The Horse Lord

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The Horse Lord Page 2

by Peter Morwood


  "Joren," the word came out in a gasp as Aldric sank crosslegged on to the grass, "I would much rather swim. It's too hot for this."

  "Later. You've another half-hour to go yet." Joren's toe nudged lazily at his little brother. "And sit up straighter. Look neat."

  In response Aldric flopped back and grinned, untidily comfortable, raking his fingers through the hair which, though short and boy's length as it would remain for six years, still fell into his eyes whenever possible. "When I'm a kailin-eir like you I'll be proper and correct, I promise. But while I can relax, I will."

  Staring at him doubtfully, Joren touched his own warrior's queue and high-clan earbraids, then shrugged slightly. He had come of age and been made kailin only that spring, and in all fairness to the boy there were times when his insistence on propriety bordered on the obsessive. But he had his position to think of, as eldest son and heir to ranks and titles, while Aldric was merely third son and heir to very little.

  "All right. No arguments then. But if you cannot look like a gentleman, let's at least see if you can fight like one."

  "Difficult, I'd say," cut in a suave voice and Aldric's smile died. There had never been much affection between him and his other brother Baiart, Joren's twin. There was little love between the twins either. Twin, and yet second son—by all of five minutes. That twist of fate had twisted Baiart somewhat, ever since he became old enough to understand it.

  "Manners!" reproved Joren in a soft voice which bore the merest hint of menace. Baiart stepped out of shadow into the full wash of sunlight. He was tall, blond and blue-eyed like his twin and four sisters, and though the light flattered his hair it did nothing for his expression. Aldric was the only one of seven children to carry his Elthanek mother's dark hair and grey-green eyes, as if she had given up those as well as her life when he was born. Baiart had always suspected there might be another reason, though he dared not say so. And he hated the child who had usurped Lady Linnoth's place in the family after killing her. His love for his mother had always been more intense than that of the others. Almost too intense for comfort, his or hers. But that also was never spoken of.

  "Dear elder brother," he said with a mocking bow,

  "I'm sure our little brother can speak for himself." If he had hoped to needle anyone into an unseemly outburst Baiart was disappointed. Then Aldric rose to his feet with feline grace.

  "If you want to prove something, dear brother, I suggest you try it now. Here. With these." He extended the foils.

  Baiart had spent most of his time at court in Cerdor, returning only at feast-days and when his allowance ran out, as now. Though aware, that Aldric had learned taiken-play, he still had no idea how skilled the boy had become. Aldric knew of his ignorance; it was one of the reasons he had "allowed" the duel to apparently arrange itself in the first place. Baiart needed a lesson.

  A formal Alban duel was totally unlike combat. Since the Clan Wars five hundred years before, when three-quarters of the ancient aristocracy had destroyed one another, it was illegal for kailinin to fight to the death except in war and raid—or with permission from their lord. Duelling foils were light, thrusting weapons, tipped with sharp spurs which did nothing worse than draw blood, and the movements were more of dance than duel.

  What was fought that day under the shadow of Dunrath-hold's great citadel was no such cautious ritual. Saving only that the blades were blunt, it was the same whirl of cut-and-thrust which had characterised the fierce warrior clans for almost two millennia. Agile and swift, Aldric was able to score two quick points before Baiart grew wise and used his longer arm to keep the boy at a distance. Then he saw an opening for a thrust.

  But instead Baiart cut with such force that, blunt sword or not, it would have ripped his brother's face apart had it been successful. Aldric felt the sting of skin peeling off his cheek even as he jerked his head aside. He retreated, shaken not by the insignificant wound but by Baiart's clear intention. And by something he had never met before—the feeling which had made him dodge. He hadn't ducked so fast because of training but because of the unsummoned warning inside his head, without which he would surely have been blinded. Knowledge of that made his temper foul; and Baiart's grin made it fouler yet.

  The bigger man saw something in his brother's dark eyes that he did not like, and broke ground hastily. With blood bright across his face and shirt, Aldric shifted taiken to both hands and came after him. Joren saw the change of position and realised his pupil was no longer playing. He opened his mouth to shout, then realised that an interruption now could prove deadly—for someone.

  When Baiart jabbed, a warning move to keep Aldric away, the other blade beat against his own so viciously that the weapon was almost knocked from his grasp. Aldric grinned the grin of a cat whose mouse is secure under one paw, just before the claws come out. Then he stamped and shouted both at once. This surprised Baiart enough for the boy to advance in a precise, gliding pass, reach out his left hand and wrench his brother's sword away.

  His own blade thrust home with unnecessary force on Baiart's chest an instant later. With a painful grunt he held up both empty hands, signalling surrender. Aldric stared at him through slitted, feral eyes. "That, dear brother," he said very softly, "was to win." Touching fingertips to his face, he scowled at the blood on them, then suddenly swung his sword.

  The horizontal cut was invisibly fast, savage and perfect. It hit Baiart across the waist, doubling him up; the same blow with a live blade would have sliced him to the spine and everyone present knew it. Except for the ugly sound of retching it was very quiet in the fortress gardens. Joren remembered that Aldric's name was seven centuries old in his mother's line, Elthanek rather than Alban. Every man who had borne it had been a warrior of the old style: a renowned and ruthless slayer.

  Aldric slowly regained his breath and eyed Baiart with more sardonic mirth than any fourteen-year-old should have possessed. "But that," he smiled coldly, "was purely personal."

  Haranil Talvalin was Clan-Lord, master of Dunrath and responsible for the king's peace in the north. Unlike many of his ancestors, who had often to cope with full-scale war, Haranil's foremost worry was cattle-reaving along the Elthanek border, and even that was more an over-rowdy sport than a conflict. There was occasionally much more trouble under his own roof.

  Against all the odds, Aldric was growing up. His father's first step was to forbid the boy, on his honour, to fight needlessly. With such a charge laid on him, Aldric obeyed, keeping out of most duels—but not, of course, all. He fought often enough with hot-headed comrades for his skill to become notorious; at last it became difficult for him to find anyone willing to chance even the friendliest contest. Though he never lost his temper or his control, there hung about him an air of restrained violence that was disturbing.

  There was one memorable episode in a seedy tavern of Radmur's old town, when somebody had suggested that, since young Aldric had not yet found himself a woman, he probably bedded with his broadsword. Aldric had not drunk enough to find the comment funny, and the escalating argument had broken two heads, several limbs, an uncounted number of ale barrels and had ended with the whole unsavoury den catching fire and toppling sideways into the canal.

  He had been seventeen then, at five feet eight inches not very tall for a Talvalin though average for most Albans. Approaching his twentieth birthday, he was broader in chest and narrower in waist—but only an inch taller. That was not good, for the five remaining clans of the old nobility each had their hereditary distinguishing feature, strong enough at least in the male line to survive interclan marriages. Talvalins were invariably tall, blond and blue-eyed—except for Aldric. By the time he neared legal maturity any remarks on this had ceased, though not through fear of Talvalin displeasure even though the clan was notorious for its implacable avenging of insulted honour. Aldric's skill with a blade was reason enough.

  He spent the early part of that year with one arm in a sling after falling from a galloping horse in full armour. Eve
n before the arm had knitted he was back in the saddle. Kailinin relied on mobility, not brute force, and the subtleties of horsemanship were of paramount importance. Learning to control a mount with knees alone was difficult enough with hands clasped on head. Over jumps it became painful as well.

  With work so intense, it was only reasonable that recreation should also take extreme forms. One such was the hunting of wild boar, using a spear from horseback. It was lively, often dangerous and therefore popular with the highborn youngsters; also with those old enough to know better…

  Two riders picked their way carefully down an overgrown bridle-path, arguing as they went. The silence of autumnal woodland was disturbed only by their voices and by the distant belling tones of boar-hounds.

  "I tell you he's escaped," drawled Aldric lazily. Joren slapped his saddlebow irritably with one hand and waved the other in a huge sweep which took in most of the forest and came very close to taking off the end of his brother's nose.

  "Listen to the hounds! They've got him at bay somewhere!"

  "Those yapping puppies would bark at their own shadows; you know that."

  "At my age I should know when hounds are giving tongue and when they are not!"

  Aldric remained calm with an effort. "And at your age you should know when you're in the wrong," he pointed out. Their wrangle was over a boar which had somehow evaded Joren's favourite thrust, and it was injured pride rather than the loss of his roast pork which made the big man so peevish. Aldric did not much care for pork, which explained his lack of interest. Also he enjoyed gently teasing his brother; it always proved rewarding. All at once the yelping died away and Aldric shot an "I-told-you-so" glance from the corner of one eye before lifting a horn from his belt.

  "It's too late to start again," he said. "I'm calling the others in and then we'll go home, eh?" Joren expressed his opinion in several crude syllables and began easing his horse round in the confined space of the path. Suddenly a cry went up away to the left and with it the renewed baying of hounds. Joren saw Aldric's face and laughed aloud, then jabbed heels to his steed's flanks and crashed off through the undergrowth, whooping as he went. Aldric rolled despairing eyes heavenward, then shrugged, put the horn away and followed—rather more cautiously.

  The scene was familiar enough; dogs raved in a semicircle round the base of a tree, while horsemen fussed and fidgeted behind them. Their quarry hunched almost invisible in the shadows between a fork of roots, huge and black with a drool of froth hanging from his champing tusks. The boar regarded them with mad red eyes, secure in his defensive redoubt and quite content to wait for his antagonists to make the first move. His wait proved to be short.

  When cries of encouragement failed to move the hounds, one hunter used his spear-butt. The beasts snarled and one twisted to snap at the iron-shod ash wood. Through this opening the boar came charging like a bristled thunderbolt, chopping one of the hounds as he passed before sidestepping a clumsy jab and shooting away with the hunt hot after him. As the bracken gave way to open woodland the speed of the chase increased, heedless of the low branches which scraped an occasional rider from his saddle.

  The forest ended abruptly in a smooth valley, dotted with clumps of gorse and carpeted with poppies. The setting sun glared across it, making everyone blink and slow down. All except the boar. Instead of crossing the valley he fled along its rim in an attempt to double back, only to find stragglers emerging from the woods all along his escape route. And still he tried to avoid running in the obvious direction. A thrown spear changed his mind; faced with immediate death or the strange fear welling from the valley, he galloped over the ridge and began to descend the slope.

  The hounds' baying stopped in mid-cry, while that of their masters redoubled as horses reared, wild-eyed and whinnying. Neither soft words nor hard blows would induce them to enter the valley. Normally fierce hounds backed off with tails curled to their bellies and hackles bristling. Adding to the hunters' rage was the boar; no longer pursued, he slowed to an insolent amble and then stopped with a piggy sneer seeming to curve his chops.

  "What in hell's the matter?" snarled Aldric, his coolness slipping. He thumped his stamping, sidling horse. "Why won't this brute follow that one?"

  "Sorcery," said Joren flatly. "And I don't know why it's here," he put in quickly as Aldric's mouth opened for the inevitable question. "This is an ancient part of the forest."

  As Joren spoke, his brother looked around with dark un-Talvalin eyes wide with curiosity. That same curiosity had driven him to read many of the writings which lay forgotten in Dunrath's great library, and had given him knowledge beyond that offered by his most liberal-minded tutors. "It was here before the fortress was built," Joren continued, "though mother's people were here even before that. You'd better read the Archive when we get back."

  "And leave the boar?" Aldric's imagination landed, returning him to reality. "Not I!" He favoured the beast with a thoughtful glance.

  "The horses won't…" began Joren, then stopped as Aldric dismounted. "Idiot! We haven't cross-head spears— he'll come right up the shaft to get at you."

  "Let him try," grinned Aldric, but the grin was a little thin and stretched. Drawing a heavy falchion from its sheath under one saddleflap, he thumbed the edge, nodded and strapped the weapon to his belt. Joren made a disbelieving noise and then exploded.

  "What the hell d'you think you're doing?" he blazed. "You're not impressing anyone… ! Light of Heaven, if you get killed what am I to tell father?"

  "You'll think of something," mocked Aldric gently.

  "I… just be careful." Joren playfully ruffled his youngest brother's hair and Aldric flinched away. It was kailin-length now, and he was close enough to the Eskor-rethen ceremony to resent its being touched by another warrior. No kailin put hand to another's queue except to lift his severed head. That was a tradition old enough to be almost law.

  Then he regretted the hasty move and smiled crookedly up at Joren. "Me, careful? But surely, aren't I always?" He hefted his spear, loosened the falchion in its sheath and walked down towards the boar. The animal watched him, snapping its tusks nastily as he continued to advance.

  Then it charged.

  Aldric dropped to one knee, spear braced, and let the boar run straight onto its levelled point. As Joren had said, the creature came on up the shaft as if nothing had happened, but by that time the boy had let go his spear, sidestepped quickly and drawn the falchion. Its wide blade lifted, hovered and whipped down across the boar's thick neck even as Aldric skidded and fell flat. Even so, he was in no danger. With its head half off the boar was down and dead before its slayer could pick himself up. Aldric shook his head, feeling foolish. There was a lot of blood and its coppery stink clogged his nostrils, making him sick and giddy. His head buzzed inside and the walls of his mouth went dry and sour.

  Then he shuddered violently and stared about him. For a few ugly seconds the valley had become a battlefield, the ground scarlet not with poppies but with gore, strewn with corpses in ancient, ornate armour hacked and torn with fearful wounds. He rubbed his eyes and the fit was past. A skylark chirruped faintly high up in the blue dusk, and things were all so ordinary now that Aldric thought he had been dreaming. But looking at the carcass he felt more than willing to leave without it.

  He lost his chance when the others came running and sliding down the slope, bubbling with congratulations and good-humoured banter. When they started the butchery Aldric retreated hastily. Then a hound whined and licked his hand. Dogs and horses alike had followed their masters into the valley as if they had never feared it. Odd… Aldric shook his head again, to clear it of confusion this time, and looked across to the far slope. A few hazy mist-patches trailed like forgotten scarves along the ground, ghostly pale against the shadows. Remnants of sunset glowed amber behind the trees silhouetted blackly on the skyline. Aldric sighed and sat down.

  With a yelp he sprang up again, rubbing an injured rump. There were no trees nearby, so the offending obj
ect could hardly be a root. He kicked at it irritably, but when something shifted under the turf he looked more closely. Then his eyebrows went up and he dug the object free with falchion and fingers. It was a sword-hilt, in the blocky, massive style not made since the Clan Wars so long ago. He had seen one before in Dunrath; horseman's weapons both, as the chained pommels and wrist-bands bore witness. They were constructed so that, if the weapon was knocked from its owner's hand in battle, with the band around his wrist at least his sword was not lost underfoot. There was something strange about this rusty remnant of someone's forgotten battle, something Aldric could not at first pin down. Although the weapon had been lying out under the sky for years uncounted, and was deeply corroded, it was still in passable condition for something which one would have expected to have been entirely eaten away.

  Aldric recalled his hallucination, wondering now if it was anything so simple. Before an Mergh-Arlethen, the Horse Lords, came out of the sea mist to claim Alba for their own, Cernuek and Elthanek scholars had already been writing history, legend and plain gossip for an age and an age. But some things they had not written. These survived only as tales told in winter by the great log fires, stories for children and the credulous. Or truths no one dared to believe.

  A wolf howled balefully among the distant trees and Aldric's fingers clenched the ancient hilt. He scowled, both at the display of nerves and at the beast which should have been miles further north at this time of year. Making a mental note to organise another hunt, he moved the hilt towards one of his hunting-jerkin's deep pockets. Then an odd thing happened: between one heartbeat and the next, he lost all interest in the relic. If it had not been easier to complete the pocketing movement, he would have dropped it back on to the ground, and even so he had forgotten the hilt's existence before it had completely slithered out of sight.

 

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