‘That is hardly civil,’ Jarek told him. ‘Here we are, three hungry travelers, and you with a complete sheep almost ready for the carving.’ He moved to the fire trench, where several pots bubbled beside the sheep. ‘Ah, liver broth, vegetables, wild onions and herbs. Quite a feast for one man?’
‘Yes, I am looking forward to it. But I prefer to eat in privacy. So why not be on your way?’
Mace grinned and stepped back from the fire trench. ‘Has it occurred to you, my large friend, that we could just confiscate this meal? You are one against three.’
The large man sighed and rose ponderously to his feet. Sitting down he had seemed large enough, but now, standing, he was an alarming size. Somewhere around seven inches above six feet tall, his breadth of shoulder was immense and he towered over Mace.
‘How would you do that?’ he asked, the words spoken softly. ‘With your bow? You think an arrow could stop me reaching you and breaking your arms and legs?’
‘Good point,’ Mace agreed, laying aside the bow and drawing his longsword.
‘No good either,’ said the man. ‘One cut, one thrust, is all you get. And I have been cut before.’
‘Turn the spit,’ said Mace, ‘the meat is charring.’The giant glanced back, saw that it was true and moved to the roasting sheep, turning the iron handle with one hand.
‘Now,’ said Mace, ‘it would appear that we are in somewhat of a quandary. We are hungry, you are loth to share your food. We do not want to kill you, nor to be killed. Therefore, let us wrestle for it.’
The man stared at him without expression for several heartbeats, then he shook his head in disbelief. ‘You would wrestle me?’
‘Best of three falls,’ offered Mace. ‘What do you say? If you win we’ll be on our way. If I win we share the meat.’
‘Agreed,’ said the man. Turning to me, he pointed to the spit. ‘You think you can keep her turning?’
‘I’ll do my best,’ I told him. He moved away from the spit to stand before Mace, looming over him and dwarfing him.
‘First let us talk about the rules,’ said Mace, stepping in close. Suddenly he hooked his foot behind the giant’s leg and hammered his elbow into the man’s face. As he stumbled back, Mace leapt feet-first at him, his boots thundering against the huge chest. His opponent toppled like a tree, hitting the ground with a bone-jarring thud. ‘Rule number one — there are no rules!’
The giant was unperturbed. Raising himself to his elbows he gave a low, rumbling laugh. ‘Had you asked for a one-fall advantage I would have given it to you,’ he said, climbing to his feet. Mace ran forward and once again leapt at him feet-first. This time the man swayed and caught the flying figure, holding him in his arms with no more effort than if he held a child. With a sway of the hips and a grunt of effort, he hurled Mace high into the air.
I winced at the thought of the landing that would follow — but Jarek Mace was a man of surprises. His body twisted in the air in a full somersault and he landed perfectly on his feet.
‘Very good,’ said his opponent, clapping his hands. ‘Now let us be serious.’
They circled one another for several moments; then Mace darted in, dropped to his knee and hurled his full weight against the giant’s legs. The man did not move. Reaching down he grabbed Mace by the jerkin, hauling him to his feet — and beyond.
‘A nice try, but you are competing at the wrong weight.’ With infinite lack of speed the giant lifted his arms and slammed Mace to the ground. Then the stranger stood and walked back towards the fire trench. Mace rolled to his knees, drew his dagger and was about to rush in and stab his opponent in the back when the man, without looking back, spoke again.
‘I like you, little fellow,’ he said. ‘Let us call it a draw — and eat.’
I never knew whether Piercollo heard the whisper of iron hissing from the sheath; he never spoke of it. But I saw the light of anger fade from Mace’s eyes.
‘It is safe now, I think,’ called the stranger, and a group of women and children came out from their hiding-places in the trees. There were three elderly women, four younger wives and eight children ranging in age from around four to twelve. Mace stood open-mouthed as they appeared, and I looked towards Wulf; there was no reaction from the hunchback and I guessed he had known of their presence all along.
‘Let us eat!’ said our host. There were no plates, but the children had pulled sections of bark from surrounding trees and scrubbed them clean, and the succulent mutton was placed upon them.
It was a feast as fine as any I have tasted — the meat rich and full of flavour, the broth divine, the wild onion soup without peer. At last replete, I sat back against a tree and took out my harp.
The giant approached me as I tuned the strings. ‘You are a lover of music, eh? Good! After a fine meal there should always be music. My name is Piercollo. You play and I shall sing. Yes?’
‘I would be honoured,’ I told him. Wulf joined us, and from his small pack took a flute. He smiled self-consciously. ‘I have heard you play, Owen, and I am not as skilled. But, if you will bear with my lack of talent, I would like to take part.’
‘What shall we play?’ I asked them, and we discussed the merits of various songs until at last we decided upon ‘The Forest Queen.’ It is not performed much in these more enlightened days, but it was a good song with a simple chorus. You know it?
It was a song of the Before Times, when the land of the Ikenas was said to have been peopled by an elder race who knew great magic. The last Queen was Elaine who, betrayed in love, walked through the forest, becoming at last a restless spirit whose song could be heard in the rushing of the streams and the wind whispering through the branches of the trees.
I set a slow and haunting melody. After several quavering, uncertain notes, Wulf joined in. Then Piercollo sang. The children gathered around us and, after a while, began singing the chorus.
It was more beautiful than you could possibly know: the sun shining on the hollow, the whispering of the stream, the harp, the flute and the majestic voice of Piercollo ringing out in the mountains. I remember that day more brightly than any that followed, for it was full of enchantment that not even Cataplas could have duplicated.
We sang and played for more than an hour until dusk. Several of the children were asleep by the fire trench and I saw Jarek Mace stroll away from the hollow to walk to the brow of a nearby hill.
I joined him there and sat beside him.
‘Thank God all that wailing is over,’ he muttered. ‘It was driving me insane.’
I felt a great sadness come over me then. For all his charm and courage Mace had no concept of the beauty of music, nor indeed had he taken any joy in the comradeship and the closeness the music had generated. He was a man apart.
‘What are you looking for, Jarek?’ I asked him.
He shrugged. ‘There is a castle I want to own. It stands on the cliff-tops overlooking the western sea, far down in the south.’
‘Why that castle?’
‘Why not?’ he answered, looking away.
Changing the subject, I mentioned the wrestling bout and the incredible balance and dexterity he had shown when thrown into the air.
‘I used to be a tumbler,’ he told me, his smile returning. ‘And a juggler, and a walker upon the high rope.’
‘You have had an interesting life.’
‘Have I?’ he said, with genuine surprise. ‘Yes, I suppose I have. Tell me, Owen, are you happy?’ The question surprised me and I looked into his eyes, seeking any sign of mockery, but there was none. He was genuinely — at that moment — interested.