Sparrow's Flight

His father gave him a shocked look. "You?"

"You are vital. When the barony had no Warmaster, you had no one to take on this kind of duty, but I am here now. I may be a little short of my birthday, but my training is complete. For you to risk yourself now is foolish."

Blackaker’s shoulders bunched and his eyes danced with internal struggle. "No. I am sworn to protect these lands and I will. I will not turn my back while my son faces an abomination, or while one of my villages is in danger."

Spar scowled. "Think with your head, father, not with your heart. The barony can afford to lose a village. It can even afford to lose me. It cannot afford to lose you."

Blackaker gave his son a hard look. "Lives are not a commodity, Sparrow. We do not trade them, or sell them, or rationalize their value."

"Yes, but--"

"But nothing. I will hunt the monster. Just because you are qualified to take up this task does not relieve me of my responsibility. Against some evils, all must fight."

"Then I’ll go with you," Spar insisted.

"No. I cannot in good conscience leave Elloan unguarded. They are my people."

"But--" Spar protested.

"No," Blackaker said sharply, "I’ve made up my mind. We will keep the monster from attacking tonight if we can. If we can’t, you must defend the village."

"Father--" His job should be to guard his father, not a bunch of lowly peasants.

"Enough! Or have you forgotten how to follow orders as well? Go, and if all goes well we will meet you there in the morning. If not--if we do not arrive by midmorning, ride back to the keep. I’ll send Derro word of the situation."

The line of Spar’s mouth twisted like a snake in agony as he stifled a protest. The last thing Father should have done was reduce the strength of the party by dividing it up. They should either hunt it together, or wait together at the village for it. Splitting up only increased the danger to them all.

"And one more thing," Blackaker said. "Take that buck to Elloan. Give it to the elder there as a gift from me."

Spar nodded reluctantly. He walked his mount over to the buck, grabbed it by its antlers as a pair of huntsmen handed it up, and hauled it up behind him.

"Sparrow," said his father. "Be careful, and be blessed."

Spar nodded gravely. "Be blessed, father, and good luck." Father and son met each other’s gazes for a long moment, searching for some better way to say goodbye. Then Spar turned his mount, gestured to Grem and Kujl, and rode off into the wood.

The tumbling, rocky woodland bore silent witness to Spar’s passing. Overhead, the bare branches of oaks and maples made a patchy, web-like roof. The slate sky promised a hard, heavy winter. Already, the forest floor stood bare of undergrowth, deserted by spring rain and summer sun. His mare’s footfalls crackled like fire as she trotted through small piles of dry leaves, kicking up red and gold flakes, brief colorful sparks in the dusk of the year.

Tense in the saddle, Spar jolted through the passing miles, his mood deteriorating with every step. How could his father even consider denying his initiation? How could he risk himself against an abomination?

All for the sake of a bunch of peasants. Spar admitted a peasant’s life had worth. The struggle for survival was the basis for all value, so every living breath had meaning. Yet insisting every person had equal value flew in the face of reality. Some people were more important than others. His father was thinking with his too-kind heart instead of his head, sending away a Talented warrior while he hunted an abomination. Dammit, Father, I can’t protect you from yourself.