To Carry the Horn

by Karen Myers

  “Maybe in your world. Not in ours.”

  Reluctantly, George had to agree. He needed to toughen up and face the reality of this place, not a world as he might wish it to be. “You’re right, of course. I just hate putting someone in harm’s way, especially a youngster.”

  “As do we all,” Hadyn said.

  The hard chair at dinner in the great hall hurt his leg just as much as he had expected, but George knew that he had to put in an appearance in order to squelch any rumors that he’d been put out of action altogether by the morning’s attack.

  He used a simple cane Alun had found, he didn’t ask where, to suppress his obvious limp as much as possible, but he avoided any other visible concessions, so his unelevated leg was pounding with every heartbeat and he shifted restlessly in his chair, trying to compensate. He pushed the food around on his plate to hide his lack of appetite. Rhodri seated next to him on the end fell in with his mood and didn’t press him for conversation.

  George pulled himself together and asked Rhodri, quietly, “So, how many of these new faces are actively wishing me gone, and Gwyn, too?”

  “You know, I don’t think that’s where to look. Plenty are disapproving, of humans, lutins, or any other innovations, but that’s just normal for them, it’s not really personal. They don’t mean Gwyn any particular harm by it. You earned some goodwill with that crowd this morning by giving them a good hunt, and showing up at dinner tonight helps.”

  Rhodri topped up George’s glass of wine. George was under instructions by Ceridwen to drink to make up the blood loss. “The others can’t be won over and you shouldn’t waste your time with it. Gwyn doesn’t. They come to see Gwyn fail, nothing simpler. They probably weren’t even making most of the catcalls this morning, they’re happy to let the blowhards do that.”

  “No,” he continued, “I think these are the same enemies we’ve been discussing the last few days, just taking advantage of knowing your specific location at a predictable time. An opportunistic strike.”

  “They damn near succeeded,” George said morosely.

  “That’s not the way to think about it. From their point of view, it was a failure, and that suits me fine. Look at it that way. You’re leading a charmed life.”

  He has a point, George thought. He straightened up. Put on a tough face and force them to try harder. That’s what you wanted to accomplish, wasn’t it? Push them off balance?

  Gwyn rose to address his guests. They fell silent. “Let’s thank our huntsman for this morning’s sport: two fine bucks, which you will be tasting before the week’s out.” He waved for George to rise to acknowledge the polite applause.

  George could see he knew exactly what this would cost him. He pushed his chair back nonchalantly but carefully, and stood, casually leaning against Rhodri’s chair as he rose, his face expressionless. He nodded his thanks and sat down again, taking his weight on his arms, his every move trying to maintain control while hiding the effort. Only Rhodri was close enough to see the sweat break out on his face once he was reseated.

  He hissed and grayed out for a moment when his thigh took the weight again and Rhodri poked him. “Not now, not here. Hold it together a few more minutes.” He nodded and opened his eyes as if nothing had happened.

  Rhodri continued indignantly. “Rhys and I are going to walk you back to your house after most of the guests have left, and you’re going to bed if Alun has to tie you down. Gwyn had no right to do that.”

  “No, you’re wrong. We have to keep the focus on me. Gwyn knows this.” He settled himself to endure for a little while longer. “If I start to look like I’m not worth taking out as a primary target, it might be Rhian next. I’m not going to let that happen.”

  Early to bed, and grateful for it, George tried to settle himself into a least-painful position. He expected tomorrow to be worse, as the bruises and stiffening really kicked in. Maybe I can try the steam baths.

  Was today a net gain, he wondered. The hunt went well. Rhodri was probably right that the most vocal jerks weren’t a real concern. One thing for sure, the hunt was successful enough that the enemy was worried. Forcing them to react was all to the good.

  So, on balance, it was a good hunt and we’re one step closer to the enemy. Cost, one damaged huntsman, hopefully still functional. On that basis, it seemed like a decent trade.

  But the nerve of them. What if it’s someone else next time, one of mine instead of me? This has got to be stopped. He clenched his fist.

  Restless, he stared into the darkness of his room. Why did the horned man begin to manifest? I didn’t invoke it. Can it do that on its own? That wasn’t just distracting but downright sinister. What about the full deer form? How would the crowd have reacted?

  As a curious parlor trick for Angharad, it was one thing. Rather different, if he had no control over it.

  CHAPTER 30

  “So you’re sure about the timing, then?” George asked, Wednesday morning.

  “Absolutely. The traps from the private way went off just about the time we were getting you onto Eurig’s horse,” Ceridwen said. “The inference is clear—the shooter exited via the guests’ way and returned via that private one. I can’t be certain, but I don’t believe in coincidence.”

  George sat with his leg propped up in the huntsman’s study, trying to ignore the ache. As he’d predicted, today he was sore everywhere, though the pain from the wound itself was more localized, a sign it was beginning to heal.

  “Can you tell how much time elapsed? I was a bit occupied, myself,” he said.

  “Close to an hour.”

  “So you think he just exited one way and came back the other?”

  “Perhaps,” she said. “Or perhaps he took another way or two in between.”

  “They’d have to be close, wouldn’t they?”

  “It takes no time to travel the ways,” she said, “only as long as to cross the few yards of the way itself. All the time would be spent crossing the ground between them, and you can cover a lot of distance in an hour, if there’s any sort of nexus with multiple ways.”

  They heard voices in the hall, and Alun showed Isolda in, a long cane in her hand.

  “Back from your morning trip already?” Ceridwen asked her. At George’s look, she explained, “Isolda has started driving officially for the manor, running village errands morning and afternoon.”

  “Congratulations, I didn’t know,” George said. “I’m usually out with the hounds in the morning.”

  She looked at them seriously. “I have this cane for you from Angharad,” she said, “and she passed along some news as well.”

  George took the cane from her with his left hand and promptly dropped it as the sporadic numbness in the hand kicked in. Isolda bent down and picked it up for him. He admired it for a moment, a straight clean shaft with a long hound’s head at the end for a grip. Did she carve this for him yesterday, after she left at mid-day? That didn’t seem possible, even if the shaft was already prepared. It looked brand new, though, with a soft oil finish, and he could smell the oils when he raised it to his nose.

  He held it on his lap, his hands playing with it while he looked at Isolda expectantly. “Thanks. Her news?”

  “A personal message for you, that she told Mostyn about the clothing replacements you’d need.” Her face took on the demeanor of a professional messenger. “And a warning for Gwyn’s council, which I give here to you now.”

  Ceridwen said, formally, “You are heard. Speak.”

  “Angharad sends word from Huw Bongam. This morning, the man Scilti departed the inn in haste, taking all his possessions. The groom Maonirn asked him where he was headed, and Scilti rebuked him with a slash from his crop. This was reported by another groom. When Huw Bongam went out to the stable to see for himself, Scilti was gone. And Maonirn’s missing.”

  “What does Huw Bongam think happened to Maonirn?” George asked.

  “He thinks Maonirn was angered and tried to follow Scilti, to see where he
went. He expects him back after he tires of following a mounted man on foot.”

  “Is there more?” Ceridwen asked.

  “No, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Isolda.” The young lutine nodded formally to both of them and left.

  “Takes her job seriously,” George said.

  “She’s starting off well. Who knows what she can make of herself as she gets older?”

  “What do you think of this? We know Scilti has a confederate inside the palisade. Was it Scilti who attacked yesterday, or was it the other one, the one who killed Iolo?”

  Ceridwen said, “Why would Scilti panic now, unless it was him?”

  “That doesn’t feel right to me. I’d have bet on the other one.” George paused. “I’ll tell you what really worries me, though. I think Maonirn went after Scilti partly because I asked him to keep me informed. I should’ve realized it would put him in danger.”

  “He made his own choices. Lutins are good at being overlooked. If he went after Scilti, I doubt Scilti spotted him. We’ll hear back from him, soon enough.”

  I hope so, George thought. He had a bad feeling about this. And where did Scilti go? Was he gone for good?

  This time Rhian was going to do it by the rules.

  After yesterday’s scolding she’d decided it wasn’t fair to get Brynach into trouble. Besides, if she set it up right, there wasn’t even any real reason to hide, except she didn’t want people to look at her as she learned. Brynach could watch, he was learning, too.

  She’d gone to the house armory yesterday before the afternoon training and taken a hard look at some of the shorter weapons in the bins and hanging on the walls. There’d been a pair of long slender knives, stilettos, she supposed, whose sheaths were pierced for straps that could work under a skirt. Two shorter unmatched knives, sturdy enough to slash with, seemed the right size for along her side under one arm and behind her back, like George’s gun. Those she could wear under hunt clothing when the stilettos wouldn’t work. She found two flat knives she thought could be used as boot knives and throwing knives. And there was one tiny blade, no longer than three inches with grip, that she thought might be a good hidden weapon to wear all the time, maybe under the root of her braid.

  She’d felt guilty for a moment, looking at her haul. This room was usually locked and she’d begged the key from the housekeeper—the armorers always forgot that she had one. But then she considered, it’s my family, these are mine, too.

  She’d brought the whole pile of blades in a sack to the leather craftsman for strap and sheath work, and he worked up the two stilettos on the spot. It had felt so odd to wear them secretly at dinner last night under her gown where she could reach them through the pocket slits, but reassuring, too. She was determined never to be without a weapon again.

  This morning, she’d arranged to meet Brynach back behind the balineum after the hound walk. No one would see them here, in the blind spot between the baths and the palisade, and it was rarely walked, the perimeter route being longer than the shortcuts from place to place. The strap work was finished and she brought the whole pile with her in the sack to show Brynach, including the ones she wore last night. She wanted his opinion.

  While she waited, she took off her hunt coat and tried on the two she intended to wear while hunting. The one under her left arm had been tricky to arrange without the straps showing, but the one in the small of her back, easier to get at under the skirt of the weskit, worked fine. The boot knives would take more planning.

  Brynach came around the corner of the building, carrying a bag of his own. Good, he’d brought the padded vest she wanted, from the main armory. She didn’t want to get it herself, under Hadyn’s eye, and besides, she wasn’t sure what to look for or where they were kept.

  “Look what I got yesterday,” she told him, handing him the sack. He emptied it carefully onto the ground and started to go through her selection while she took off her coat and hunting weskit to try on the protective vest and fasten it, making sure she could still reach her knives. It only covered the front, so the sheaths strapped around her shirt were still reachable. It was a reasonable fit. I guess they get young men of all ages, she thought.

  She saw that he’d spotted the two strapped-on blades as she changed. “Let me see those knives,” he said, and she handed them to him, one at a time.

  He examined them and Rhian was struck, for the first time, by how much larger his hands were than hers. Why, he still has a lot of growing to do. Of course—he’s likely to be as big as Eurig, or maybe taller, eventually. Her perception suddenly shifted, and she briefly saw him as a stranger might, as a young man of promise, not just her comrade.

  “These are good choices. The flat ones will be boot knives?”

  “If I can figure out how to wear them. Strapped to the calf or sheathed in the boot?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You’ll have to experiment. They could all use cleaning and sharpening. I’ll show you how to do that, when we’re done.”

  He showed her the contents of his own sack, dull knife-shaped iron blanks with grips, in several lengths, and a long practice sword with a blunt edge and point. They each took a practice weapon and began.

  After several minutes they took a breather. Brynach was facing the palisade and when he froze, eyes widening, she spun to see what he was looking at. A man came through the bushes of the barrier. She’d forgotten about the hole there; she couldn’t get that close to it, no one could, so how could someone get through? As he straightened up and saw them, she recognized Scilti, from the inn. He didn’t know her. She wasn’t wearing the glamour he saw a week ago.

  He looked at them with their practice weapons and smiled coldly, drawing his sword.

  “Get behind me, Rhian,” Brynach said, swapping the iron practice blade to his left hand and picking up the dull sword.

  At the sound of her name, Scilti focused all his attention on her and she felt the hair on her arms rise. He took his time, drawing a main-gauche for his other hand and ignoring Brynach. He began to stalk her, with Brynach trying to intervene.

  Why did we leave our swords with the hunting gear? Why aren’t we wearing them, Rhian cried out silently. If I go for help, he’ll get Brynach. He’s taller, he’s experienced, his weapons are real. And Brynach won’t run, I know he won’t.

  Brynach surprised her by backing up a few steps before Scilti was quite on them. He dropped the practice weapons and seized her two stilettos on the ground, flinging off their sheathes and running forward to prepare for Scilti’s sword.

  He’ll be killed, Rhian thought, paralyzed. Then a cold wave washed over her and time slowed down. She dropped her practice weapons and drew both the knives strapped to her body. She drew up even with Brynach on his right and said, “I’ll take the short blade.”

  “Stay back,” he told her, but she ignored him. Side by side they engaged.

  Brynach worked to trap Scilti’s sword with his two shorter blades and Rhian concentrated on keeping the main-gauche occupied. It was clumsy work, but the coordinated attack from two directions confounded Scilti for a moment, too. He managed to slug Rhian in the cheek with the knife still in his fist, and in the seconds it took her to recover he beat Brynach back into a defensive position.

  She picked herself up and concentrated on just his one hand, the one weapon, trusting Brynach to keep the sword engaged and off of her. She tried to move around his left side, to make him fight in two directions, but he was quick, able to drive her back and re-engage Brynach while she recovered. Only once was she successful enough occupying his attention for Brynach to get in a touch with a stiletto, but it wasn’t deep.

  She had to get help but she couldn’t leave. The sound of clanging iron in the practice bouts a few minutes ago had brought no witnesses, so this deadly fight wouldn’t either, and their voices wouldn’t carry. The hounds! She could rouse the hounds. She used her link with them and called for aid.

  Half the yard away a great cry rose up fro
m the kennels and echoed off the stone buildings. The roar was frantic while the fight continued, Scilti gradually wearing them down by forcing them to alternate, keeping them too off balance to synchronize an attack. Rhian could feel herself slowing down and she knew it was just a matter of time before Scilti got in one good hit on either of them, and that would be it. Then, suddenly, two snarling hounds bore down upon them, with Benitoe running far behind them, drawing his sword.

  Scilti coolly backed up and disengaged before the hounds reached him, then turned and ran for the palisade, sheathing his main-gauche as he ran and reaching into his vest with his free hand to pull out something small. He held it as he lowered his sword and entered the gap in the wooded under-story, vanishing from sight. The hounds whined as they got as close as they dared to the palisade, their blood up.

  Rhian called them back to calm them down. Cythraul and Dando, she noticed, remotely, a good choice. The pack in the kennels quieted down.

  Benitoe reached them and she realized, it was over. It had felt like she’d keep on fighting forever. Rhys came running up, sword in hand, and George hobbled some distance behind him.

  Rhys gave them a quick look. “You’re unharmed?”

  They both nodded, out of breath, and he ran on toward the back gate. “Stay with them,” he called back to Benitoe.

  Rhian and Brynach both bent over to catch their breath, and when she caught his eye, they grinned at each other. We did it, she thought, we’re alive.

  As she straightened up, she saw Ives pounding up with Huon and Tanguy. The kennel-men carried butchering knives but Ives had picked up a cudgel from somewhere. Brynach spotted them at the same time Rhian did, and the two of them broke out into a whooping laughter that was surprisingly difficult to control. With the arrival of George, skipping lopsidedly on his cane to make speed, the whole kennel and hunt staff were there.

  Rhys jogged back. “I’ve sent the gate guards after him from the outside. Who was it?”