The Sleeping King by Cindy Dees Page B

barbarian hunter, and Adrick always spotted Will first. Once the pot of stew was delivered, as often as not the older man invited Will to sit with him for a while. He’d regale Will with stories of his latest hunt or show him a thing or two with whatever weapon he happened to be carrying that night: spear or bow, dagger or axe.
    It galled Will that his own father steadfastly refused to teach him even the most basic weapon skills, muttering instead about the danger of being discovered carrying such knowledge in his head. As if the Empire would ever bother investigating the thoughts of a cobbler’s son living on the very farthest edge of the civilized world. Oh, Ty taught Will plenty about sweeping floors and stoking forge fires and threshing grain, and even about controlling his emotions, silencing his mind, and marshaling his thoughts. But his imagination ran to heroic adventures and glory in battle.
    Into thick brush, now, Will crept more slowly, easing through the brambles cautiously. The slope grew steeper, and he had to use both hands to steady the ceramic pot, which made the climb all the trickier. He’d never approached the clearing atop the knot from this direction before. If he could be quiet enough about it, he would finally win the ongoing contest with Adrick for certes.
    He reached the ring of stones crowning the Knot and crouched low, crawling with three limbs while he cradled the stew pot in his left arm. In the gathering dusk, he spied a corner of Adrick’s fur-trimmed cloak on the far side of the giant old hickory that gave this spot its name. Will grinned. He eased upright, stepped carefully over the low stacked stones, and charged the tree on light, quick feet.
    â€œGot you this time, Adrick!” He gave the cloak a victorious yank—
    â€”and the rough wool fell to the ground, slithering off the butt of the lone spear planted in the dirt. He started to whirl, to seek his tricky prey, when cold steel bit at the joining of his chin and neck.
    â€œNot bad, boy. Not bad at all.” The steel pulled away.
    Will huffed in disgust. “I’ll never be as good as you, Adrick.”
    â€œIt is nae true. Ye’ll make a fine hunter fer sure, if yer father ever lets ye off the leash and out of yon hovel.” The older man swept the pot from Will’s hand and held it to his nose, taking a long, appreciative sniff. “Ahh, yer ma’s squirrel stew. Best cook in the Ring, she be.”
    Adrick made his living traveling the ring of settlements surrounding the margins of the Wylde Wood, hunting and trapping as he went. The woodsman sat down on a flat-topped boulder that made for a decent bench and gestured Will to sit beside him.
    Will looked down at the hollow, a muddy village straddling the intersection of two footpaths in the middle of nowhere. While some might call it a fine enough place to live, far from the prying eyes of the Empire, he called it his prison. He desired nothing more than to leave home and see the world. To seek adventure. Honor. Glory.
    â€œTruth be, boy, it is the stew that gave ye away. Smelled it afore ye set foot upon the slope. Good climbing, by the by. Watched yer whole ascent, I did. Clever to come by the most impassable route.”
    Will’s spirits lifted at that. He rubbed idly at the sore spot under his chin where the razor-sharp dagger had pressed into his flesh. “Mayhap I should not have talked my father into making you that dagger, or at least not making it so sharp.”
    â€œTy’s blades take an’ hold fine edges, they do,” Adrick replied, running the pad of his thumb lightly along the gleaming blade. “Woodsman’s best friend, a good blade. Yer sire should make ye a sword, and soon. It is time and more that ye’ve a long blade at yer hip.”
    Will snorted. As if he hadn’t had that argument with his father a hundred times or more already.
    â€œâ€™Ave ye ever asked yer ole man where he