The Sacred Hunt Duology

by Michelle West

  It was the bard as much as the assassin who saw the pale-skinned, platinum-haired mage, his eyes shining as brightly as—or more brightly than—the ring, his expression taut and pale. In seeming he was no longer old and wise and learned; his power was youth’s power, youth’s certain belief in immortality.

  It was the wind’s power.

  The two—wind and mage—seemed inextricably linked, the binding between them no less pervasive, no less necessary, than the binding that held the Kovaschaii together. Kallandras sang with the wind’s voice; Meralonne was the wind.

  Pain brought him back to himself; pain and determination. Lifting his chin, he sang, his voice the bard’s voice, a counter to the wind’s anger. Myrddion’s ring burned at his flesh; the air reddened his cheeks with chill. Again, the ground rushed up, and again it stopped, but his shadow was inches from his cheek before he righted himself. Or was righted. His toes brushed the earth and remained there.

  Meralonne’s face was twisted, his lips thin; the pain that was writ across his features looked as if it might never leave, it was etched so deep. He held fast to Kallandras, and in the light of his eyes, the bard saw a glimmering. If they were tears, the mage would not let them fall.

  The tenor of the wind changed abruptly; the storm ceased its buffeting chill. Curls flattened against forehead by sweat and blood were lifted again, ruffled; the sweet smell of open sky teased his nostrils. He could see, more clearly than the death and the darkness, the perfection of sun across a crimson horizon, the whisper of nodding leaves, stalks of grass; he could feel the caress of feathered wings along his forehead.

  In the wind, innocence, wild joy, perfect beauty. A place where pain and loss had no meaning, and never would.

  It hurt him, to deny it.

  But he had already denied so much for the sake of this battle, it came naturally to him. As if the things he could have, rather than the things he could not, were the illusion or the trap. What had Meralonne said? To have and to lose.

  He sang the wind home, and the wind, crying, came.

  • • •

  Silence.

  • • •

  Meralonne caught Kallandras as his grip slackened and he fell. Had there been no breath, no pulse, he would not have been surprised; the bard weighed no more than a child, albeit an older one; his cheeks were hollowed as if by long years of privation, his eyes ringed darkly. His hand—the hand that had borne, and still bore, Myrddion’s ring—was blistered, and in two places blackened to bone. Without the aid of a powerful healer, the talent for which Kallandras was known would fail him; no hands so injured could bridge the strings of a lute.

  And the other hurts, time would heal. Or nothing.

  As the mage cradled the bard’s limp form, the air returned—gently—to earth the things that should have remained upon it: bodies; the weapons and armor of the fallen; jagged rocks and other fragments of what had once been altars, columns, and arches.

  I hear you, Meralonne told the wind. I know what you desire. But it is not the time, not the place; you have done damage enough with what little freedom you were granted.

  He received no answer, but expected none. Long ago, he would not have spoken. Grimacing, he realized that even in this, time had changed him.

  At his back, he heard the roar of the beast; it was distant enough for the moment that he did not seek to flee it in desperation. Instead, he turned in its direction, cradling the bard to his chest as if his weight were negligible. Remembering that his arm, braced by magic, would suffer the weight only so long, and not longer.

  The beast was in its fury; beneath its open jaws, the savaged corpse of a dead soldier lay sprawled at an angle that even in death should have been impossible. He could not think of this creature as a God; such a primal force had its roots in things older and wilder than the Lords of man. Yet it was compelling in its rage and hunger, and beautiful in the way that creatures of power are. Like the elemental air. Yes, very like it.

  The Kings—he could see their standards, broken and twisted by wind, now raised by the shadowy lattice of magical hands—were alive; their soldiers, what remained of them, regrouped around their monarchs. The standards of the Exalted were likewise borne, but the daughter of the Mother was busy; the healers had been left in the streets where the fighting could not destroy them and no one sought to summon them yet.

  There should have been a breeze; a wind across a plain whose silence was the aftermath of waged battle. Some sun, dying light, the flight of birds in the high skies above, waiting. There should have been horns, trumpets, pipes; there should have been heralds, those who told the battle’s tale to the families and the countrymen who waited behind the lines the generals had drawn.

  There were none of these things.

  Instead, all eyes were upon a lone man who stood, Spear to one side, Horn slowly falling from steady hands. Meralonne could see his back; he did not know what expression played across the face of Lord Elseth of the Breodani, but he knew, as the beast’s great head swiveled, as it roared again, that the Horn was the Hunter’s Horn, and by it the beast had been summoned.

  But the beast was canny in a feral way. It did not charge.

  Nor did the waiting Lord.

  This will decide all.

  Meralonne stepped back, carrying Kallandras from the field. To his great surprise, the bard lifted his head; his curls, sticky and matted, clung to his face. He tried to speak, but his voice was a ruin and it formed no words.

  “What is it?” Meralonne’s voice was gentle.

  Reaching out, Kallandras clutched the mage’s robe. His lips formed words that his voice could not carry, not yet.

  There was a danger here, and Meralonne knew it—but the battle had not yet left his blood. Softly brushing the hair from the dull blue eyes of the younger man, he nodded. He thought that Kallandras might relax, but instead he pulled himself up by the mage’s collar until he was almost sitting in the cradle of his arms. His eyes became opaque; he lifted his hands in a shaking, jittery motion that meant nothing to Meralonne. His mouth moved; cracked lips split further as he carefully, delicately, formed thirteen words.

  Curiosity was the very heart of the Order of Knowledge, but even so, Meralonne granted Kallandras as much privacy as he could, holding him without watching, allowing him to struggle without superfluous offers of aid.

  He knew it was over when Kallandras began to weep, and almost against his will, he held him a while, watching the battle.

  • • •

  Silence.

  No gale, no clashing of arms, no dying cries. It was as if the huntbrother’s call had stopped the world; as if the mystical meeting place of Gods and men had been bridged so that the two, Hunter’s Death and Hunter, might meet here for the last time. His arm shook as the Horn’s final note resonated into stillness.

  He wore Hunter green, the dark rich weave that was the emblem of his rank; he bore a sword across his back, a sheathed dagger for the unmaking across his thigh.

  Death stalked him, moving across the bloodied, even sand; Death roared twice, an answer to the call of the Horn. The Horn lay at his feet like so much refuse. By it, Stephen had called his death, and Gilliam would not allow it to be winded again while he lived.

  The Hunter’s movements were graceful, powerful; they spoke of the kill, of the freedom of the kill, of the end to hunger. Waiting, he listened for the third roar—there had been three notes. When it came, he knew that the Hunter’s Death would spring on coiled hind legs, cover the distance between them; force him to stand against superior strength, speed, weight. A calm descended on him as the beast raised its head.

  At his back, he heard a murmur break the silence, and then, louder than that and sweeter by far, the baying of the dogs. Three. He knew their voices, heard the reproach in them before it gave way to joy, to fear. To the Hunt. He could not stop himself; he caught their eyes,
their ears, their noses, shifting his stance subtly as the information became a part of him; as the Hunt became real.

  He heard his heart beat, felt theirs and, more, felt an inexplicable joy, a perfect well-being. Had he thought, had he even doubted, that he could stand against this creature? Why?

  Around him, like columns in an ancient ruin, ghostly trees cast their shadows and offered their cover; he heard the rustle of leaves and undergrowth, the snap of dry twigs and dead branches. This forest was the Hunter’s mantle, and Gilliam felt no surprise as it unfolded around him. The Hunt that the Breodani had been given was not a hunt of air and wing, nor of open plain, nor of rocky mountain face; it was a forest Hunt, and in the forest, all things could be hidden.

  Stay! he cried out, as Ashfel howled and pulled away, arrowing toward the beast as if the beast were not his death. He caught Connel and Salas—long-snouted, white-booted pup—before they could join their leader. You wait, he told them, for me.

  There should have been fear. But the dogs did not have it; indeed they might have been chasing a rabbit or a fox for all the caution they showed. He looked at them closely, seeing them through his own eyes—and each other’s. Like pups, they bounced on the pads of their feet, anxious to be gone, but willing—barely—to obey.

  A smile turned his lips up; he reached for a horn—his own, and deservedly so—and blew the harboring of the beast. They joined him, baying, as the beast came.

  Spear became an extension of arm. Gilliam heard the beast roar, saw the glint of fur and fang as it leaped; he was not there to greet it. The shadow passed him, clawing at air and cloak. When Gilliam turned again, he brought the Spear to bear.

  Through his hounds’ acute senses he tried to penetrate the mystery of the creature. All things had a definitive scent, some mark of sweat and musk upon the air by which they could be identified. But the Hunter’s Death was the forest scent, and no part of it could be pared from him. It was almost as if . . .

  From death, life.

  The moment of wonder held him still almost too long. The creature’s lunge caught his cloak and shirt; he heard the snapping of a brittle, fine clasp—his mother’s gift—seconds before claws traced a path across his thigh. From death, he thought, drawing painful breath across teeth as his leap proved the muscles hadn’t been slashed. First blood.

  But the death—the Hunter’s Price—had already been paid. And paid. And paid. At once, the forest’s shadows were harsher, sharper, longer. The dogs had come to stand at his side, but Stephen’s place was empty, and would remain so. The beast roared, or so he thought until he felt the rawness of his throat as he drew breath.

  Bringing the Spear to bear again, he backed up slowly; the shadow of a great tree crossed over his shoulder. Crouching, he tightened his grip on the Spear’s plain haft, wishing for a boar-spear. The world slipped into shades of gray as he caught Salas’ view of the moving beast’s flank. It was coming for him, quickly.

  • • •

  “Stand your ground.”

  At the curt command, the Kings’ Sword—the Verrus Sivari—glanced up. His eyes became darkened, wary slits. “It is not our way to stand idle while our allies face death.”

  The slender, platinum-haired mage frowned at the tone of the man’s voice. “And it is your way, of course, to commit to death your own people. Stand your ground.”

  “The Kings’ Swords,” he said curtly, “take their orders from the Kings.”

  Meralonne raised a pale brow and then bowed very low.

  “Member APhaniel,” King Reymalyn said quietly. “What would you have of us?”

  “I would have you,” Meralonne replied, his voice a study in neutrality, “save the lives of your servitors. They are gathering to intervene in the struggle.” He paused and spoke again only when it became clear that the King was waiting. “There is only one weapon in the city that can affect the creature you see before us. That man wields it, as he is oathsworn to do. Neither he, nor the creature, would benefit from the aid that you seek to offer—but neither he, nor the creature, would be injured by it either. Your men will break like a single wave against the seawall.”

  Verrus Sivari bristled.

  The Lord of the Compact, dirt-stained and bleeding but utterly unfazed by either, said, “My Lord, heed him.” No more. It was not to Verrus Sivari’s liking.

  King Reymalyn raised his hand and gave the order.

  • • •

  The beast moved slowly, stalking toward him like a giant cat as he shook the forest with his growling. Inches disappeared under the quiet fall of footpad and claw; Gilliam held the Spear before him as if its shaft were a shield behind which he might weather a strong attack. Hunters dreamed of such a moment; were, in their Hunt in the safety of the Sacred Forest, dreaming of it now.

  Ashfel came from the left, seeking purchase in the shoulder haunch of the beast, at a safe remove from reach of its heavy head or jaws. But Ashfel was alaunt, and the beast was God; almost before he made his leap, he was flying in the wrong direction. Gilliam grimaced as he felt the impact, aware that the act of disposing of the slight threat had distracted the Death.

  Ashfel rose from his bed of twigs and dirt, growling; had he hit tree or rock in his fall, more than dignity would have been injured. Gilliam caught him and held him back, weaving invisible couples around him and Salas. Connel was the wisest of the three—and, not coincidentally, the oldest; he was willing to wait upon the word of the Hunter Lord.

  Looking up, unblinking, Gilliam stared into the eyes of the beast. A mistake, and almost his last, for the God stared back. Men give a hint of their intent by the shifting of their eyes, by the narrowing or widening of their lids; the Hunter’s Death was intent incarnate, and when he sprang, there was no change at all in the lidless depth of his gaze.

  But perhaps there was something else; some spark of Godhood not consumed by the Hunt; perhaps the lives that he had already taken in the first flush of his victory had had their effect—although that should not have been possible—for the leap was heavy and fell short; jaws that should have snapped shut over the forearm and elbow cut grooves into flesh and slid free.

  Old scars would be buried under new ones. Gilliam grunted in pain and then let the pain wash over him as if he were stone and it, liquid. This was why Hunters did not use bow and arrow; they did not wield crossbow; they did not throw javelins or ride—as was the custom in the West—after their dogs at a safe distance.

  Mighty head coiled on muscled neck; the beast growled as Ashfel, Salas, and Connel joined the fray, harrying it at a vantage that teeth and claw could not easily reach. Gilliam willed the beast to turn, but the beast knew who the leader was. And knew best that to kill the Hunter was to destroy the pack. Had he not fashioned that truth and given it to the Breodani at the dawn of time?

  His muscles were not severed; as the beast raked claws across Connel’s side, Gilliam gritted his teeth and lunged forward with the Spear.

  To the parish, to the village, the stag was the best kill; the largest and the one that provided for most. But to the Hunters, it was the boar that was the test; even the bear, cornered, was not so dangerous.

  Gilliam had been tested. And he had passed that test because he was Breodani; he was Hunter Lord. The Spear’s fine, unadorned tip found a home in the beast’s throat an instant before its great jaws descended again.

  The earth left Gilliam’s feet, but his hands held fast to the haft of the Spear as the beast reared up on two legs, seeking to dislodge him.

  Connel watched for him, seeing the whole event as he could not; Connel’s eyes saw Gilliam’s body as the beast sought to scrape him off on the bark of a great tree. He reacted to what the alaunt saw, as he had always done, bringing his feet up at the last minute to use the tree for leverage. To push the Spear farther home.

  The beast roared, but the roar was a gurgle of anger and pain; he snapped his head
to the side, and Gilliam once again held on to the Spear, nothing more, as he swung in a wide arc. Ashfel sought purchase in flank; Salas harried the beast’s back.

  Twice, the beast struck out with claw where fang would no longer reach; each time, he scored flesh, drew blood. This struggle was at the heart of the Hunter’s dance, the Hunter’s Death. They both knew its cadences, and its pain, and they knew its goal: One would weaken and die; the other would survive.

  But Gods live forever.

  Gilliam’s hands were slick and sticky with wet blood, with drying blood; he slid an inch down the Spear’s pole before his grip tightened enough to hold on. The beast dropped to all fours, suddenly pressing him to ground when he least expected it. Connel’s vision was blurring; Gilliam knew that soon, the contest would be over. He could not hold his link and trance for much longer.

  The Spear bit deeper, swallowed by fur and blood, but it was not deep enough—he knew that now.

  Claws raked his chest, his stomach; he closed his eyes a moment and felt the heaviness of lids, the physical reluctance to see—to watch—his death.

  And perhaps it was because his eyes were closed, perhaps because he could not see the physical world so clearly and so brightly, that he felt a glimmer of a familiar presence. It offered comfort, sent him strength. In the darkness of lidded eyes, he felt ghostly hands around his shuddering grip; they were gentle but firm as they closed around his knuckles, holding them in place.

  He should have been surprised, but he couldn’t be. The hounds, he had sent away, and they had returned because their place was the Hunt; Stephen, the Hunter God had taken, and his return, no matter how limited, no matter how slight, was no less right. He had never faced the Sacred Hunt without Stephen. This was their final Hunt together, a gift unlooked for. He wanted to hear Stephen’s voice again, but he knew he never would—not outside of the Halls of Judgment.

  A calm descended upon him, easing his pain a moment as he opened his eyes and stared up at the throat and upper chest of the Hunter’s Death.