The duck was rising fast, and Abby hurtled down towards it with talons extended.
At the last possible moment the duck saw the bird of prey – and dived fast. For a heartbeat only Sigarni thought Abby had her prey, but then the duck hit the water, diving deep, confusing the hawk. Abby circled and returned to her branch.
The huntress gave a low whistle, summoning Lady back to the bank. The sound of a walking horse came to Sigarni then, and sherose and turned.
The horse was a tall chestnut, and upon it rode a black man, his cheeks, head and shoulders covered in a flowing white burnoose. A cloak of blue-dyed wool hung from his broad shoulders and a curved sword was scabbarded at his waist. He smiled as he saw the mountain woman.
‘When hunting duck, it is better for the hawk to take it from below,’ he said, swinging down from his saddle.
‘We’re still learning,’ replied Sigarni affably. ‘She is wedded to fur now, but it took time – as you said it would, Asmidir.’
The tall man sat down at the water’s edge. Lady approached him gingerly, and he stroked her head. ‘The eye is healing well. Has it affected her hunting?’ Sigarni shook her head. ‘And the bird? Hawks prefer to feed on feather. What is her killing weight?’
‘Two pounds two ounces. But she has taken hare at two-four.’
‘And what do you feed her?’
‘No more than three ounces a day.”
The black man nodded. ‘Once in a while you should catch her a rat. Nothing better for cleaning a bird’s crop than a good rat.’
‘Why is that, Asmidir?’ asked Sigarni, sitting down beside the man.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, with a broad smile. ‘My father told me years ago. As you know the hawk swallows its prey – where it can -whole and the carcass is compressed, all the goodness squeezed out of it. It then vomits out the cast, the remnants. There is, I would imagine, something in the rat’s pelt or skin that cleans the bird’s crop as it exits.’ Leaning back on his elbows, he narrowed his eyes and watched the distant hawk.
‘How many kills so far?’
‘Sixty-eight hares, twenty pigeons and a ferret.’
‘You hunt ferret?’ asked Asmidir, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
‘It was a mistake. The ferret bolted a hare and Abby took the ferret.’
Asmidir chuckled. ‘You have done well, Sigarni. I am glad I gave you the hawk.’
‘Three times I thought I’d lost her. Always in the forest.’
‘You may lose sight of her, child, but she will never lose sight of you. Come back to the castle, and I will prepare you a meal. And you too,’ he said, scratching the hound’s ears.
‘I was told that you were a sorcerer, and that I must beware of you.’
‘You should always heed the warnings of dwarves,’ he said. ‘Or any creature of legend.’
‘How did you know it was Ballistar?’
‘Because I am a sorcerer, my dear. We are expected to know things like that.’
‘You always pause at my bear,’ said Asmidir, gazing fondly at the silver-haired girl as Sigarni reached out and touched the fur of the beast’s belly. It was a huge creature, its paws outstretched, talons bared, mouth open in a silent roar. ‘It is wonderful,’ she said. ‘How is it done?’
‘You do not believe it is a spell then?’ he asked, smiling.
‘No.’
‘Well,’ he said slowly, rubbing his chin, ‘if it is not a spell, then it must be a stuffed bear. There are craftsmen in my land who work on carcasses, stripping away the inner meat, which can rot, and rebuilding the dead beasts with clay before wrapping them once more in their skins or fur. The results are remarkably lifelike.’
‘And this then is a stuffed bear?’
‘I did not say that,’ he reminded her. ‘Come, let us eat.’
Asmidir led her through the hallway and into the main hall. A log fire was burning merrily in the hearth and two servants were laying platters of meat and bread on the table. Both were tall dark-skinned men who worked silently, never once looking at their master or his guest. With the table laid, they silently withdrew.