The Chaoswar Saga: A Kingdom Besieged, A Crown Imperilled, Magician’s End. Raymond E. Feist

disturbed from its rest, the angry beast rose up, snapping its wings wide to take to the sky.

      ‘What?’ shouted Brendan to his elder brother.

      ‘Don’t let it get away!’ replied Martin.

      ‘Why? We can’t eat it!’

      ‘No, but think of the trophy on the wall!’

      With a grunt of resignation, the younger brother dropped his boar spear, threw his leg over his horse’s neck and dropped to the ground, nimbly removing his bow from his shoulder as he did so. His horse, usually a well-trained mare, was all too happy to run off as fast as possible from the large predator. Brendan drew a broad-tipped arrow from his quiver, nocked his bow and drew and fired in a matter of seconds.

      The arrow flew truly, striking the emerald creature squarely at the joint of shoulder and wing, and it faltered. Slowly, the wing drooped limply.

      Martin leapt off his horse, gripping his boar spear tightly, and his horse sped off after Brendan’s mount. The injured wyvern snarled and reared up and inhaled deeply, making a strange clucking sound.

      ‘Oh, damn!’ said Brendan.

      ‘Down!’ shouted his brother, diving to the right.

      Brendan leapt to the left as a searing blast of flame cut through the air where he had been standing only a moment before. He could feel the hair on his head singe as the flames missed him by bare inches. He kept rolling, unable to see the wyvern, though he could hear it roar and smell the acrid smoke and blackened soil as it attacked wildly.

      Having clutched the spear to his chest, along the same axis as his body so that he could come swiftly to his feet, Martin launched himself upright. The wyvern seemed momentarily confused by having two antagonists moving in different directions. Then it fixed its eyes on Brendan and started to suck in more air. From what Martin knew of wyvern behaviour, his brother was about to be targeted again with another blast of flames. He cast the spear despairingly, but the range was too far: it fell agonizingly close, but short of the creature.

      Suddenly, miraculously, an arrow sliced through the space between the brothers, taking the wyvern in the throat. The creature gagged, choked, and staggered backwards, then shuddered and began to thrash in pain. Reprieved, the brothers raced forward. Martin retrieved his spear and impaled the creature upon it, while Brendan took careful aim and loosed an arrow into the exposed joint between the wyvern’s neck and torso, straight at the creature’s heart. It thrashed for another long moment, then fell still in death.

      Looking to see the author of the saving shot, the brothers saw a young woman in leather breeches and tunic, knee-high riding boots, standing a little way away from them. She wore a short rider’s cape thrown back over her left shoulder for quick access to the quiver slung across her back. Her bow was a double recurved, compact and easy to shoot from horseback or on foot, evolved from an ancient Tsurani design, but no weapon for a beginner. Only the traditional hunter’s longbow had more power and range.

      Brendan’s face lit up at the sight of her. ‘Lady Bethany, a pleasure as always.’ He shouldered his own bow and wiped perspiration from his brow and grinned as he glanced over at his brother and saw how Martin attempted to rein in his expression of annoyance and replace it with a neutral expression.

      Born a year apart, the two brothers might as well have been twins. Unlike their older brother, Hal, who looked liked their father, being broad of shoulder and chest, dark of hair and six inches above six feet in height, these two brothers took after their mother. Their hair was a lighter brown, their eyes were blue rather than dark brown and they were lithe in movement, slender of frame, and four inches shorter than both their father and Hal. They had a whipcord strength and resilience rather than brute power.

      Bethany’s dark red hair fell to her shoulders and her face was elegant and finely formed. Her smile carried a hint of something akin to condescension as she walked in measured steps, leading her horse towards the fallen beast. ‘You looked as if you could use a little assistance,’ she said with barely veiled humour. Like the brothers she stood on the verge of adulthood, glorious in her youth and taking it for granted. She would be nineteen years old at the next Midsummer Feast, as would Martin. The three of them had been friends since babyhood. Her father was Robert, Earl of Carse, vassal to their father, Lord Henry, Duke of Crydee. She was the tallest woman in either Carse or Crydee at six feet.

      Martin frowned. ‘I thought you said you found hunting a bore?’

      ‘I find most things a bore,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I changed my mind about hunting and decided to catch up with you louts.’

      Noise from behind her indicated that the rest of the Duke’s hunting party was closing in. A moment later, three horses burst through the underbrush and the riders reined in as they regarded the three young hunters and the dead wyvern.

      The rider in the middle was Duke Henry, known as Harry, since his father had also been named Henry. He grinned at the sight of his two boys and the daughter of his friend standing without injury over the fallen monster. His face was sunburned and weathered, making him look older than his forty-nine years, his dark beard showing shots of grey. ‘What do you think of that, Robert?’ he asked the rider on his right.

      Robert, Earl of Carse, reined in. His blond hair had turned grey at an early age, so it looked nearly white in the mid-afternoon sun. Like his companion, his face was sunburned and weather-beaten. That his daughter was as good an archer as any man in the west pleased him. ‘I think my daughter’s arrow did the honours,’ he answered. Then his expression darkened. ‘But riding unattended from the castle was the pinnacle of foolishness!’

      The woodlands around Crydee had been pacified for generations, but they were still not without risk. He took a deep breath of resignation; Bethany was his only child and had been much indulged. As a result she was wilful and impetuous at times, much to his despair.

      Bethany smiled at her father’s ire; she had been a nettle as often as a balm since her mother had died. Raised in a household of men, she had developed a combative nature. ‘I grew bored with the chatter of the ladies of Crydee.’ She smiled and nodded at the Duke. ‘No offence is intended, my lord, but I have only so much interest in needlework and cooking, to my mother’s chagrin. My limit was reached, so I decided some sport was needed.’ She glanced at the fallen creature. ‘Though this sport did end abruptly.’

      ‘Ha!’ said the Duke, and he laughed. ‘so one should wish, Lady Bethany. A wounded wyvern is a dangerous beast. Most would give the creature a wide berth.’

      The trackers and beaters and dogs had arrived, and Huntmaster Rodney motioned for the beast to be secured.

      Brendan said, ‘We all took a hand in killing the wyvern, Father, but I’ll concede honours to Bethany. Her arrow spared me a scorching, I’ll avow.’

      Martin nodded in agreement, as if who claimed the kill was of no importance to him.

      ‘What do you intend to do with it?’ asked Robert. ‘You can’t eat it.’

      The brothers glanced at the repeat of the oft-repeated joke. The nobility in the east might hunt the big predators for sport, but along the Far Coast they were nothing more than a nuisance, a menace to herds and farms. Years of controlling the population of big cats, packs of dogs and wolves, and dragon-kin such as the wyverns, had kept their incursion into the lowlands a rare occurrence. Most of the Duke’s hunting was for giant boar – as it was today – elk up in the foothills, deer in the forest, and giant bears.

      ‘I think its head on the wall would make a wonderful trophy for my room, Father,’ said Bethany, shouldering her bow.

      Lord Robert glanced at his host, who shook his head, barely containing his mirth. ‘Not one for finery?’ asked the Duke.

      ‘Silks and oils, gowns and shoes are lost on my Bethany.’ Turning back to his only child, he said, ‘It will hang in the trophy hall in the keep, not your quarters.’

      Martin cleaned off the head of his boar-spear in the tall grass,