by Karen Myers
“Kinsman,” he said, “his real name is Cyledr Wyllt.” George dipped his head in acknowledgment.
George finished settling himself, glancing around at the moon-lit field surrounded by woods. Nothing indicated the direction his quarry had taken. He turned to his hounds and waiting staff. Benitoe’s face was frozen, and the rest nodded to him formally.
He cast around him on all sides for Cyledr, giving the hounds a mental image of grinning malice and a reek of rot from within.
The hounds exploded with anger and fury, even Dando, he noted, remotely. They, too, are possessed. Doesn’t matter, he thought, as long as they can do the job. Same for me, I suppose.
It took them but a moment to locate his trail, and then they had him fixed in their minds. They charged forward following the scent, Cythraul and Rhymi in the lead.
As they galloped straight across the meadow to the woods on the edge, George had little time to wonder where they were. He could feel another way flashing open before they hit the trees. The old way behind him was still filled with riders coming from the bridge but he had no time to wait for them.
He followed the baying pack as they plunged through the new way after Cyledr, Rhian at his side and the whippers-in trying to catch up to the hounds.
They rode out onto a stark and chilly boulder-strewn field that stretched featurelessly in all directions, low ridges miles away visible in the moonlight. The moon was still rising but had shifted oddly in the sky. The far north, George thought. Tundra? The ground was mossy and soft underfoot, but harder underneath with ice.
There were no trees or landmarks.
He looked back, turning his heavy head slowly. Most of the field still seemed to be with him, but he expected to shed stragglers at each location if they couldn’t keep up. This would be a cold place to pass the time and possibly deadly to be lost in.
As the hounds checked and cast about for the scent, the whippers-in passed him and got to their proper positions on either side. George was beginning to understand the balance of the rules. Cyledr was fast, even on foot. The hounds were faster, but each way they crossed would slow the hounds down, for the transition and to reacquire the scent. The contest was roughly balanced.
Rhymi picked up the line and was honored by the rest of the pack which roared off along the trail. The field tried to stay with them, fearing to be lost in this place.
George felt the flash of a new way opening, and when the hounds reached it, they poured through.
An unexpected thunder of hooves on packed dirt, and they popped out onto a street in some village, right into a crowd of people. By the torches and the inn sign, it seemed to be another end of year celebration.
With cries of alarm, the crowd tried to get out of the path of the pack and riders in their midst, scrambling to either side of the road. George had to clear space for the riders behind him and had no choice but to bring the pack forward to find room.
The hounds split around people stranded in the road, ignoring them as they swept through. He brought them to a halt near the edge of the torchlight, wondering how they were going to pick up scent in this mob.
Now that he was stopped and the people had a moment to take stock, his great crown of antlers suddenly became the focus of attention, and the crowd grew quiet. People poured out of the inn as word spread of the spectacle in the street outside. Riders were still coming through the way and being directed off to the side.
At the cry of “Huntsman!” George turned his head ponderously. A young boy had climbed one of the posts of the stable gates of the inn and looked him straight in the face from that height over the heads of the crowd, his eyes shining. “He went through there,” pointing along a cross street that ended at the edge of a stream.
As well as his heavy head would permit, George bowed in his saddle to him for the news. “My thanks, young sir.” He directed the pack into that road, the crowd parting before them. Cythraul and Goronwy began to feather as they tried to pull the thread of scent out of the tangle.
Behind him, Gwyn rode up to the space he vacated and called to the bystanders. “What village is this?”
From the doorway of the inn, a voice cried out, “Danderi. We know you, Gwyn ap Nudd.”
Gwyn spun to face him. “All are welcome. We will return this way.”
Already a few bold celebrants had left their drinks and emerged mounted from the stable yard, seizing the opportunity, and at Gwyn’s words others rushed to join them.
George heard the augmented field behind him, but focused his attention on the hounds. As one would work the trail, others dodged ahead to see if it continued and, as the overlay of other scents diminished, more and more of them cantered head-down on the line until finally, near the shallow river, they burst into cry.
It took only a few moments to determine where Cyledr had crossed and to pick up the trail again. George felt the flash of the next way in the distance and, after a hard gallop, they popped out into a woods, careening downhill in darkness and trying to check their speed before crashing into something.
The wild ride down through the trees shed a number of the riders. The path, what there was of it, zigzagged back and forth down the slope, in almost complete darkness.
George was relieved to see that they were coming to a clearing lit by the moon. The hounds ignored the terrain, hot on the scent, and all his staff were still with him, swinging around him to reach the hounds again as the ground opened up away from the trees.
Then he saw Brynach’s horse stumble and go down, throwing him clear. He raised a hand from the ground as the horse got up and waved George on as he went by.
George didn’t stop, he couldn’t stop. They’d lost time at the village and working through these trees, and the flash of the next way was far ahead, on the other side of the clearing. Other dismounted riders would help him, he hoped.
The hounds ran silently, heads down and certain.
Rhian rode as well as she could, barreling through the woods next to George. She saw Brynach get thrown in the clearing and looked to George, but couldn’t read the expression on the face of the horned man.
She knew he couldn’t stop, and Benitoe couldn’t either. They’d have to leave Brynach behind and pick him up, returning. She marked the spot carefully, so she could find it again.
Maybe Eurig will see him.
This way took them to an open upland meadow, peaceful and quiet under the moonlight. There was no sign of movement, but in the distance a great oak stood alone near the top of a gradual slope, its leaves fallen, majestic.
The hounds checked. George moved forward from the gate and let them work out the trail. A quick look round showed all his staff except Brynach, and he could hear the field leaving the way and lining up behind him, catching their breaths.
After a few moments, the hounds picked up the line, whimpering with eagerness, and cantered loosely up the hill toward the oak.
Halfway up, George felt the flash of another way opening, next to the tree. He looked up at the oak just in time to see Cyledr step out from behind the trunk and dash through it.
The hounds broke into furious cry as they finally viewed their quarry and tore into pursuit, abandoning the scent trail, their bodies low to the ground as they stretched into a gallop. George and all his staff charged after them. Behind him, he could hear the heavy thunder of many riders, pounding up the slope.
The hounds poured into the way, the whippers-in beside them, while George and Rhian brought up the rear, but before the two of them reached it, another way flashed open downslope right beside them. Cyledr sprang out like a leopard and pulled Rhian from her horse.
George wheeled Mosby as quickly as he could, but Cyledr had backed up to the oak, his strong wiry left arm wrapped around Rhian’s chest, pinning her arms to her sides while she struggled. He held a knife to her throat, and she stopped moving.
The knife winked in the light. A small trickle of blood ran down Rhian’s neck where the point had pricked her, black in the
moonlight, the only thing moving in that tableau. George flared his nostrils at the smell.
He froze, a few yards below them.
The hounds started to pour out from Cyledr’s last way, snarling and intent on their now unmoving prey at bay. George roared, “Hold,” and stopped them all in their tracks by direct command. It was like trying to keep back a runaway coach with dozens of horses and he didn’t think he could hold them for long.
Cyledr snuggled Rhian’s back up tight against him, and giggled.
Cyledr grinned at the frustrated hounds. Made you run in circles, didn’t I. Too bad, he’ll never let you get me while I have my lovely girl here. Such a nice warm squirming girl body. Smells good.
Told them I’d get their heart. It’s just about here. Ah, soft.
I’ve got plenty of the way-sticks left he gave me, I can keep this up all night long.
Do it here or take her with me into a way and close it up tight, tight, tight?
George struggled to hold the hounds in check. The whippers-in had exited the last way and returned to the silent tableau. They sat motionless while the hounds snarled and struggled for release.
Cernunnos pushed hard to manifest and George lost his control of the form. There were gasps in the silent field behind him. Loose the hounds, he commanded, loud in George’s head.
George shook his head, their head, and resisted. I won’t hurt her.
He must die, Cernunnos insisted in a cold, implacable voice. George’s hold on the hounds wavered, and he concentrated to maintain it.
I’m not one of your hounds.
Are you not?
George’s temper flared and he pushed back hard, driving Cernunnos all the way back and resuming his normal form. We’re going to do this my way, he told him.
What was left of the field spread out directly behind him. They formed a semicircle in silence to see justice done, attention divided between the threat at the oak tree and the struggling huntsman.
George, focused on the hounds, ignored them. He could feel the world waiting, the beating pulse almost stopped.
CHAPTER 36
George looked up the hill at Rhian’s face, separated only by the pack and a small margin of ground. She didn’t move, but she couldn’t keep the fury from her face. No room for fear.
He began to push Mosby slowly through the quivering hounds, up the hill, getting closer.
“Go back home where you belong, human,” Cyledr said. “There’s no place for you here. I’ve waited a long, long time for this, and I’ll be gone before you can blink, you stupid bumbling half-wit.”
“And you, old man,” he called over to Gwyn standing with the field, “you’ll be next.” His voice carried in the waiting stillness.
Cyledr grinned more widely and his knuckles tightened on his knife. George strained to keep a hold on the hounds. He’s going to do it, he thought. He’ll just sidestep into the way afterward.
He rolled his eyes to the heavens in desperation. The stars were dim with the nearly full moon, but one of them winked at him, moving slowly across the sky.
A plane!
George reached under his coat, and drew his gun. In one smooth motion he swung up his arm and shot Cyledr through his exposed right shoulder, hard against the oak.
“We’re not in your world any more, we’re in mine,” he cried.
Rhian tore herself free and reached for a knife, but Cyledr was already down, writhing on the ground. Rhys shouted, “No!” and galloped to her, reaching down an arm to swing her up behind him and pull her away from the tree.
George released the hounds.
When it was over, witnessed in grim silence by the assembled field, he called the hounds back. They came to him, willing and obedient, back to normal.
He lifted up the oliphant again and blew the mort. The sound seemed to echo to the ends of the earth. He felt the spinning of the world hanging suspended, like the end of the swing of a pendulum.
Rhys dropped Rhian by her horse. As soon as she mounted, she rode back to George, relieved to see his normal face.
“Brynach,” she said, “We left him behind.”
George turned and called to Rhodri, behind him with the field. “Can you find your way back without me?”
“Yes.”
“Go with her, then, and see if Brynach needs help.”
Rhodri joined her. “At your service, my lady.” Then seriously, “And very glad indeed to see you well, cousin.”
She’d think about Meuric/Cyledr later. She had a terrible feeling about Brynach and wanted to get to him as quickly as possible. She galloped down the hill, Rhodri at her side, and he guided her through the way.
George brought the pack down the hill to the assembled field, and passed Ceridwen coming up. She dismounted at the body by the tree and bent over it.
Behind him, he felt the two ways used by Cyledr and the pack wink out, the last one first. Was that Cernunnos cleaning up after the hunt, or had they been made by Cyledr and affected by his death?
“We must go,” George said to Gwyn.
Idris came up. “Where’s Madog?”
Someone in the field spoke up. “Madog left just now, back through the way, and our lord’s sister followed close behind.”
George looked at Gwyn, alarmed. “Rhian and Brynach are in front of them.”
Gwyn waved him forward and pulled the field together to follow.
George paused at the way and looked back to make sure everyone was following. Ceridwen had remounted and was cantering back, and the oak tree stood alone again, on its hill in the moonlight.
Suddenly he realized—this is the oak I dream about, the one that protects. And here it is, in some spot in the human world, not in the otherworld at all. I may never find it again, but that’s alright. It’s real, and now it’s mine. He caught Angharad’s eye and pointed at it with his chin. She looked back at it, and nodded her understanding.
He turned forward again and rode through the way with the pack.
George emerged into the clearing to find Brynach on the ground at the far side holding a sword, and Rhian standing over him, a knife in each fist. As he cantered up, Madog tried to attack, but was warded off by Rhodri, still mounted. Creiddylad stood by, watching.
He heard the thunder of Edern, Gwyn, and Eurig riding past him, metal scraping as they drew weapons. Rhian was preventing Madog from closing by directing his horse away. George could feel it. Clever girl, he thought.
Madog looked up at the noise as the charge started from the far end of the clearing, and shrugged. Without ceremony he turned and galloped into the woods, slowing to climb the hill back to the entrance way, Creiddylad at his back.
George brought the pack over to Brynach and Rhian. “Alright, you two?” Rhian, breathing hard, nodded and called her horse and Brynach’s over.
Brynach said, “It’s just an ankle, I think. I can’t stand on it.”
Tegwen and Ceridwen rode up and dismounted to take a look.
George looked for Gwyn, circling back with Edern and Eurig. “I know you want to go after him—me, too—but we can’t until we collect everyone. We’ll have lost several people here in the woods.”
Idris set up a hue and cry, and half a dozen stragglers made it down into the clearing after a few minutes. George stopped them to listen for a moment, and they could hear one other in the woods, shouting as he came. This proved to be one of the villagers from Danderi who had joined them along the ride. He was leading his limping horse.
George checked around with a mental call and turned up no one else. The way behind him, to the oak tree meadow, winked out. Rhodri felt it, too, and gave George a look of alarm.
“Alright, that’s everyone. I’ve checked,” George told Gwyn. “Madog and Creiddylad aren’t here, they’ve probably already gone through ahead of us. We have to leave.”
Eurig helped get Brynach lifted to his horse, where he rode with one leg loose. The villager rode double with a friend, leading his horse. They climbed through
the woods back to the entrance way following George and the pack, as quickly as they could manage.
As he rode out of this way at the top of the field, he picked up the pace, alarmed at the lead Madog was gaining and worried about the ways closing behind him. Danderi across the river below gleamed, still lit for the new year celebrations. The villagers who had joined the hunt field here raised a shout as they saw their home.
They crossed the river and clattered down the street back to the inn. There they found their entrance way in the middle of the road had been marked off with benches, to prevent anyone accidentally going through. Someone helpfully shouted, “Two passed through ahead of you, several minutes ago.”
Drinkers in the doorway of the inn spotted the hunt returning and called to their comrades inside. Half a dozen riders pulled out of the hunt field, saluting Gwyn as they passed him, and crying, “Well done, huntsman,” to George.
The innkeeper, standing in his doorway, offered drinks to everyone. Gwyn and Edern, grim in their pursuit of Madog and Creiddylad refused, but two of Gwyn’s guests decided to stay for a while, declaring that they knew where they were and how to return home through more conventional ways.
Behind them, George felt the way across the river wink out. Can we be stranded here, he wondered.
We’ve wasted enough time. Without waiting for Gwyn, he waved a couple of the men in the streets at the benches blocking the way and they hastened to pull them back, just in time for George to send the pack streaming through.
George expected most of the stragglers to have been lost here in the boulder field. The entrance and exit ways, both, were in unmarked and undistinguished patches of ground, and only a very lucky rider would be likely to find them without landmarks.
Not far from the entrance way the wiser people had dismounted and gathered together without wandering off, afraid of missing the hunt on its return and being left behind.