A Game of Horns: A Red Unicorn Anthology

by Gregory D. Little

  I paused at a dome containing a gemstone that looked like an inky black emerald with a blue ember glowing faintly within. Perhaps I could suggest Ambrose take that as his reward. The demon living inside would make short work of him and save me the trouble.

  “Who’s there? Is that you, master?”

  Startled by the voice, I stepped back, nearly knocking the demon egg off the pedestal. I quickly steadied the dome and turned toward the voice.

  He was an old man, dressed in black and white servant livery and wearing a wide-brimmed hat that seemed out of place with the rest of his dress. His eyes widened when he saw me. “Thief! What are you doing here? When the master finds out—”

  “I’m the master now,” I said, taking a deep breath. He was only a servant. “Nothing to worry about.”

  The servant took a few shaky steps toward me, his hands trembling. He looked nearly eighty, face worn and ruddy, wisps of white hair trailing out from under his hat. Something about him struck me as familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “You’re his son. Oswald. I see it now. You look just like him.”

  I glowered at him. “My father was a bald little troll.”

  “I meant no offense,” the servant said, voice quavering. “It’s your eyes. You can see so much of a man from his eyes.”

  I sniffed. The old man’s own eyes were a milky blue. I doubted he saw much of anything these days. “I don’t know you,” I said. “What happened to Branton?”

  “He passed a year ago. Very unexpectedly. The master chose me as his replacement. My name is Willard.”

  “I don’t care what your name is,” I said. “Leave immediately. Your services are no longer needed.”

  Willard’s lip quivered, and I wondered if he was about to cry. “But the master … Your father—he—”

  “He won’t need anyone’s services. He’s dead.”

  Willard bowed his head, the strange hat hiding his eyes. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care,” I said. “I’ve more important things to worry about. Now leave me to them.” This Willard was yet another complication. I’d have to take care of him myself. I spotted a bronze candlestick on a nearby table. Willard looked so brittle I imagined it would only take a single blow. But then I’d have a bloody mess on my hands. It’d make a poor start to the day.

  An idea occurred to me as Willard turned to go. “Wait,” I said, and he paused. “How closely did my father trust you?”

  “Your father trusted no one,” Willard said, turning back toward me.

  “But you worked closely with him?”

  “As closely as he allowed.”

  “Then you know of the horn.”

  Willard said nothing, but his eyes shifted. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Don’t try my patience. My father’s dead. That means this house and everything it contains is mine—you and the horn included. Tell me where it is.”

  Willard bowed his head. “You truly are your father’s son. The horn … Your father never trusted me with where he stored it.”

  “But you must have some suspicions.”

  “His private study, perhaps?” Willard said. “Your father always said he felt safest there.”

  “Take me there,” I said, not wanting to admit I had no idea where my father’s study was. Another of his secrets that would soon be mine.

  “As you wish, master,” Willard said.

  We left the sitting room and walked up a narrow stone staircase to the third floor. The floor was made of black wood that reflected the ghostly candles which lit up at our approach, illuminating the way like will-o’-the-wisps in the night.

  Willard kept a painfully slow pace, and had I not repeatedly ordered him to move faster, I expect it would have taken us all night to reach the study.

  We finally stopped at a pair of grand, brown doors which Willard unlocked with an oversized iron key. Inside was the library, a room that stretched the length of the manor’s central tower, rows of bookshelves rising to a dizzying height. It smelled of vellum and mothballs. Centuries of knowledge about every type of magic was here. All mine. I smiled. Once I had the horn, I’d enslave an able scholar who could organize the collection for me, picking out the most useful tomes for my personal use.

  I couldn’t help but feel I was missing something. It all seemed too easy. But then, shouldn’t all good plans feel easy? I shoved the worries aside.

  Willard, meanwhile, had paused before a particular section of bookshelves and seemed to be carefully examining one of the shelves.

  “Quit wasting time,” I said. “Where’s the study?”

  “Apologies, master. I’ve never opened it myself, and your father had safeguards. If the door is triggered incorrectly, then neither of us will outlive the hour.” His simpering manner of speech had been replaced by a terser tone.

  “Right,” I said, licking my lips. “Take your time, then.”

  With surprisingly steady hands, Willard picked a thin blue volume and pulled it out halfway, doing the same to its neighbor. He then crouched down and did the same thing with another half-dozen books. It seemed a pointless exercise, which I was about to comment on, when the sound of grinding stone made me turn to see a wall-panel rotating, revealing a hidden room.

  “The study,” Willard said.

  I stepped into the shadowy room. A dozen candles lit at my presence, and I found myself face to face with my father.

  O O O

  The study was a cozy room, the floor covered in rich carpet. A chair of silver velvet, stately as a throne, sat before a stone hearth, above which hung my father’s portrait.

  It was as if my father stared at me from another world. Though not exactly photographic in quality, something about the painting perfectly captured the very essence of Leland March. The grim scowl, the haughty glare, the sense of looming power. This was a man whose shadow had consumed all who dared stand in it.

  Yet there was something off about it, as well. Something in his expression. The slightest hint of surprise. Odd. My father was never surprised.

  “Do you like it? I painted it myself.”

  I jumped, so entranced by the painting I hadn’t realized Willard had been standing right behind me. “You?” I said. I had trouble imagining anything requiring this much skill could come from those shaking, ancient hands.

  “I was considered quite the talent in my youth.”

  “We’re not here to talk about painting,” I said, tearing my eyes away from it. “I need to find the horn.” I took stock of the rest of the room. It was remarkably sparse. Aside from the chair, the only other furniture was a simple desk that had no room for drawers, a nearly empty bookshelf, and an easel with a fresh canvas in the corner. “Help me look.”

  The few hiding places were quickly exhausted. I even checked behind the painting and the bookshelf for a secret safe. “It’s not here,” I said, wiping sweat from my brow. “You lied to me!”

  “I only thought it a good place to start,” Willard said.

  “Useless old man. All you’ve done is waste my time.”

  Willard shrank back, as if he feared I might strike him. “Please, master. I can still help! I know things. About the horn and its history.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “The past always tells us something of the present. Someone as clever as you could no doubt find a clue there as to where your father might have hid the horn.”

  It seemed a waste of time, but traipsing about the manor had left my legs a touch sore. I decided I could use a rest, if nothing else, and sat down in the silver chair, sighing slightly as I sank into the soft velvet. “Pathetic that this is all you can offer me. But fine. Tell me this history.”

  Willard shuffled toward the easel. “Would you mind if I painted while I talked? Your portrait would look grand, hanging next to your father’s.”

  “Don’t be daft. I’ve no time for posing.”

  Willard reached into his jacket and produced a paintbrush. I
saw only a flash of something long and bone-white before it vanished behind the canvas. “Your father gifted me a special brush. With it, the painting will take no longer than it will for me to tell the story.” His eyes glimmered with candlelight. “Only with your permission, of course.”

  I looked toward my father’s portrait, its gaze somehow as penetrating in oil as it was in life. I realized as long as that painting hung this would forever remain my father’s study.

  “Do it,” I said. But my portrait would not hang next to my father’s, I decided. His I would burn.

  Willard got to work, perching himself on a rickety stool, the canvas angled away from me.

  “What are you waiting for?” I said. “Tell me about the horn.”

  Willard’s eyes looked like they were gazing at something far away. The paintbrush started to move, slowly at first, but then picking up speed until it became a blur. “Master, what do you know of unicorns?”

  “That they’re ill-tempered fae beasts with an inflated sense of self-worth and an obsession with virgins.”

  From behind the canvas Willard smiled. “An apt description of most. But there as many different breeds of unicorn as there are of men. Most fearsome are the red. While their white and purple and black brethren prance about englamouring young lasses, red unicorns are warriors. They see themselves as above other living creatures, both fae and human. They meet their enemies in battle, forever enslaving the souls of any who perish by their horn.”

  I snorted. “If they were as powerful as that, you’d think they’d be running things.”

  Willard’s mouth curled up in a wry smile. “Maybe they consider governance beneath them.”

  “Enough. I get the idea. Get back to the horn.”

  Willard nodded, studying the painting before him. “Your father was quite the accomplished huntsman at your age. He’d been part of a crew that took on a kraken. He traveled to Morocco in search of sand dragon eggs. Eager to take on greater challenges, he fell in with a group of fellow hunters who planned on traveling to Wales. There, they’d heard a tale of a forgotten little vale where a red unicorn made its home.

  “They came to the vale, tucked deep within an ancient wood where the trees still remembered a world unsullied by men. The vale was fae land, meant to be a safe place where no mortals could tread—at least, not without permission. Had the red unicorn denied them entry, this story would have ended there. But, in truth, the red unicorn had grown bored. It had been years since its last battle. It lusted for a fight. And so it granted the hunting party entry.

  “Once inside, the hunters stayed together, tracking the unicorn like wolves chasing a stag. The unicorn played their game, dancing about, revealing itself with a flash of its crimson mane and then vanishing, luring the hunters deeper and deeper into the vale. The hunters were not easily fooled and stayed vigilant, waiting for the right moment. For both parties it was to be an honorable fight.

  “Leland had other plans. While the others watched for signs of hoof prints, his focus was on a small brook that seemed the sole source of water in the vale. As the day dimmed, the hunters’ energy slowly flagged, and at twilight, the forest shadows spreading long and dark, the unicorn struck. The first to fall was a broad-shouldered woman who’d slain a pair of wyverns single-handedly. A single slash of the unicorn’s horn, and her soul was forfeit, leaving only a husk behind. The surviving hunters squared up, determined not to be taken so easily.

  “Leland, however … Well, amidst the chaos of the fight, he slipped away. No one even noticed, so intent they were on killing each other. Ah, don’t scowl, young master—this was no act of cowardice. Your father knew it was useless to confront a red unicorn in battle. He had a deeper plan. He returned to the brook and followed it until he reached its source. A spring cupped in a bed of mossy rocks, its water cold and sweet, the ground around scuffed in hoof prints. There he took out a small vial and poured its contents into the spring. Then he ran out of the vale and waited.

  “The hunters gave the unicorn a good fight, but in the end, all perished at the end of its horn. Bloodied and tired, the unicorn returned to the spring, deeply thirsty, and he took a long drink. The potion Leland had used was clever. Odorless, tasteless. His only mistake was he’d left his own scent near the spring. The unicorn realized too late what it meant. The potion took effect, and the unicorn slumped to the ground in a deep sleep.

  “Leland waited until nightfall to return. He found the unicorn, motionless and on its side. He took out a blade of cold iron, placed it on the horn’s base, and began to saw.”

  Willard’s paintbrush seemed to take on a frenetic series of strokes, white tip flashing in the candlelight of the room. His face seemed lost and faraway, as if caught up in his own story.

  I scowled. The story struck me as more fancy than reality. Likely my father had simply purchased the horn from a black market dealer and made up the story. “How, exactly, is this supposed to help me find the horn?”

  “I believe the next part of the tale will be more useful in that regard.”

  “Then why did you not tell that part first?”

  “A story must be told in the proper order,” Willard said, “or it is not a story.”

  I was beginning to tire of the whole charade, but decided perhaps I could wait at least until he finished the portrait. “Go on, then.”

  “Understand this,” Willard continued. “A unicorn’s horn is more than a piece of bone. It is their very essence. Having it removed is like losing your manhood. The unicorn woke from its enchanted slumber consumed with shame. It had been tricked, and worse, it had allowed itself to be tricked by permitting mortals into its realm in the first place.

  “The fae world had no room for a hornless unicorn, and so the red unicorn left, taking the form of a man, where at least it could hide its nub with a hat and others would not know its secret shame. A depraved being takes on depraved work, but the red unicorn still had talents and centuries of knowledge. It put them to use working as a syndicate operative. It learned how to be a thief, an extortionist, and an assassin.”

  “I don’t understand the point of this,” I said, interrupting. “How’s this supposed to help me find where my father hid the horn?” I frowned. “And how could you or my father possibly know what the red unicorn did after it woke?”

  “A good question,” Willard said. “Things will become clear shortly.” He began speaking faster. “The unicorn became very good at its work, but every morning, when it looked at its human face and the broken nub of bone on its forehead, all it could think about was the thief who had taken everything. But even if the unicorn could find the thief, it had a greater problem. Not only would it have to trick the horn back from the thief, it would need permission to act against him. Such is the cruel logic of fae law. It seemed hopeless. But the unicorn was willing to try.

  “The unicorn began to learn. The skills it developed working with the syndicate, it applied to its search for the thief. The unicorn reasoned that, as the thief had used subterfuge to steal the horn, so would he be subtle with its use. The unicorn looked for people who rose unexpectedly to power, starting the year it had lost its horn. The list of suspects was long, but one by one, the unicorn whittled them down. Soon there were only a few left. The unicorn changed its tactics. It found friends of the remaining suspects. Wives. Family members. In its human guise, it befriended them. Learned about them. One by one, the unicorn discarded the remaining suspects, until there was only one name left. One with a son who hated his father as much as the unicorn did.”

  Something horrible clicked in my head. “Wait,” I said. “Who do you mean?”

  But Willard did not stop. Instead, his voice picked up speed to match the frenzied brushstrokes. “A son so pathetic his own father cast him out. A son so insipid even the dregs of humanity found him poor company. A son so naive he thought it reasonable for a friend to volunteer out of the blue to kill the most powerful warlock in the country. A son so utterly pathetic that, even as
his sad little scheme turns to ash and dust, all he can do is sit and stare, mouth agape, as his vacant little brain tries to process what a fool he’s been.”

  I forced my mouth shut. My tongue felt dry, my hands clammy. The servant stared at me over the top of the easel, blue eyes now clear and all too familiar. “Ambrose,” I whispered. “No. It can’t be.”

  “It can be, and all because of you. You permitted it all. Without your permission, I never could have presented myself to your father as a servant. I never could have spent months learning his habits. I never would have found this study, where he kept the horn sitting on the desk. Right out in the open. I never would have been able to replace it with a fake. I used the real one to fashion this paintbrush.

  “Funny thing about paintbrushes made from red unicorn horns. They have the habit of imprisoning in the painting the souls of those painted. Of course, the horn was still your father’s, though I held it. I never would have been able to use it against him. Not without permission, which he gave so easily. Just as you did.”

  “No,” I said, my stomach twisting, ice creeping through my veins. “No. It isn’t fair. I didn’t mean it like that!”

  “That’s your problem, Oswald,” Ambrose said, and he took off his hat, revealing a bony stub in the center of his forehead. “You think the world revolves around your whims despite a lifetime of evidence to the contrary. But this isn’t your story. It’s mine.” He spun the easel around, and I faced my own portrait. It was a perfect likeness, with only a single spot of missing paint, right at the heart.

  Too late I leaped from the chair. I tripped, pitching forward with a strangled sob, and landed on my hands and knees. “Please,” I begged, reaching out toward the painting. “Don’t do this.”

  The red unicorn laughed. “In the end,” he said as he thrust the horn forward toward the painting like a dagger to my heart, “you truly were just like your father.”

  About the Author

  Tristan Brand is a lifelong reader whose schoolbag always seemed to contain more epic fantasy novels than textbooks. After a brief detour in academia studying mathematics, he went on to work in QA and technical writing. Currently, he works as a game designer in Silicon Valley, where he lives with his dog, Locke, and cats Edgar and Sabin.