Then Jamas rose to retire and bade everyone a good night. When he entered his own tent, Grenejon was there, looking thoughtful.
“You’re expected to choose one of them, you know,” he said, pouring the hot spiced drink that Jamas preferred at this time of day. “At least he brought the prettiest of his wards. Seems there have been some most untoward accidents among his nobles, leaving many nubile young women to be suitably married off at Egdril’s discretion.”
“Not the redhead. I’ll leave her for you,” Jamas said, peering around the inner room. Then he realized what Grenejon had just said. “Untoward accidents?”
“Hmmm. Well, eight nobles—those who might protest certain measures King Egdril proposes—have unexpectedly passed to their rewards in very recent times. All, seemingly, since Queen Yasmin ascended to her present position. They all left considerable property to the crown. Some say Queen Yasmin disliked them, too. And she’s much cleverer than Egdril.”
“She did not accompany the king.”
“For which we may thank the gods that guard us,” Grenejon said fervently.
Jamas grinned. “Then we should be safe enough.” He looked about him.
“Oh, Niffy’s asleep on your bed,” Grenejon said. “So, are you of a mind to enjoy the benefits of matrimony? Forming an alliance that way is much more dependable than any other sort of treaty.”
“I know.” Jamas made a face, for he hadn’t even considered marriage this soon in his life.
“Salinah’s too brash anyway, though I think she’ll make the biggest play for you.”
Jamas snorted. “She dislikes cats.”
“You’ll have to tell her that, my Prince, for she’d never believe she eliminated herself with the first words out of her lovely mouth. She thinks to win you over with her skills of riding and hunting.”
“Did you know that she’s able to sink her uncle’s quarrels right through the target?”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Grenejon said and, settling to a cushion, leaned back indolently. He had a smile on his face that Jamas had never seen before.
“Watch yourself. I’m the better prize, and she’s the sort will tell you that herself. Besides, that uncle of hers would probably roll up your pretensions and lob them into the nearest bin as he does peach pits.”
“If he doesn’t, one of those sons of his would,” Grenejon said, not the least bit disturbed.
“Gone on her, are you?” Jamas removed his jacket and sank into another pile of cushions.
“As near as makes no never mind.”
“Is it safe?”
Grenejon shrugged. “Ah, my Prince, the chase is the thing. Her father was a mere baron, like my good self. And, with all the wards he has to marry off, Egdril might just accept my lands and fine castle. They do march with his border, if only for a few leagues.”
“Dream away!”
Afine meal was served in the open, with torches lighting the dining area, their scented smoke driving away the early midges. Spit-roasted meats and baked tubers and vegetables as well as early soft fruit cold soufflés were consumed by sturdy appetites. Though wines were circulated by attentive servitors, the hunters restrained themselves with the view to having a clear head and a keen eye for the morrow’s occupation.
The dinner conversation was merry, though Jamas found Salinah a shade too forward for his tastes. Her two cousins said very little, even when he tried to include them. They seemed content to let Salinah dominate. She was, Jamas could not deny, witty, clever, and well-spoken. She took the teasing of her male cousins in good part and gave as good as she received from her uncle, who seemed to encourage her. Jamas missed Niffy’s presence, for the cat generally insinuated herself under any table during dinner. But she was there in his tent when he turned in.
Just before dawn, Niffy awakened Jamas by purring so loudly in his ear he could not ignore her summons. He was up and dressed before a sleepy Grenejon and his valet scratched at the tent door to his quarters.
“Now, Niffy, this is not an occasion for you to ride in the saddlebags,” Jamas said, picking her up and handing her firmly to his valet. “Don’t let her out of your sight, Arfo, until we’re well gone.”
“I’ll do my best, sire…” At which point Niffy squirmed violently, twisted out of his grasp, and sped across the carpet and out under the tent before anyone could recapture her.
“The most exasperating female I know,” Jamas said with more concern than irritation.
“She’ll be fine,” Grenejon said, starting to shepherd his prince out of the tent, for they could all hear the bustle of men mounting eager horses and the yapping of excited dogs.
“I shall watch out for her, highness,” said Arfo. “She will be hungry and return for her breakfast.”
Jamas wasn’t too sure about that enticement, but he gulped down his early morning brew and chewed on the salt-crusted bread he liked, eager to start the day’s business.
Grenejon helped the prince gird on his weapons, plus the crossbow and the several daggers Jamas preferred to carry while hunting, and lastly the heavy gauntlets that fitted snugly to his arm almost to his elbow and the tough leggings that allowed a man to ride through the thickest briars and bushes.
The head forester awaited his prince and the nobles with news of the largest pack of barguas to be seen in the Fial Valley in decades. The hunters gathered about him, keen to start. The man gave a startled glance at the three women of the hunting party and then ignored them.
“Up beyond the waterfall, sire,” the man said, pointing in the general direction. “They be harrying the sheep and ibex for it were a hard winter we had and the she-barguas be mighty keen to feed their cubs. One old she-barguas I seen afore, sire, and she be the canniest. Limps she does on her off-fore but that doan’ keep her from running well ahead o’ any dogs, even thine, nor killing ‘em should she be cornered.”
The Esphanian barguas-hounds were renowned for their stamina, agility, and intelligence, being not as massive as others bred for this sort of chase. They were especially noted for their cunning in following the merest whiff of barguas-spoor and their tactics when they had cornered one.
“Mount up, then, Bledsoe,” the prince said, giving him an approving buffet on the arm before he gestured to the rest of the hunters to get astride.
Jamas’ mount this day was a nine-year-old dark dappled gray gelding named Tapper, heavy of bone and tireless, with fine hindquarters that could propel him up the steepest tracks and possessed of courage to spare in confronting barguas, boar, and stag. Grenejon rode a half-brother of the gelding, a bright bay, not a jot less able.
Mounted, Jamas swung Tapper around, automatically checking the other members, and saw all had eschewed yesterday’s horses in favor of stockier hunter types. Even Salinah, one crossbow slung across her back and another on the saddle bow, rode a sturdy cob. Willow and Laurel were similarly mounted and carried short, powerful bows and quivers of arrows. The king and most of his group carried the traditional double crossbows as did Jamas’ entourage.
“I trust you slept well, Egdril?” Jamas asked, nodding to the three women as he edged his horse close to his guest of honor.
“Like a babe,” laughed the king in high humor, glancing eagerly off in the direction he had seen the forester pointing.
“Then let us be off,” Jamas said, equally willing to forego further ceremony. He clapped his heels to Tapper’s sides, and the gray leaped forward, showing a burst of speed that surprised everyone.
Forester Bledsoe came up just behind the two rulers, pointing his riding stick to show all the way. The kennelmen released the dogs, who quickly forged ahead of the horses, loping in their unmistakable ground-eating pace. When the track took them into the forest, they did not slow down as they had to wend their way around trees and bushes too tall for them to leap.
Egdril was a hard rider, keeping right up to Jamas so that they were stirrup to stirrup.
Then the hounds caught a scent and the chas
e was on. Down the vale and out of the woods, up the mountain pastures and again into denser forest the dogs led the hunters.
A moment of confusion occurred as the dogs split into several groups. It was obvious to the experienced hunters that the barguas had separated, hoping to lose the dogs on rocky ground.
“Let us do the same,” Egdril called to Jamas, and he called out the names of those he wished to take with him.
Jamas did the same but realized that he had acquired two of Egdril’s wards: Salinah and Willow. He wasn’t going to argue their inclusion, not wishing to waste time. If they could keep up with him, fine. If not, there’d be enough people to direct them back to the lakeside camp. He pushed Tapper on.
Their barguas led them high enough into the rocky terrain that they had to dismount. Salinah and Willow followed him as he started to climb the rocky face. Grenejon was still with him, and one of Egdril’s sons, Mavron. The barguas-hounds scrambled ahead, making better use of their four legs than the humans did of two. At the top of that stretch of bare rock, dense forest covered the next slope.
“Careful, my Prince,” Grenejon called as they all paused to catch their breaths. “I’ve been here before and the area is riddled with caves.”
“Barguas lead you away from their homeplaces,” Salinah said, scornful of his caution.
“From their own homeplaces, Baroness,” he said, unslinging his crossbow, “but not from those of another pack. And Bledsoe’s report indicated several packs.”
“Well, I—”
Several things occurred almost simultaneously. Jamas had just realized that the barguas-hounds were doubling back; he heard a rustling above him; Willow dropped to one knee, her crossbow raised. No sooner had he taken in all this but a gray-brown shape launched itself from a ledge above him and he found himself borne to the ground by the impact of a snarling barguas.
He barely had time to react—crossing his gloved arms to protect his throat from the long sabre-sharp fangs snapping at him. Then he tried to get a grip on the furry ruff and force the barguas’s head back, and its snapping jaws away from his most vulnerable spot. The fetid carrion breath of the barguas gagged him. Then, from nowhere, a second and much smaller furry body sprang onto the barguas’s muzzle. The wild creature howled as claws sank into its bulging eyes. Then crossbow quarrels smacked into it from three sides.
Protecting Jamas’ throat with her own body, Nifry crouched on Jamas’ chest on her haunches, both front paws raised, bloodied claws fully extended and ready to strike again as Grenejon grabbed the barguas by the tail and pulled it off his prince.
“I think that kill is mine,” Salinah said calmly as she planted one foot on the shoulder to remove her distinctively fletched quarrel from the barguas’s right side.
“But you owe your cat your throat, Prince Jamas,” Willow said as she knelt by him. “Are you injured? There’s blood…” She made exploratory small gestures with her hands on his chest, the side of his neck, without disturbing the vigilant Niffy.
“I think the blood is the barguas’s,” Jamas said, stroking Niffy who did not move from his chest. “How did you get here, you crazy beast?”
“Here.” Salinah reached down to pluck Niffy out of the way.
Niffy turned her head just slightly sideways to hiss at the baroness. The redhead leapt back, drawing her hands protectively in against her body: her expression displaying a sudden anger which she as quickly suppressed with a laugh and a shrug.
“You were very brave, Niffy,” Grenejon said, pulling out his crossbow bolt which had gone through the barguas’s temples into its brain. He also removed the third quarrel, Willow’s, which had entered the barguas’s left side, right into the heart. Which of these had actually first killed the barguas was debatable. What was obvious was that Niffy had saved his life.
Shaking off the shock he had sustained from the attack, Jamas pushed himself to a sitting position with one hand, while he hugged Niffy to his chest with the other. She leaped from his restraint and sat a few yards off to lick her paws clean of blood.
“I’ve never seen anything so brave,” Willow said as she dabbed at the few scratches that had broken the skin on Jamas’ neck. There were a few beads of blood, but had the barguas’s next lunge been unobstructed by the cat, Jamas would have had no throat.
Jamas gently restrained Willow’s hand and experienced a quite remarkable physical shock. That Willow felt it, too, was quite obvious from her sudden intake of breath.
Their eyes met long enough to establish the fact and then instantly they broke contact. Jamas got to his feet and Willow took her quarrel back from Grenejon.
Just then, the rest of their group clambered to the ledge, exclaiming when they saw the dead barguas stretched out in the pine needles. And the dogs reappeared, sniffing and growling at the corpse and acting more as if they had had a part in its death. Niffy was nowhere to be seen.
Following hunting protocol, the forester raised his trumpet to his lips to signal the kill and the sound reverberated from rocky tor to the valleys below. A distant acknowledgment was heard to the north and east of them.
Three more barguas were run during that day; two killed—one by Grenejon and the other by Egdril. The third escaped by making a spectacular leap across a gorge. Mavron told in detail how it had almost lost its hold on the far side before it managed to scramble away into the forest. It had had several arrows in its hide, so it could well be dead of its wounds.
“Formidable predators, these barguas of yours,” Egdril remarked, well pleased with the day’s chases.
The weary hunters reached the lake as dusk fell: Niffy was back in Jamas’ tent before him. Only for the fact that she was sitting on his bed, industriously repairing travel damage to her smoky coat, Jamas would have been hard put to prove that she’d been out of the tent all day.
“Did you know something, Niffy, that you couldn’t tell me?” he asked her, starting to slough off his filthy clothes. That was when he noticed a little spot of blood on the coverlet. “Did you hurt yourself?”
She allowed him to feel her all over but pulled away, growling deep in her throat, when he touched one hind leg.
“Now, I’ll have no more of that, my dear,” he said firmly and found a tear on her right hind leg. “Grenejon!”
“My Prince?”
“Get me something to bathe Niffy’s paw. She wasn’t entirely unscathed.”
“Preserve us!” Grenejon left, calling for the groom.
Although the head hostler was also called when Niffy wouldn’t allow Arfo near her, no one was successful. Jamas was worried to the point of fury with his cat.
“You could get an infection! You could be crippled! And it’s not an insignificant wound, Niffy. Oh, do be sensible!” Jamas pleaded when angry tones made no impression on his cat, now crouched under his camp bed.
“May I help?” asked the Lady Willow, appearing at the tent door with a small rolled case in her hand. “I tend all my own animals.”
So she got down on her stomach, with the others peering under the bed at the recalcitrant Niffy.
“Please? All of you get up and let me try,” Willow said. When they had complied, Niffy’s ears came forward. “They’ve gone. Giving you some space, Niffy-cat,” Willow said in a sensible voice. Niffy said a surprised “Meh!” at that and relaxed the bristles on her back and tail. “Now, do come out so I can put a little salve on that wound. Barguas wounds so often fester. You owe it to your prince, and to yourself to be treated. You don’t want to miss out on tomorrow’s hunting, do you?”
“I’m not letting her hunt again…” Jamas began.
Willow craned her head up, smiling. “In the first instance, she proved a most valuable ally today against an opponent ten times her size. And in the second, how could you possibly prevent her?”
During this conversation, Niffy emerged from under the bed and, before Jamas could leap to secure her, Willow restrained him and patted the bed for Niffy to jump up. She did, a trifle awkward
ly for one of her inherent grace. Then the cat extended her leg for treatment.
“It isn’t bad,” Willow said, ignoring the men who still anxously crowded about. “Just a tear. On a sharp stone, I shouldn’t wonder, so we don’t have to worry about barguas saliva. Now, just a dab of this salve, and don’t you go licking it off. There now, you’ll survive this, too, Niffy-cat, without forfeiting one of your lives.”
Once again Niffy said “Meh!” to Willow’s style of her name but, so relieved was everyone that the injury was minor, no one noticed. Not even Lady Willow.
As she rolled up her little case of unguents and salves, Jamas sprang forward to offer her his hand and raised her to her feet. If she let her land linger longer in his grasp than was perhaps necessary, only she and Jamas would have known it.
Outside a vigorously clanged bell gave the first warning for the evening meal. Everyone hastened to their quarters to change out of hunting togs.
The hunting party was in good spirits, for they had dispatched three of the marauders and scattered two of the packs—according to he head forester.
Niffy was toasted as a heroine who modestly remained absent, though Jamas ordered that a plate should be prepared for her of the best cuts of the ibex which Egdril had killed shortly after the hunting party had split up.
Laurel sat on one side of Jamas with Salinah on the other, and he accorded them the courtesies without more than a passing glance at the Lady Willow seated with Grenejon and her cousins.
They had even better luck the following day, finding a litter of barguas cubs in one cave and accounting for two males and another nursing female. The hounds also found the arrow-riddled corpse of a fourth adult barguas.
Of course, the fangs were allotted to whichever hunter made the kill. The lesser jaw teeth were still much prized and these were shared out to the huntsmen. The toothless heads of the savage animals looked considerably less ferocious, especially with the protuberant eyes shut. The hides would end up in war shields and vests: nothing was tougher than barguas hide.
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