Blaze of Glory

by Michael Pryor

  Aubrey was left there holding out his unused hand. He felt the flush rise to his cheeks, but he was impressed despite it. Remarkable young woman, he thought.

  On the other side of the fence, the countryside was altogether more wild. As Aubrey gazed out over the rolling expanse of grass, bushes and scrubby growth, he could see they'd left behind the sculpted world of the gardens. This was a large expanse of heath, dotted with hummocks and bushes, small stands of thorn trees, with some marshy areas away to the north.

  With a practised eye, Aubrey looked for traces of magic and was pleased to see only a few. Whoever had been hired for the job were professionals. Sir William would only hire the best for the Prince, and the best were almost always the most discreet. The quarry had been summoned, let loose and limited to the bounds of the estate, all ready for the guests.

  They reached the shooting ground, a windswept area with tall forest on three sides, a mixture of oak and beech, old trees, survivors of an ancient, vaster forest. Tents had been set up, some distance away from the butts, for those who weren't actively partaking in the shooting. A steady stream of wagons was arriving at the tents, disgorging hampers, trestle tables, crockery, crates of wine and other necessities for an outing in the country.

  Nothing like getting away from the creature comforts, Aubrey thought.

  A smaller tent was near the bustle of activity, and it was altogether more businesslike. People – mostly men – were making their way towards it. Aubrey excused himself from Professor Hepworth and his daughter.

  He hadn't gone far before George appeared at his elbow. 'I say, Aubrey, where have you been? I couldn't find you anywhere.'

  Aubrey waved a hand. 'Oh, talking to people.' He didn't feel it necessary to tell George who he'd been talking to. Not at the moment.

  'Time to get our guns, is it?' George nodded at the tent.

  'It wouldn't be much of a shoot without them.'

  The Holmlanders were gathering eagerly at the tent. Their clothes were dark, navy blues mostly, of a slightly old-fashioned but expensive cut. Their boots were rather heavier than fashion dictated, however, and looked as if they were of military issue. There were half a dozen older Holmlanders, distinguished by their heavy whiskers and quite startling moustaches. The younger Holmlanders were mostly clean-shaven and generally of a brooding aspect, apart from a few like Hugo von Stralick, who were cheerful and jovial, enjoying the carnival atmosphere.

  All of the Holmlanders had upright postures, as if a steel rod had been sewn in the back of their jackets.

  As well as being flanked by two of the fit young men, the Prince was accompanied by a gaggle of other men and women. Aubrey recognised most of them as the younger sons and daughters of peers, the sort of carefree, unoccupied crowd that could be relied on to present themselves at any social occasion, as long as it had sufficient wealth and prestige attached. Most of them did little more than float from gala opening to coming out ball to Empire celebrations, exquisitely dressed and immaculately polished. Aubrey tried to imagine them actually doing something, but found it difficult. He thought they probably spent their time between social engagements simply propped up in a corner in their vast, ancestral homes, like waxwork dummies, waiting for the next party.

  Aubrey recognised others from the previous night's dinner. They were the researchers, colleagues of Professor Hepworth. They looked a little puzzled in these surroundings, peering at the sky and the open field as if they'd been shut away for days and had emerged, like moles, blinking in the light. Most of them were dressed even more eccentrically than Professor Hepworth – patched woollen overcoats, hats that looked as if they'd been worn on expeditions to the tropics, tennis shoes with tartan socks. The bright young things with the Prince were careful to keep their distance from the researchers, as if they feared they were contagious.

  The rest of the crowd out that morning were the assistants and beaters recruited from the village.

  Aubrey pointed. 'A shooting weekend like this must be a good source of income for them.'

  'A shooting party couldn't happen without them,' George said.

  There were boys and girls who couldn't have been more than ten years old and a few grey-haired gaffers who would have been too old to fight in the last war. They wore an assortment of old but clean clothes.

  Aubrey narrowed his eyes. All of the assistants were wearing identical headgear – a hard rounded hat with a metal flap at the back that projected down to cover the neck. He looked around. The gamekeepers had all donned similar apparatus.

  'Interesting hats,' he pointed out to George.

  George raised an eyebrow. 'I don't think they'll become fashionable in the city.'

  The head gamekeeper was speaking to this raggedy army. They were obviously well accustomed to the rituals of the hunt, for they spread out quickly and headed towards the forest at the far end of the shooting ground, getting ready to drive the game towards the shooters. The older hands ran close to the ground, bent almost double. Two youths, one with a red flag and one with a blue, were dispatched to either end of the line to mark the extent of the beating.

  George steered Aubrey towards the entrance of the gun tent, but they had to stand aside to allow a pair of Holmlanders to exit. The Holmlanders were comparing the gleaming shotguns the Prince's staff had lent them, which they carried broken on their forearms. George nodded in approval. 'Roberts and Malone. Top manufacturers.'

  Aubrey stared at him. 'I never knew you were so knowledgeable about shotguns.'

  George shrugged. 'I managed to make some money as a gun boy on the estates around our farm. The more you know, the better off you are.'

  Indeed, Aubrey thought.

  'Those guns, the ones the Holmlanders had, were both hammerless breechloaders. Single trigger. Very nice. I don't think anyone will be able to blame the guns today, if they have any trouble.'

  'I prefer an over-and-under,' Aubrey said airily, grasping at something he'd recently skimmed in preparation for the weekend. 'Helps me feel as if I'm looking right along where I'm aiming.'

  George snorted, perfectly aware of Aubrey's tenuous understanding of shotguns.

  They entered the tent. Some quick negotiations with two armoury keepers and George handed Aubrey a gun.

  Immediately, Aubrey knew he was handling a piece of fine machinery, the culmination of a hundred years of skill and refinement. The wood was dense, highly polished and so smooth it felt like glass. The metal was dulled to avoid reflection, but had a satin lustre that made it almost soft to touch.

  As they left the tent, Aubrey made sure he was carrying the gun correctly – broken over the forearm. 'The only time a gun should be shut is when it's loaded and ready to fire,' he remembered his father saying.

  One of the fit young men came up to them. 'Sirs, Collins is my name. I'm your loader and assistant for today's shoot.' He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a waistcoat over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had an open, sunny face and he carried two guns over his muscular forearms.

  'Excellent,' Aubrey said. 'Glad to have you aboard, Collins.'

  George led the way to the butts, which were stretched over about fifty yards of broken land. The stone semi-circles looked as if they had been freshly scrubbed and Aubrey thought that Sir William might actually have organised such a thing for the Prince.

  'Collins,' Aubrey said as they found themselves an empty butt, about two-thirds of the way along the line, 'any idea what these Stymphalian birds are? They sound familiar, but I just can't recall . . .'

  'Not exactly, sir.' Collins grinned. 'Something out of the ordinary, that's all I've heard.'

  Around them, people began to spread out. A more serious mood came over the party as the non-shooters retired to the tents for refreshments. Aubrey saw much studying of guns, discussions with loaders and looking to the sky to judge wind conditions. The Holmlanders marched to their positions, issuing orders to their loaders in clipped, no-nonsense accents. Prince Albert was ushered to a butt i
n the middle of the line, no doubt chosen by Sir William to ensure the best shooting.

  The dim light of dawn had given way to the soft gold of early morning. The air was still and cool, with the heavy smell of damp earth and vegetation. Aubrey looked along the line of shooters. Some were slouching, guns still broken; others were leaning against the stone walls of their butts. The Holmlanders were alert, guns at the ready, eyes scanning the forest ahead.

  Aubrey's gun was still broken and he wondered if it was time to load. The back of his neck began to itch and he rubbed it.

  'Nearly seven o'clock,' George said and tucked his watch away. 'We should hear something soon.'

  Aubrey nodded, and the prickling sensation at the back of his neck returned. 'Odd,' he muttered.

  'I beg your pardon?' George said. He handed his gun to Collins for loading.

  'There's some strange magic afoot, George. I can feel it.'

  George frowned, but before he could reply a hullabaloo erupted from the tall trees at the end of the shooting ground.

  Between the shouting, whistles and sound of pots and pans being struck, it sounded to Aubrey as if all the fiends of hell were tuning the instruments of an infernal orchestra.

  'Ready, sirs,' Collins said from behind them. He took Aubrey's gun and, as Aubrey turned, thrust another on him. 'The beaters are doing a fine job of driving the game towards us.'

  A new sound rose over the din in the forest, a shimmering noise like metal sliding on metal. Aubrey held his gun loosely and tried to see what was happening in the trees.

  Something brass-coloured shot out of the woods and climbed, whirring, into the sky. From Aubrey's left, someone stifled an oath and the bird arrowed overhead, sun reflecting from its wings. It had gone before anyone had time to loose off a shot.

  Aubrey looked at Collins. The young man grinned and pushed back his cap. 'No expense spared here.'

  'Stymphalian birds,' Aubrey said and he suddenly remembered stories he'd heard years ago.

  George grimaced. 'Tell me quickly, Aubrey.' Another metallic shape whirred from the trees and darted overhead. This time, the shooters were more prepared. Three or four shots rang out, but only expressions of disgust and disappointment followed the salvo. 'What are they?'

  'One of the twelve labours of Herakles was to rid Lake Stymphalus of a flock of brass birds.'

  'Brass? That'll make the shooting tricky.'

  More shots came from the other shooters. George brought the gun to his shoulder.

  Three birds flew out of the woods and soared upwards until they were yards overhead. They hovered, clattering, and began to swoop.

  'Of course Herakles found these birds to be more than a little aggressive,' Aubrey added.

  George had time for a startled glance at Aubrey and then the birds were on them.

  Aubrey was sure it hadn't been Sir William who'd decided to make the shooting party more interesting than the usual affair. Adding a touch of danger to an occasion where the Crown Prince was present was not Sir William's way of thinking. Perhaps it had been Bertie's idea. Aubrey knew he had a wicked sense of humour that, unfortunately, had few avenues for expression. He may simply have dropped in a few suggestions, then let Sir William make the arrangements.

  A scream like a sheet of metal being torn in two came from the birds as they swooped. Two beaters who had emerged from the woods threw themselves flat on the ground and the birds shot past them, shrieking in disappointment. 'I think I see why the villagers have those hard hats,' Aubrey said.

  The Stymphalian birds drove upwards. As they did, three or four of the guests fired. Their guns coughed with the sound of expensive firearms, but the birds flew higher and circled, unaffected.

  George shot, then looked at Aubrey. 'You're not shooting.'

  'In a moment. Just readying myself.'

  A few more volleys thundered out. One bird, instead of retreating, screamed and dived towards the shooters.

  One of the guests was braver, or more foolhardy, than the others. While they scattered, she stood there, slim and dressed in grey, calmly holding out her hand for the gun the nervous loader was thrusting at her.

  Caroline, Aubrey thought, and he held his breath. Without consciously willing it, he began measuring angles, widths, going over spells in his mind, gauging the wind, a hundred things at once.

  He had actually taken a few steps towards her when she snapped her gun shut, raised it and shot at the bird, which had obviously decided who its chief tormentor was.

  A loud 'Spang!' came from the creature, followed by an indignant squawk. Caroline took a neat step to the side as the bird tumbled past. She swivelled, tracking its progress, but she didn't use the other barrel as the bird flapped and mounted into the air again. She watched it, gun pointed carefully to the ground. As the bird laboured into the air, a feather detached itself and fell to the ground with a clank.

  Aubrey, by then, was hurrying towards her. More birds were driven out of the woods and the shooters were suddenly busy not just idly shooting, but defending themselves.

  When he reached Caroline, she glanced at him while keeping most of her attention on the swooping birds. 'Careful,' she said.

  'You shoot well. Very well.'

  'It's a stupid waste of time, but my father insisted I learn. One of his friends is Lord Sumner. He taught me.'

  Aubrey blinked. Lord Sumner had won the King's Prize for the last six years in a row. He was considered unbeatable at any form of shooting.

  She bent and picked up the brass feather. 'Stymphalian bird.'

  Aubrey took it. He turned it over in his hands. It was about ten inches long and, apart from the fact that it was made of brass, looked identical to an ordinary bird's feather.

  'Fine work,' Aubrey murmured.

  'It should be. Your father's company was responsible.'

  With an effort, Aubrey didn't roll his eyes. 'It's no longer my father's company.'

  'It's appalling, all of this,' she said, ignoring his protest. 'Using magic to create monsters and legendary beasts, then shooting them. Your father has a lot to answer for.'

  'Well,' Aubrey said, searching for a reasonable tone to overlay his desire to defend his father, 'surely it's better than shooting real animals. No blood and all that. Shoot a gryphon and it just vanishes.' He waved a hand at the line of shooters blazing away. 'They seem to be having fun.'

  Caroline rounded on him. 'That's not the point. Hunting is a trivial thing to waste powerful magic on. Hundreds of hours of skill and effort are wasted on rubbish like this!' She swung one hand wide, while cradling her gun in the other.

  'Ah, I see.' Aubrey felt her blistering glare as he sought for a suitable response. 'Umm . . . Well, it keeps the shotgun makers in business.'

  Caroline stared at him. Then she handed her gun to the loader, who had been doing his best to appear invisible. She turned and marched off towards the tents.

  George strolled up. 'Nice chat?'

  'What?' Aubrey closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them. 'Fascinating.' Aubrey couldn't remember the last time he'd made such an inane response. He didn't blame her for walking off.

  'Bagged myself a bird,' George said. He held up a handful of feathers. 'When you manage to drop one, they vanish and leave these behind. Nice souvenir.'

  Aubrey made admiring noises. He turned to go after Caroline and explain that his gaucherie wasn't usual, that he was usually much more lucid than that, almost always putting two or three words together in the correct order, but George caught his arm. 'Not now. Not a good time, I'd say.'

  Aubrey nodded. He took a deep breath and let it out, then looked around.

  To judge by the infrequency of shots, the flights of Stymphalian birds had lessened. Aubrey shaded his eyes, but couldn't see anything.

  The head gamekeeper stepped out of the woods, slapping at his jacket. After he'd dislodged a cloud of dust, he waved his bowler hat over his head.

  Sir William appeared to have been waiting for this. He waved back. A
fter a moment, he managed to get the attention of all the shooters. 'The birds have gone to ground. Time to do some walk-up shooting.'

  Aubrey took a gun from Collins. 'Bertie will like this much better,' he said to George. 'At least there's some exercise this way.'

  George exchanged his gun for a loaded one. 'Always seemed like better sport to me, anyway. Just waiting for game to be driven one's way feels a bit lazy.'

  'Stay alert. We might hear some interesting discussions in Holmlander.'

  'I don't speak Holmlander.'

  'It may be time to learn.'

  The ground ahead of them was a mixture of open country, heath, scrubby bushes, and a scattering of forlorn, wind-blown trees. Aubrey and George formed part of a long line of shooters, walking slowly towards the woods. Soon, Stymphalian birds were everywhere – being flushed, diving on people, climbing high into the sky. The reactions of the shooters were a source of amusement for Aubrey. Some people seemed to forget all about their guns and ran, stooping, trying to protect their heads. Others were firing away, grinning as they were handed reloaded guns.

  Aubrey saw one young man pick himself up from the ground. He had a sour face as he tried to brush mud from what had been expensive and neatly pressed clothes. His friends were laughing at him and consoling him all at once, and they didn't seem to notice the contradiction in this.

  Some people were simply spectators, watching and commenting on how the others were coping. A few of them were drinking from hip flasks. Aubrey made a mental note to keep away from those particular individuals if they started shooting again.

  They were skirting a low thicket of thornbush when Aubrey stopped. 'Collins,' he said, 'George and I will be fine from here. Why don't you go back and get something to eat?'

  Collins frowned. 'Beg your pardon, sir? Is it something I've done?'

  'No, nothing. George and I have lost interest in shooting. We'll just ramble along after the others. Keep up appearances, that sort of thing.'

  Collins frowned. 'I'll be taking the spare guns, then?'

  'That's it. We'll keep one each, though. Thank you, Collins.'