Weatherwitch Book Three of the Crowthistle Chronicles

Chapter One Comrades and Foes Do ye know Tom Steele with his cap dark green And his long-range bow and his blades honed keen? Soft through the leaves he goes creeping unseen, Hunting deer in the glades of an evening. traditional hunting song The world, a sphere of metal and rock scarfed in water, turned. Above the churning vapors of the troposphere, stars appeared to glide across the heavens from east to west; from High Darioneth, across the Snowy River to the western shores of Tir. There, in Grimnorsland, a hunting lodge perched on a stark crag, looking out over the ocean. Surf pounded the cliffs and a blood-biting wind howled in from the sea, smacking of brine. Around this building the landscape ramped into the stormy distance; gaunt and wild, rugged, roaring with cataracts, roofed by racing clouds in full sail, battered by salt winds, lapped by mists. This was a realm of black rock, grey sky, and silver water, where dark green conifers, rank on rank, stalked up mountainsides to pierce steaming skies. The hunting lodge belonged to the King of Grimnorsland, Thorgild Torkilsalven. From here, on the twenty-first of Mai, five princes set out: Halvdan and Gunnlaug, the second and third-born sons of Thorgild; Kieran and Ronin O Maolduin, the eldest sons of Uabhar of Slievmordhu, and Walter Wyverstone, younger brother to Crown Prince William of Narngalis. Thorgild had invited the royal scions of his neighboring kingdoms to be his guests in Grimnorsland, where they might participate in games and divertissements, celebrating the season and reconfirming the bonds of solidarity between the realms. The monarch himself remained with his queen, their eldest son Hrosskel and their daughter Solveig at Trondelheim, attending to matters of state, while the rest diverted themselves with blood-sports. Low in the sky rode the evening sun, drifting on a band of persimmon cloud. The five princes, accompanied by their retainers, moved on foot through harsh terrain, clambering up the sides of dim vales and following narrow tracks through forests of spruce, pine, birch, and larch that soared out of shadow. The topmost tapered tips caught the last bright gleams of sunlight so that they glistened like miniature trees dusted with gold. Against the glimmer of sunset the black silhouettes of wind-gnarled branches wove elegant patterns. Falcons with outstretched wings hovered over sharp-toothed crags; Steinfjell, Isfjell and Galdhopiggen, Sterkfjell and Skagastolstinda≠ heights with towering, majestic names. "It is a fact," Prince Gunnlaug Torkilsalven was instructing Walter of Narngalis, "that some archers conceal themselves in thickets to ambush whitetail deer, or crouch behind woven blinds near lakes and streams to waylay roe deer as they come down to drink. The second approach is never successful after rain. Game will not visit watering places when there are small puddles to drink from. Therefore, the truly versatile huntsman must perfect the art of stalking on foot." Walter nodded brusquely, his lips compressed in a thin line. He found it insulting to be lectured on a topic he understood well, but was too courteous to protest. "Hounds would have been useful, of course," continued Gunnlaug, "yet a man must learn to hunt without hounds, in case he ever finds himself alone in the wilderness." Gunnlaug of Grimnorsland was a brawny youth, somewhat shorter in stature than his elder brother Halvdan, who walked ahead. His features were coarse, his pockmarked skin reddened and roughened by much exposure to wind and sun. Like his sibling he was flaxen-haired and hazel-eyed. As he and the othDart-Thornton, Cecilia is the author of 'Weatherwitch Book Three of the Crowthistle Chronicles', published 2007 under ISBN 9780765350565 and ISBN 0765350564.