Chapter 111
The Lies of the Hunter
That evening found them once again around a campfire where the icerafts had been docked. Yaref already had meals on the fire for them when they returned hungry and weary. Ardy had grumbled about how long they’d been gone for but then applauded their victory when Daegan had tossed the Aeth a wineskin of some alcoholic decoction the rakmen drink. Daegan had picked up the wineskin, taken a sniff, then a taste, then hacked and spluttered.
“Ardy’ll probably like this,” Daegan had said. And he was right, Tanlor acknowledged, the Aeth was settling comfortably onto a rock and knocking the foul stuff back.
Tanlor found the camaraderie of the group a comforting distraction to his worry for Rowan and his anxiety of what he was going to do about Danielle and the Arch-duke’s mission lingering on the periphery of his mind.
The group retold the events of the day to Yaref and soon the fights were being described in more heroic and epic ways. Tanlor’s sword was described like a hawk taking flight and striking down rakmen. Baroc was depicted as a moving shadow, killing rakmen as he passed.
Before long, Puck was slapping his hands on a shield to the beat of ‘River’s March’—a song depicting the battles of Nordock’s soldiers fighting rakmen in the Balfold almost a decade before. It was a simple beat and the lyrics generic enough that Puck and Tar managed to replace some with the actions of the day. Daegan and Ardy knew the song well enough from their nights spent together in Urundock and before long the entire group was in good spirits.
Tanlor dreaded what was coming. He knew it was coming, it always did when people began singing songs. It loomed on his mind and his good humour like a thundercloud.
“Sir Tanlor,” Yaref grinned at him, “why don’t you tell us a tale about your father, lad? I’m sure you know many that never made it into the songs, yes?”
“I’d rather not,” Tanlor replied curtly. He’d realised long ago that he had to be firm and direct with requests like this. Anything short of it would only lead to incessant nagging. Even then it was often not enough. Yaref and the rest of the group were wise enough not to press but Puck then began to tap out the melody for the Hunter and the Lady on the shield. The song could really only be played on a violin or a fiddle although some musicians often attempted a lute version.
“How about something more lively, eh?” Daegan suggested, cutting across the beat. “You know the song about those sea monsters of Limiria… or was it a Tower?”
“Yes, yes,” Yaref chimed in, “Towers of Limiria, a grand sea shanty from my home city. It goes like this. Look, you let the old man play this one, yes?” Yaref took the shield from the Puck and began to tap it out.
Tanlor caught Daegan’s eye and the man simply nodded, saying nothing. For some reason that irritated Tanlor even more. He didn’t need Daegan’s help. He could listen to the tune… although he did hate it. In truth, Tanlor probably would have elected to do a perimeter sweep if the group had begun to sing the damn song in earnest.
***
That night Tanlor found sleep eluding him. He wasn’t sure if it was his fear and guilt over not finding Rowan yet that was forcing these intrusive thoughts into his mind. Or perhaps it was being back here, in Shrydan forest. But he couldn’t shake the memories of his father out of his head.
Tanlor’s father had been a hero. He’d grown up with that belief. Had built himself around it. Both his parents were famous for their love of each other. This was another core thing that had become integral to Tanlor as a young man. The tale of the Hunter and the Lady was that love could overcome the harsh realities of the world. But it was a lie.
These thoughts invariably brought his last memory of his father to his mind. Despite his father’s illness, he had insisted that Tanlor and he ride out to the cliffs near Garronforn. Taran Shrydan had been too sickly to mount a horse himself and so they’d taken a carriage. Taran had grumbled about it, he’d always hated carriages, they made him feel ill—well, more ill than he already was.
The cliffs were an incredible sight. They shielded the lands of Garron from the great tides of the Altasjura, reaching over a hundred yards in height and were of pure white rock. The rugged seascape stretched to the horizon. Tanlor helped his father to a boulder where they could sit for a while and feel the wind on their faces.
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Tanlor had known that he should cherish this time with his father, he knew that his illness was getting worse. But in truth, he was eager to leave Garronforn. He wanted to ride east, all the way to Hardhelm, to Danielle.
“Your training is almost complete, your swordsmaster tells me,” Taran said after a while.
“A few weeks, still, but yes, very close father,” Tanlor replied proudly.
“Rowan has been making a name of his own in the Balfold, will you follow your brother?” Taran said. He didn’t outright say it, but Tanlor could tell that his father was proud that Rowan had decided to fight against the rak war parties that were terrorising the Balfold.
“Perhaps,” Tanlor evaded, “although, I was thinking of heading east first, actually.”
“To Rubastre?” Taran replied, a little shocked. The capital city had great promise and opportunity for a fledgling knight to make a name, some of his cousins had gone to do just that.
“Further, actually. I would like to see more of Rubane; Undanskill, Easkey…” he swallowed, “Hardhelm.”
“Ah,” Taran chuckled, “I see. And would that have anything to do with Duke Harfallow’s daughter?” Tanlor felt his chest tighten. His father knew?!
“You’ve been getting letters from Hardhelm ever since Harfallow and his family visited two years ago,” Taran went on, evidently noting Tanlor’s surprise, “not to mention how you were behaving when they were here. Over that whole summer I think I only saw you twice.”
And here was Tanlor thinking that he and Danielle had been very covert in their relationship. He felt a sheepish smile tug at his lips, thinking of the evenings they’d spent together that summer.
“I’m going to ask her to marry me,” Tanlor revealed.
“I see,” Taran replied.
“Rowan thinks I'm a fool. That Duke Harfallow would never agree to it, but look at you and mother! If grandfather could allow you two to marry then… maybe.”
“Our circumstances were a little different,” Taran pointed out, “but I think that you should follow your heart, my son. Although it can be a scary thing, putting yourself in that position.”
“Were you scared?” Tanlor asked, “when you met grandfather?”
“I think Bodh might have killed me if your mother hadn’t convinced him not to,” Taran chuckled which then turned to a pained cough.
“Why would he have killed you?” Tanlor asked incredulously, “you saved his daughter from outlaws and rakmen.”
“Aye,” Taran said, his voice heavy with an old, lingering sadness. “I killed those outlaws, though I’d never faced rakmen in my life. But I was no match for a Duke’s daughter. I was…”
Taran’s voice faltered, lost in memory. Tanlor waited, the silence stretching between them like the receding tide of the Altasjura.
“A hunter?” Tanlor prompted, his brow furrowed.
“… outlaw,” Taran replied, his voice heavy with regret.
“What do you mean?” Tanlor’s confusion was palpable, the pieces of his father’s legend suddenly not fitting together.
Taran coughed, a harsh, pained sound that seemed to come from deep within. “I’ve lived for so long under the shelter of this lie,” he said, his voice trembling, “stepping out from under it… it feels like stepping towards the edge of that cliff. The abyss is invisible but no less real.”
“What are you talking about, father?”
“I didn’t,” Taran coughed again, “I didn’t rescue your mother the way the bards tell it. I was… I was one of her kidnappers. The others—my friends—wanted to kill her once they realised who it was that we’d taken. Once we realised that it was Bodh Garron himself who was hunting us. I was on watch… and one-by-one, I slit the throats of each of them.”
Tanlor couldn’t shake the feeling that his father was joking. Although, his father rarely showed much of a sense of humour. His sombre tone as he spoke did not lend towards that idea either. But what else would explain why his father was saying this?
As the moments of silence dragged on, Tanlor felt his world crumble around him. Truths he’d been built around were shattering, revealing thousands of questions.
For a time Tanlor had stubbornly refused to believe his father’s words. Then his anger flared when Taran clung to his story with an obstinacy that defied reason. He was done with hearing his father's voice, done with the sight of him, done with the man who had become a shadow of everything he once revered. The weight of it all was unbearable, and Tanlor couldn’t stand to be anywhere near him anymore.
Tanlor had left his sickly father slumped by the cliffside. He’d stormed to the carriage, yanking free one of the horses with a barely contained fury. The carriage driver’s questions about his dark mood barely registered; Tanlor couldn’t even recall the insult he’d spat out in response. Within moments, he was on the horse’s back, galloping furiously toward Garronforn
And that had been the last time he’d seen Taran Shrydan. Tanlor hadn’t finished his final weeks of training. He’d left that day without goodbyes to his family. By the time the carriage driver had collected Taran and brought him back to Garronforn, Tanlor was gone.
He had learned months later that his father had passed from his illness. All of Rubane was mourning the death of the hero. All across the country, bards were playing the tune of the Hunter and the Lady. Tanlor couldn’t stand it. He’d begun to hate the song and the lies it represented. His hatred for his father had only grown after his death. He hated that he never got the chance to tell him just how much he hated him.