearing down his footsteps. As he entered his bedroom, weary from his exertions, he noticed he had forgotten his bow back at the kitchen. His mother would be sure to make a fuss in the morning and he had to make sure that it was conditioned for the next day.
He cursed his tired mind and walked back to the kitchen, wanting to be in the respite of his soft, warm bed. But before he entered he heard his name being mentioned in a soft voice. Immediately, he engaged the stealth skills he had learned from hunting, gently lowering each foot with gentle precision against the wood. Thankfully, it didn't creak.
Interested in a conversation with his name in it, he vowed to know what they were talking about. He leaned against the wall just beside the door and positioned his ear as close to the sounds as possible. He knew it was wrong, but excitement and curiosity got the better of his whole life, they had always kept one secret from him; his family and his father. So if they were talking about his father, he had a right to know and if not.... Well, it couldn't be that bad a secret. After all, they had lived their lives only as simple farmers and hunters.
The voices reached him a few second later as his ears adjusted, drawing him out of his thoughts.
'… probably but even then we couldn't.' the soft voice his mother was unmistakable.
'But we must,' replied the harder tone of Freor. 'Trouble is stirring up in the east. At Aallane, riots have broken out in support of him and it may reach up even to these mountains. Brigands would be rife again and this region wouldn't be safe anymore.'
'The whole province of Aollane is breaking apart. If we stay here, we will drown in the inevitable flood. We have to make the boy understand, though we won't tell need to tell him everything. He is still searching for him after all these years. We must flee.'
'Alright, Freor. I hope you know what you're doing. I still think that King Liorian will be able to suppress the riots. And then we could keep Arnoan safe here for a little longer,' she replied.
'Look, I know that you are reluctant to leave, but if we go now we could get Arnoan to a safe place. I know the man that's hunting him as well as you do, but I've seen how he thinks, how he works. I do advise that we leave tomorrow, though we can stay here for a few days at least.'
'We will consider this tomorrow, when we have clearer minds. For now, I am weary. Goodnight, Freor.'
Arnoan heard the scraping of a chair against the wooden floor. He could not be caught, even preparing his gear! It would look too suspicious.
Using the tracking skills his Uncle had taught him, he hurriedly but silently rushed through the corridor, back to his own room so not be caught. He blew out the lamps and catapulted into his own bed just in time.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and the shadow of a man's feet could be seen outside his door before gradually disappearing into the darkness, and the footsteps into the ambient sounds of the night outside. But once it did so, Arnoan was fast asleep, his previous excitement forgotten in his weariness.