The Sacred Hunt Duology (27 page)

And then he heard it: the single, haunting note of the King's horn. It shattered the noise that Stephen had barely been aware of and, before silence could settle, continued with three shorter ones.

In answer, the Hunter Lords drew their horns, and lifted them as one man. Stephen was no musician, but he knew that the absolute perfection of timing, of inhale, start, and stop, should have been impossible. He waited until the drums commanded the air once again before fumbling at his belt. The horn the King had given him was cold to the touch against both fingers and lips. He drew breath
around the mouthpiece and expelled it forcefully. One short note. One long. Two short notes. One long.

In the forest, the shadows stirred; the leaves rustled, unusually loud with the force of the wind and the morning. Stephen felt something
snap
into place as the notes died away. Almost reluctantly, he tied the horn to his belt once more.

The tenor of the drumming changed; single strikes became staggered and flew faster and faster against the skins until, at the unseen hands of the Hunter Priests, the clearing was filled with the roar of thunder. The sun and the clarity of sky were anomalous; the Hunters of Breodanir entered the storm.

And behind them, almost at one with them, flowed dogs and huntbrothers alike.

S
OREDON WALKED THE PRESERVE
with the ease of familiarity. At his side, unleashed and barely collared, walked Corwel. Even with his nose to the ground and his bandit's mask flecked with mud, his gait was regal.

The Lord of Elseth had chosen his quarry well enough; without the need to discuss the Hunt with any but Norn, it had been a gentle and quiet operation. He was certain that he would have a good, brisk walk ahead of him. Again, familiarity told him that the northern preserve was where he would find his stag.

Corwel was peaceful as well, if quick, but every so often he would stop and look up at his master, the glint of curiosity in his black eyes.

“This is your last hunt, old boy,” Soredon whispered sadly. “Let's make it count.” He used words, instead of trance-speaking. Corwel wouldn't understand them, but he needed the release of saying them anyway.

Norn's familiar footstep, not as quiet or as sure as his own, was gaining ground. He shook his head, scratched Corwel's ears affectionately, and then gave himself completely to the Hunt.

• • •

It was going to be hard to fulfill the Hunt's promise. The sound of the horns and the beat of the drums had pierced the forest's stillness, an absolute warning to any who heard it, whether they'd listened for it or no. The sounds lingered, caught in Stephen's chest and inner ears.

Gilliam moved quickly and, after the initial exhilarating run into the undergrowth, slowly. Absynt walked in front of him, nose to the ground, a single collar around his gray throat. He was older now, but the most important of the senses were still his to claim; he followed Gilliam's chosen trail without wavering once. Indeed, he pulled at the leash as if it vexed him, and after a few moments, Gilliam gave him his head. He made no sign to Stephen to uncouple the rest of the dogs; his concentration had to be reserved for Absynt alone.

The tracks, deep and evenly spaced in the soft ground, spoke of the size and unworried pace of the stag. They were fresh, which was more important. Absynt followed them without any difficulty at all.

Now that the other dogs were out of sight, and for the moment, out of hearing, Terwel had settled back into his couple. He wasn't graceful about it, and every so often he shouldered Stephen almost hard enough to knock him over—but not quite. He knew he could make his displeasure known to a point, but not beyond that, before he brought the anger of his young master, and although he was a dog, he remembered the one time that he had been forcibly denied the Hunt.

Stephen felt Gilliam tense and looked up. He felt a ripple of dismay and knew its cause at once: the tracks had widened suddenly; the stag had already bolted.

Hard?
he thought, as he picked up his pace. It was going to be impossible. And today, of all days, they dared not fail. He nodded at Gilliam, caught Gilliam's return nod and the flash of his back as the Hunter and Absynt ran on ahead.

• • •

The Kovaschaii was also a hunter, and if his lessons had been in the labyrinths of Melesnea, and his training had been in the city streets and parlors of Averalaan, it would have been hard to tell. He wore Hunter's colors, less the gold, and he moved with his back to the shadows and an eye to the light. Birds saw him pass without comment or movement, treating him as just another predator who was not interested in their mates or their growing nests.

He had seen the huntbrother enter the sacred preserve on the heels of his Hunter, and he trailed them quietly. The dogs, coupled and held, were upwind; with care, they would not catch his unfamiliar scent and give warning. He had to make sure that they were run in the Hunt proper before he approached his target—he made a practice of disarming his victims before a kill. The Kovaschaii were cautious.

The sun was barely above the horizon, but the trees here were thin and too new to provide good cover; his shadow was long and moved against the forest's patterns. He disliked it. But more, he disliked the sound of the other Hunters who had entered the forest at nearly the same point as his target. He had to avoid being seen by any. It was not the optimum situation.

Ah. There. He stopped when a flash of green, surrounded by four-legged browns and grays, came into view. His chest stopped moving; he stood as the trees did, but without their little rustles. Then the Elseth huntbrother was gone again, but he waited five minutes before picking up the trail. Timing was of the essence.

• • •

They jogged. The dogs weren't bothered by it, and Gilliam didn't notice at all. Stephen took deep and even breaths, forcing his feet into a steady rhythm. He held the dogs to his pace, knowing it dangerous to let them gain control here. They strained at the leads, testing his strength. Gilliam had vanished; the thin line of trees hid him from Stephen's vision. But the hounds knew where he was, and they followed unerringly.

Perhaps half an hour passed in the forced and silent jog before Gilliam
appeared. He spoke no word, but by the signal made clear that all was well. Once again, the stag had slowed to a less frenetic pace. They could follow and hope to catch it at harbor.

Stephen breathed a sigh of relief—it was all the breath he could spare.

Ten minutes later, they came to the river.

• • •

From the cover of trees that were a little too thin for comfort, the Kovaschaii watched the Elseth huntbrother at the river's edge. Silt and mud were carried by the water's rush, and the banks were completely covered in the swell caused by melted snow.

It would be a good place to drown, if one slipped. The single bridge across the river was nothing more than flat slats; there were no railings, no way to grab hold. And it was almost ideal. The young Hunter was far enough ahead that he could not be seen. Certainly, he would not be able to interfere.

But the boy still held the dogs.

The wind shifted, and the Kovaschaii shifted with it as if caught in the breeze. He lost his moment as the boy, dogs still in hands that appeared to be shaking, crawled his way across the bridge. Another passing minute brought the Hunter; he spoke, but the words could not be heard naturally, and the Kovaschaii wished to preserve his reserves of power. The meaning of the words became obvious soon enough. The young huntbrother uncoupled two of the dogs, and unleashed the only animal that did not share a lead. These three went immediately to the banks and began to nose around.

He crossed his arms, watching with interest. He could wait. The Hunt, or the running of it, had not yet started—and once it had, the huntbrother would bring up the rear in a very vulnerable position.

• • •

What?

Corwel's ears were twitching, and the hair on his neck seemed to stand on end. He raised his head, stopping astride the tracks that had led him this far. The scent was strong enough to linger in his nostrils, but it was . . . odd.

Soredon moved into Corwel, following the lines of his trance until their two senses were all scent-hound. The green and brown of forest, with its interplay of shadow and light, became gray shades. The ripple of muscles that gathered around neck and jaw hurt.

Yes. Something was strange. In the familiarity of this Hunt, a new element had appeared. Soredon tried to place a finger on it—he was certain that he had felt it before—but it eluded him.

“Soredon?”

He shook his head, calling for Norn's silence and receiving it at once. He tested the air, touched the tracks, and then slid out of Corwel's viewpoint.

“We hunt,” he said softly, as his hand fell once again to the wide, rounded head of his pack's leader. The words, a motto of the life he best loved, came out as if they were suddenly too large for his mouth. They were not for Norn, but Norn heard them anyway.

“Maybe we should leave this trail,” he said, his voice quiet. “There were many that bore our interest.”

But Soredon shook his head once, fierce in the motion, and urged Corwel forward. There was a light in his eyes, a ferocity in his step, that even Gilliam in the flush of first youth couldn't match. Budding leaves played against his face with their shadows, blocking the light; it made a phantom mask appear against his pale skin.

He looked not unlike Corwel as they continued along the track.

• • •

The stag was not young enough to be foolish, but not old enough to lose a seasoned hunting pack, and although it took time—and a backtrack across the river—Absynt found its trail again. His ears pricked up, his breath changed subtly, and he looked back at Gilliam with guileless pride. Gilliam wanted to leap with joy; he was wet from the river's edge, and cold as well, but at least it had not been without cause.

Stephen knew, of course. His sigh was louder than Absynt's, but just as unmistakable. “Gil?”

“What?”

“You'll be okay?”

Gilliam nodded. He had had to hold four dogs, jumping between them as they searched. It had been tiring, and would only get worse. The dogs had not yet been unleashed, and he would have to run at their head when he finally set them baying.

Stephen grimaced and hit himself in the side of the head for Gilliam's benefit. It had been a stupid question. If Gilliam were dropping from exhaustion, it wouldn't have made a difference; the Hunt had to be called, and it had to be run. This one day, no excuses would be tolerable—or tolerated.

The sun was well up by now, which warmed the ground and made it less pleasant to traverse. Stephen slipped once, but even that didn't slow them down. He jogged along, mud caked and drying along his back. His breath, short and sharp, came out in a mist that wreathed his face.

And then, in the distance, they saw it: a brown, fur-covered creature that had suddenly frozen in the wind, the white underside of its tail twitching. Its head turned in three-quarter relief, and large brown eyes met smaller ones unhindered by thin strands of trees.

Gilliam gave a wordless cry of excitement mingled with relief. His nervous fingers fumbled with his horn before it could be brought to his lips. The stag was
gone in the blink of an eye. It left its tracks and the sound of its passing as evidence of its presence.

It was late to start the call, but the dogs lost all trace of exhaustion. They came to the Hunt as called, fresh and new—eager to prove themselves.

Stephen knelt, mud ignored, and uncoupled the dogs. His fingers trembled, not with cold—he'd barely removed mittens that practically made his hands sweat—but with anxiety. This was their first Hunt, their first act as real adults. They had to make it count.

Absynt was last to be freed, but he made way for Terwel, as did the other dogs that had gathered. Gilliam kept them in, but barely—they strained against his trance-voice as if it were merely the noise a groom made.

Stephen saw a flash of anger in his Hunter's eyes and bit his lip.
Not now, Terwel
, he thought, half-savagely.
We don't have the time.

But the time had to be taken. Gilliam made them sit a full quarter-minute in order to show his control. He had no choice, this close to the quarry. Anything else ran the highest risk of an improperly finished Hunt. Not catching a beast was bad, but not portioning it properly was nearly as big a crime; it showed the Hunter's lack of control and will.

If we fail at this, Terwel
, Stephen thought, as his hands formed fists in harmony with his thoughts,
I'll kill you myself
.

But the seconds passed, ending abruptly with Terwel's high, short whine. Gilliam's eyes shifted and changed; they grew strange even to his huntbrother.

The horn was winded. At last. Stephen had time to draw breath and brace himself before the pack was off and running, Gilliam at its head. He could barely hear, over the baying of the running dogs, the sound that left Gilliam's throat. It was a poor twin to their call, but he knew that Gilliam wouldn't notice.

He twined the leads carefully and shoved them into his jacket as he ran, trying to keep pace with dogs held back too long and a Hunter in trance. The gap widened between them, but Stephen had training to make up for the lack of blood-granted abilities—he lost ground perceptibly, but was not left behind.

• • •

Now.

The Kovaschaii felt the moment coming. He heard the horn call, and almost rolled out into sight before the notes had faded. Almost. Instinct whispered no, and he listened carefully, snapping his joints to a stop and drawing, finally, upon his many talents.

The terrain in the preserve was not always flat; indeed, small hills and short outcroppings that could almost be dignified by the name cliff abounded. The ground was slippery in places, more mud than dirt, and the undergrowth was new. A careless, anxious huntbrother, back from his Hunter and pack, might slip and fall in unfortunate foot play.

He came out upon the trail and began to jog in Stephen's wake. He kept pace with the boy, his eyes scanning the distance between his prey and the dogs. The gap was widening, but not as quickly as the Kovaschaii had hoped. Still, that couldn't last—the Hunter-born were known for their speed and endurance while hunting. Huntbrothers, such as the young Elseth one, were merely trained commoners.

The Kovaschaii had drawn no weapon, although by custom he carried three; he needed none for his chosen accident. He only need wait and strike quickly; it was that simple. But the boy was still too close to his Hunter.

The tenor of the dogs' raucous calls changed in pitch and frequency. He saw them disappear suddenly on their run, and realized that the time had come. They had crested a hill of some sort, and the huntbrother was due to follow.

A surge of energy, of otherworld calm, sizzled through his body. He heard its tingle with his inner ear, and rejoiced. It was time for silence, swiftness, accuracy; the carefully hoarded reserve was drained as he put on his last burst of speed and cloaked himself, momentarily, from normal sight. It required no gesture, no mantra, no foci—he was Kovaschaii, perfectly trained and aimed.