Bard I by Keith Taylor Read Free Book Online

dirt. I must double back and see. I’ll maybe get some hunting done while I’m about it.’ Regan roasted the mutton they had received from Murd. Misgivings assailed her, although she did not voice them. Even if Felimid could truly do what he claimed. he was still taking this business too lightly. She did not want to be stranded in the Forest of Andred without him! Suppose he were inconsiderate enough to get himself killed through recklessness or over-contidence? She couldn’t help having the thought, but when Felimid left, she farewelled him with a mere, ‘Take care.’
    ‘Surely,’ Felimid said. Then he was gone. Just like that, he was gone. Regan felt absolutely certain she had not blinked. If he could merge into the forest like a magician or a faery, perhaps he would be all right. But nothing could make it other than a long wait until he returned.
    In wearisome fact, very little happened. The bard circled widely as he doubled back, not wishing to go near the crag. He discovered no sign of any Jutes, although the hunting improved as the shadows grew longer. Two hares dangled at his belt by sunset. He killed one with a stone hurled hard and low in the instant of sight. The second, in his leaps and sudden changes of direction, obligingly broke his neck on a tree. As Felimid picked up the latter, a fox poked its head from the brambles not ten paces off.
    Felimid stared into the bright, black eyes. The fox’s jaws were parted in a mocking grin; its tongue lolled impudently, and its breath smoked in the cold air. Behind its head, Felimid could barely make out the shape of its shoulders with their red, frost-stiffened coat, for the light was fading fast. The fox did not run. Felimid thought it was interested in the hare.
    ‘Sorry, fellow,’ he said amiably. ‘I’m hungry myself.’
    The fox remained motionless, but made a noise that sounded mighty like a snicker. It was so unlike anything that should have come from a vulpine throat that Felimid stared. The black eyes glittered too knowledgeably, even for such a clever beast. Somehow Felimid was put in mind of . . . Kisumola!
    Some familiar of the Lappish wizard’s? Or was it even Kisumola’s spirit self in the form of a fox? The impudent head vanished. His wild guess might have signalled it to disappear.
    Felimid rhymed a malediction.
     
    ‘Fox, fox, go tell your master,
    To catch Felimid, he must follow faster;
    His cunning is vast, but mint is vaster!
    I wish him pain, I wish him fear,
    I wish him death and red disaster.’
     
    He meant it all. If the fox was a demon or spirit, an entity in its own right, then its master was Kisumola, but if it was Kisumola’s own spirit, venturing out of his body in that red-furred shape, then the master in question was King Oisc. In either case, Felimid owed him an ill-wishing.
    In the deepening dusk, Felimid climbed a tall tree. From its topmost branches, he gazed over the forest. To the east, reaching even above the treetops, he saw a leaping red glow. No mere camp-fire, that. It was a bonfire such as Jutes might build, hacking entire limbs prodigally from trees, hoping to keep the terrors of the nighted forest at bay. They were not happy, Felimid guessed. They feared the unknown as much as most men.
    He went cautiously back to the hollow oak, using all his knowledge and cunning-and the bardic sight– to be sure he was not followed, by man, beast, or spirit. He shook Regan awake.
    ‘What is it?’ she asked, low.
    ‘The Jutes are in the forest! I’ve seen their fire, and I believe it can be nobody else. They may even have their king’s wizard Kisumola with them. I must learn that for certain before I act. It will be simple, if he’s not there. If he is. . .” Felimid shrugged. ‘If he’s present, I’ll face some danger-though I’d not back his painted drum against the harp of Cairbre.’
    ‘We could run,’ Regan suggested.
    ‘Yes. It’s a thought that pleases me, too. Ordinarily I’d say that if I cannot