The Old Ways

Chapter 2

In which a stag has a narrow escape

Behind a patch of undergrowth, hidden by his forest-green tunic, Thomas Rhymer pulled his bowstring taut.

Through the trees, a white stag peacefully grazed. The beast gleamed, so cleanly bright it almost glowed in the darkness, velvety antlers bent and twisted like the branches of an ancient tree. Ears twitched. It raised its head, turning towards him, staring with black, doleful eyes.

As he gazed back, Thomas felt his heart beat an uncomfortable staccato against his ribs.

What are you waiting for? Shoot!

But, instead, his hands shook. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead. Something snapped. He let his arrow fly.

The unharmed creature bounded away, easily avoiding the arrow which, quivering, embedded in a tree trunk.

Thomas stared. He let out the long breath he hadn't realised he'd held, running his now free hand over his face. He couldn't tell; was it relief or fury he felt as the stag escaped?

Pushing his way out of the undergrowth while cursing his indecision, Thomas stormed to the tree to tug his arrow out. Sap bled and slid down the bark like honey.

He'd been hunting for years in these murky forests bordering Ercildoune. Just a glimpse of a white stag was a rare occurrence in Caledonia. I'll never live this down. He quietly decided he'd keep this sighting to himself.

A childish kick to the tree yielded only a sharp pain in his foot.

Thomas glowered at the tree as though it had done him some personal insult, then turned his back, starting his short trek home, limping on every other step.

Following roughly hewn paths through the trees, he approached a familiar warren of fat, healthy rabbits. As they had dozens of times before, his arrows caught up with them quick enough.

Well, he huffed to himself, tying the catch to his pack, rabbit for supper. Again.

Now pleased with himself at having made right his earlier failure, he ploughed on through the bracken until he saw thin wisps of chimney smoke. With a smile, Thomas left the trees' shade, heading up the grassy knoll towards home.

As he drew closer, he saw his younger sister Alissa darning a threadbare tunic in the warm autumn sun, lips pursed, no doubt humming to herself. At his approach she looked up, squinting against the sunlight at her broad-shouldered and square-jawed brother. Despite leaving boyhood behind some years ago, Thomas still bore the fair, wavy hair, pale blue eyes, and crooked smile of his younger days.

Something that made him the sweetheart of girls but the mockery of hempy men.

"Ahh," Alissa said, a cheeky grin spreading across her face. "Our brave knight returns!"

Thomas stopped dead, folding his arms with a sigh, a faint smile twitching the corner of his lips.

"But what's this, Sir Thomas?" Alissa continued, voice exaggerated. She lay down the tunic she had been repairing, and rose to circle him. "No great bounty claimed from your quest?" She nudged him, then playfully clasped a hand over her heart. "I fear our daring champion has failed in his crusade. For shame, Sir Thomas."

"You wound me, Alissa," Thomas gave her a quick smile and continued past, headed for the house. Alissa grinned and watched him go, her hands planted on her hips. The breeze played with her unbraided hair and ruffled her skirt.

"Enough teasing," came another voice from inside the house. "Any luck at all, Thomas?"

Their mother hurried, smiling, into the sunlight. She looked hopefully at Thomas's pack and her shoulders lifted, seeing his modest catch.

"Rabbit again." Despite her words, her voice harboured pride.

"I'll go to town tomorrow-" Thomas began, and at once Alissa appeared at his side.

"May I go with him?" she asked, eyes gleaming. Thomas's shoulders slumped when their mother agreed. Alissa returned to her darning, and Thomas huffed as he entered the house. Margaret followed, unaware - or perhaps ignoring - her children's respective smile and pout.

"Thomas, don't forget it's almost Alissa's name day."

Thomas didn't look at his mother. Instead, he untied the brace of rabbits and laid them out on the table. Margaret's eyes counted them and at last Thomas glanced up.

"I know. That's why I wanted to go into town without her," he replied, trying his grin, but clearly failing to win her over.

"You said you'd already gotten her something," Margaret looked mortified and absently played with the string of prayer beads around her neck, as she always did when she felt uncomfortable. Thomas snorted and shrugged.

"I may have coloured the truth a little, Mother. I know what I'm going to get her, it's just a matter of. obtaining it."

Margaret at last gave him a smile.

"You always leave everything to the last hour, just like your father." Twisting the prayer beads, she reached with her free hand to touch a coney's hind leg, then spoke again in a quiet voice. "Fifteen years ago today."

Thomas's smile slipped. He heaved a sigh and looked away again.

"He said he'd come back with a present for every name day he'd missed," Mother went on. "That wretched war-"

"There never was a war," Thomas cut in bitterly. "Father exaggerated. He just left us."

"He loved us, Thomas, you know he did. He had his reasons for leaving, I'm sure, but." for a moment her words hung in the air. "Well. At least he left us some decent coin. We'd be homeless otherwise." She looked at her son, tensing uncomfortably. "You've been having those nightmares again," she said in a quiet voice.

A disgruntled frown creased Thomas's brow. "It's nothing to concern yourself over," he muttered, turning towards his bed space.

"We can hear you shouting in your sleep," Margaret said, but he'd already stridden past her. "Thomas, don't ignore me-"

He slammed the thin door behind him.

In the quiet of his own space, Thomas dropped the hunting gear by his door and threw himself down on his bed. He groaned into the down pillow, venting frustration. Emptying his mind of thought, he lay there for a while, and then dragged himself up to finish the rest of his chores while the sun still cast a useful glow above the horizon.

At day's end, Thomas collapsed back into bed, falling asleep the moment his eyes closed.

It was a slumber in which he achieved no rest.

The night terrors were not new. Plagued by them since boyhood, Thomas had often awoken to the sound of his own screams. As he aged, he grew quite accustomed to his dreams, and although they no longer scared him, something about them still unnerved him; some strange, eager yearning.

In these dreams, Thomas saw places he'd never been, yet they seemed as familiar as his own home. Forgotten paths wound through forests he'd never traversed. Misty valleys lay stretched out before him, with cool morning skies blushing pink at the arrival of sunlight.

Yet, every night, as he walked through the woodland, these forests became engulfed in flame. Fire spewed from the maw of a huge black dragon as it stretched its spiked wings skyward. The beast tore through the trees, ripping them up by their roots. And in the valleys, with a roar of its fiery breath, it laid waste to all.

Over the sound of his screams and the crackling heat, Thomas heard others scream for mercy, begging forgiveness from the dragon for unknown crimes.

But this night Thomas dreamt of something new, something that roused greater fear and curiosity.

He stood much taller in this new dream, shoulders broader, blood hot with battle-lust, his arms strong enough to wield a massive sword with a ruby set into its pommel. His steed - a mighty black charger with hooves of finest obsidian glass - stamped and snorted, its eyes gleaming a flaming red.

"For the queen!" he heard himself bellow, "And for Elphame!"

He charged his steed forward, trampling hordes of soldiers that beset every side, trying to drag him down, realising the young captain would strike a devastating blow to their campaign. Thomas swung his sword in a downward arc, slicing a path of victory for his armies to follow behind.

Ready to announce triumph, Thomas turned his horse. Instead of seeing his cheering army, his eyes found a woman bearing two long, curving swords.

Fear muted all sound. His horse's hot breath steamed in the air. The mount backed up, pawing the ground. Thomas's first thought overpowered him.

Run. You will not survive this.

Her crimson armour gleamed under the wounded sky, the curved swords already dripping blood. Even her ruby-painted smirk masked the hatred behind her eyes, her beauty only a facade.

"Your father will never take our city!" he heard himself bellow.

She sneered, "He already has. Your battle is lost!"

Thomas woke with a scream, panting, soaked in sweat.

*     *     *

Next morning, Thomas and Alissa made their way over the hill into Ercildoune: Thomas on Tatterfoal, his faithful gelding, and Alissa on her small grey pony. The warmth of the previous day had melted into a grey, misty morning, another sign of the approaching winter. Thomas wished he'd brought his warmer cloak.

The first bleary-eyed market dwellers were already milling between stalls when the pair arrived. Thomas felt as they looked: exhausted, cold....