Chapter 3

One morning, having had word of their plans for a three-day stag-hunt, Voldi arrived early at the accustomed rendezvous, fully equipped for the excursion. There was a bit of embarrassment at first, but the constraint quickly lifted. Voldi was one of them again. Intent upon restoring himself to their good opinion, he led them for hours in the maddest ride they had ever taken—leaping deep gulleys cut by mountain streams, hurdling fallen timber, plunging through tangled underbrush. Challenged by his recklessness, they did their utmost to follow. Young Museph, the elder son of Councillor Tema, kept hard on his leader’s heels and brought down the largest stag of the three killed that day. Voldi accounted for the others. Most of the party were out-distanced and came straggling into camp in the late afternoon, weary beyond any words to tell of it.

A camp-fire was built beside a noisy mountain stream. The stags were hung up and dressed. Museph flung himself down on the aromatic pine-needles that carpeted the ground; and when Voldi sat down beside him, regarding him with a teasing grin, Museph opened one eye and muttered, ‘My brother, you have lost your mind.’

The last to arrive in camp was young Prince Deran, King Zendi’s arrogant son, attended by four members of the hunt who had reluctantly tarried with him when the pace had grown too hot. The Prince had bagged a little doe. No one ventured to rebuke him, but the general silence expressed the party’s opinion. Deran was quite aware of his companions’ disfavour, aware too that had he been anyone else than the heir to the throne he would have been appropriately chastised. He cared nothing for their unspoken disapproval. His manner said that if the King’s son wished to kill a baby doe, who had a right to oppose him?

After supper there were some acrobatics, a wrestling match, and a fencing bout with wooden broadswords. It was proposed that they have a duel with daggers.

‘How about you and Museph, Voldi?’ a voice inquired.

‘I’m too tired,’ said Museph. ‘Besides, I’m no match for Voldi.’

‘We will take him on!’ shouted the Prince, getting to his feet.

All eyes—and they were sullen eyes—turned in his direction. They covertly scorned the pompous youngster, hated his poor sportsmanship, loathed his insolent ‘we’.

‘It wouldn’t be fair, Prince,’ said Voldi, trying to make his tone sound respectful. ‘I am older than you—and I have had more practice.’

‘But not lately,’ sneered Deran; ‘or do you play with daggers when you visit your Jewish friend?’

All breathing around the camp fire was suspended. Voldi flushed and frowned.

‘I do not wish to fence with you, Prince Deran,’ he said.

‘As we thought!’ crowed Deran. ‘That’s what comes of consorting with soft aliens.’ He took a step forward and drew his dagger. ‘Stand up and fight, fellow!’