Rojer bowed. “Of course, Minister.”
“Another time,” Jasin agreed, turning on his heel and stomping back into the palace proper.
“Halfgrip!” Rhinebeck called when Rojer made the stables. It was unclear if he were still drunk from the night before, or if this was a fresh inebriation, but it was barely dawn and already his words were slurred and the wineskin his page carried was only half full.
“You can’t mean to hunt in that,” Pether said, pointing to Rojer’s motley with a short crooked staff that doubled as a riding crop. The Shepherd had changed from his formal robes into brown and green riding gear, fine silk and suede, with the crooked staff embroidered in gold on his fine wool jacket.
Rojer looked down at his clothes, a bright patchwork of color that was perfect for performance, but less so for sneaking about the woods. He shrugged helplessly. “Apologies, my lords, but I had not packed for hunting.”
“No matter,” Prince Mickael said. “Goldentone has hunting motley. Janson! Send a boy up to fetch a set from the herald.”
Janson bowed. “Of course, Highness.” He glanced at Rojer, who was wise enough to swallow his grin and look at his feet.
The runner returned with a set of green and brown motley from Jasin, but when Rojer opened the package, it stank like Goldentone had emptied his chamber pot onto it.
Rojer smiled. Still a victory. If he could not easily kill the man, he would settle for a thousand tiny blows.
The royal hunting lodge was a full day’s ride east of the city. Keerin and Sament had been invited along, but it was the barest courtesy, and not a true welcome. They had their own entourage, and even on the next day’s hunt the two groups kept mostly to themselves.
They were hunting rockbirds, a large species of raptor common in the hills of Angiers. The birds were a slate color almost indistinguishable from the rocks where they made their nests.
The duke had split them into two groups. Rhinebeck, Thamos, Rojer, and Gared positioned themselves east above a cluster of nesting stones. Mickael, Pether, Sament, and Keerin had been sent to a similar position to the west. Servants led dogs quietly up the path to the stones. When they were ready, Rhinebeck would give the signal and they would loose the dogs, flushing the birds from concealment, right into the hunters’ sights.
Rojer and Gared carried conventional bows, arrows nocked at the ready. The duke and Thamos held loaded crank bows with ornate aiming lenses. Each had an attendant with two more, ready to hand off and reload while the Royals fired.
“He’s an embarrassment to the crown,” Thamos was saying to Rhinebeck. “Driving peasants into the night to save a few hours.”
“Rizonan peasants,” Rhinebeck said. “Squatters trespassing on ground cleared for Messengers and caravans. Most of them bandits who would as soon slit my men’s throats as not.”
“Nonsense,” Thamos said. “Those we encountered were too wretched to be a threat to anyone. Rizon is gone, brother. And Lakton soon enough, if we do not act. If we don’t want our lands teeming with bandits, we must absorb the refugees and offer them better. It is the only way. And we cannot do that if Goldentone has them cursing your name.”
Rhinebeck sighed, taking another long pull from his wineskin. He offered it to Thamos, who waved it away, and Gared, who accepted. The young baron was proving impressionable, and was nearly as drunk as Rhinebeck.
“Creator knows I’m not defending Goldentone,” Rhinebeck said. “That little pissant makes me long for the days of Sweetsong, before the drink turned him sour.” He glanced at Rojer, who kept his face expressionless. It was no secret much of the rift between Arrick and the duke had come after Sweetsong returned from the destruction of Riverbridge with Rojer in tow.
“What about you, Halfgrip?” Rhinebeck asked. “They say ask a Jongleur if you’re looking for gossip. What do they say on the streets about my half-witted herald?”
“He’s no more loved in the guildhouse than in the palace,” Rojer said. “Before Your Grace took him as herald, his patrons were more interested in doing his uncle a favor than they were in his singing. He was known for taking jobs my master turned down. It’s how he earned the nickname Secondsong.”
Rhinebeck roared a laugh. “Secondsong! I love it!”
The sound echoed off the rocks and a dozen rockbirds took flight, muscular wings fighting the pull of the ground to reach the strong winds that swept the hills.
“Night!” Rhinebeck cried, snapping his crank bow up so quickly the bolt came loose and the string twanged uselessly. Rojer and Gared loosed at well, their arrows not coming significantly closer. There were curses from the west as the other group had similar results.
Only Thamos remained calm, raising his crank bow and taking his time as he tracked one of the birds. Rhinebeck snatched another bow from his attendant and had it up while Rojer and Gared were still nocking their second shots. Thamos fired and there was a squawk even as Rhinebeck pulled his trigger with barely a moment to aim.
The rockbird cried as it fell from the sky. Thamos smiled, but it was short-lived as his elder brother glared at him. The count gave a nod. “Well shot, brother. I confess I am out of practice, but Creator willing, I’ll catch up over the next few days.”
There was a moment of silence, and then Rhinebeck’s attendant spoke. “Indeed, sire. A fine shot.” Thamos’ attendant nodded emphatically. “Masterfully done, Your Grace.”
Rhinebeck glanced to Gared and Rojer.
“Rarely have I seen such skill with a crank bow,” Rojer said. Gared remained quiet, so he gave the big man a surreptitious kick in the leg.
“Oh, ay,” Gared said, his voice flat. “Good shootin’.”
Rhinebeck grunted, slapping Thamos on the back. “You were always better with the spear than the bow.” He looked to Rojer. “You’re fault, Jongleur, for making me laugh like that.” He chuckled again. “Secondsong. I’ll have to remember that one.” The servants began to breathe again, and the tension bled from the air.
The hunting lodge was small fortress, built on high ground with thick wardwalls and a full staff year-round. It held a garrison of fifty Wooden Soldiers, and at least two dozen servants and groundskeepers in addition to the score of soldiers in the duke’s entourage, along with pages, cooks, and hounds. It even had its own brothel, with comfort women for the soldiers and choicer whores to cater to visiting Royals. Two of these were boys, but their hair and face powders made them seem as women at a glance.
“Disgusting,” Sament said, noticing one of these, but Keerin’s eyes lingered, and Rojer knew without a doubt the two would be grunting in the pillows tonight. He wondered if Keerin was the sort to take top or bottom.
Mickael and Pether blamed Rhinebeck for scaring the game, their annoyance only amplified as Rhinebeck held up his prize.
“So Thamos jumps and swings the bow so fast the ripping bolt falls free!” Rhinebeck gesticulated with the drumstick of the rockbird to illustrate his point.
With every retelling of the tale—and there had been many—Rhinebeck added little flourishes with the skill of a Jongleur. He seemed to have internalized the lie entirely.
Everyone had a laugh at Thamos, then. His brothers and their whores, the Milnese, even some of the servants. Gared studied the contents of his cup, and Thamos made a pained sound that the others took for embarrassed laughter.
Rojer, by his nature, wanted to join the merriment. Never spoil a crowd’s good mood, Arrick had taught, or act too good to be part of it.
But over the months he had spent with the man, Rojer had grown to truly like Count Thamos, and could not bring himself to add to his humiliation. He drained his wine instead.
The cooks had done a fine job dressing the prize, but the single rockbird was barely a morsel for a crowd of grown men. Rhinebeck had served it as an appetizer, so all could share in his proud “victory.” It was gamy and tough, much like the tale they were enduring yet again.
The duke’s table was piled with pork, venison, and beef, en
ough to feed twice the assembled group. Wine flowed freely, and those not drunk already were soon on their way, Rojer included.
Of the royal family, only Thamos had not found company for the pillows, and Rojer caught him watering his wine.
Gared followed his example. He’d withdrawn since the duke had claimed Thamos’ kill. “You’d think the throne would be enough.”
“My brothers have always been this way.” Thamos’ voice was low and tired. “Time was I would have been the same. My seal was on that bolt, and I would have delighted in showing up Rhiney and the others.” He sighed. “I might not have cared for the vagabonds in the caravan camps, either. The world looks different since I left Angiers and saw how real folk live.”
He slammed his fist on the table. Rojer glanced around, but the other Royals were making too much noise to notice. “We’re wasting time! To the north Euchor has his eye on kingship of Thesa, and to the south, our enemies mount. People starving all over Angiers, and we’re hunting! And doing a poor job of it at that. Just an excuse to get out of the city for more drinking and whoring.”
The count stood. “I need some air.”
“Going to practice your shooting, brother?” Rhinebeck called, drawing roars of laughter from Mickael and Pether. “Best be careful, or I’ll have to appoint the Wooden Soldiers a new lord commander.”
Thamos grimaced, and Rojer knew the duke had taken it too far. The count was slow to true courage, but he could be reckless when pushed past caring.
“Since your aim is so great, brother, I thought we might dispense with simple game like rockbirds and hunt something worthier.” Thamos looked around the table, catching the eyes of the other men. “That is, if there are any here man enough to test themselves against real prey.”
There were nervous looks at that, but Rhinebeck had not yet caught on. “The man who can barely work his bow doubts us? By all means, what shall we hunt? Bear? Nightwolf?”
Thamos crossed his arms. “On your feet, then. We’re going to hunt a rock demon.”
“This is madness,” Rhinebeck said, as they stalked the hills near the hunting fort. It was slow going, for while Rojer, Gared, and Thamos could see perfectly well in wardsight, the others had to rely on lanterns carried by three of the half dozen Wooden Soldiers in their escort. The men carried warded weapons, but they were raw wood, as it was said in the Hollow. Untested against the night.
“You’re welcome to go back and cower under the skirts of your favorite whore, brother,” Thamos said, drawing a glare from the duke.
Keerin had done just that, staying behind despite his boasts of bravery. Thamos’ brothers no doubt wished they could do the same, but pride would not let them show weakness before their youngest sibling.
Lord Sament had come as well, with two of his Mountain Spears. Like the other Royals, he carried a crank bow and warded quarrels, but unlike the Angierians, Sament had an eager grin on his face.
The group was just small enough for Rojer to cover them with his music.
“Do not drive the demons away,” Thamos told him as they left the safety of the fort’s wardwalls. “Let these men see what we face each night in the Hollow.”
Rojer complied, casting only a thin camouflage over the group, not dissimilar to Leesha’s Cloaks of Unsight. The demons could still smell them, hear them, even glimpse the lanterns from the corner of their eyes, but they could not find the source. They prowled at the edge of Rojer’s magic, sniffing, searching, but unable to pinpoint their prey.
A flame demon spat in frustration, and Prince Mickael jumped, his deep voice raising to a shriek. The demon caught the sound, head swiveling their way. Wooden Soldiers moved in front of the prince, shields locked and spears ready, but they, too, were shaking in fear.
Thamos glanced back. “Gared.”
“On it,” the burly Cutter said. He left his massive axe and machete in their harnesses on his back, balling gauntleted fists. Leesha had warded the gauntlets and infused them with demon bone. He wore only a leather vest and his warded helmet for protection, but Gared strode forward unconcerned.
The demon caught sight of him as he left the protection of the music. It spat fire, but Gared batted at the blast with one hand and it dissipated as it struck the wards. He was upon the creature then, grabbing one of its legs as it tried to scramble out of reach.
The demon might have been fifty pounds, but Gared swung it like a cat with one hand, a smooth arc that brought it over his head and then smashed it back down into the ground. With the breath knocked from it, Gared shifted grip to its throat, pinning it as his gauntleted fist rose and fell, flares of magic flashing in harmony with the spattering sounds and flying ichor.
A pair of stubby stone demons trundled his way, but Gared threw them the flame demon’s broken body, and they paused to devour it. By the time they looked up, he had stepped back into Rojer’s protective field.
Rhinebeck eyed the stone demons in horror. They were less than five feet tall, but broad, with armor like a conglomerate rock face. He shook like a jelly after someone kicked the table.
Mickael, looking angry at having shrieked in front of the others, spat and raised his crank bow. “There are our rock demons. Let’s shoot them and have done.”
“Pfagh!” Thamos waved a dismissive hand at the stone demons. “Those are just stone demons. Hardly worthy prey. Rojer?”
Rojer knit his brows, maintaining the music that kept them concealed, but layering in a suggestion to the stone demons that grew increasingly insistent.
In a moment, it came to a boil. One of the stone demons struck the other, literally breaking its face as the armor shattered.
The demon reeled, then caught itself and struck back in kind as the first one pressed its attack. They crashed to the ground, rolling back and forth as they pounded each other with great stone fists. At last one lay still. The other attempted to rise, but its leg was shattered, and it fell back, unmoving.
“Is it dead?” Sament asked.
Thamos shook his head. “Demons heal quickly. They’re recover from anything that doesn’t kill them outright.”
Sament grunted, raising his crank bow and putting a bolt into the demon’s eye. There was a flare of magic as it blasted through the other side of the demon’s skull, but in the wardlight they saw other demons approaching.
“We’re attracting them,” Pether noted. His tone was flat, but Rojer could sense the hint of panic beneath.
“Of course,” Thamos said. “And we’ll need to do even more if we mean to draw a full-sized rock demon to us.”
“Are we hunters, or bait?” Rhinebeck demanded. “Because it sounds more and more like you’re risking all our lives just to salve your injured pride.”
“Rojer, drive them back.” Thamos pointed to one of the Wooden Soldiers. “Bring the lantern.” In its light, he pointed to a rock demon print in the dirt, as long as a man’s arm. “We’ve been tracking this demon for the last half hour. It rose two miles back, where a mudslide uncovered a slice of bedrock.”
“Night,” Lord Sament said, putting his own booted foot in the print and marveling at the difference. “It must be fifteen feet tall.”
“Twenty, at least,” Gared cut in, grinning. He so loved to make the raw wood squirm. He held a hand flat above his seven-foot frame. “Horns taller’n me.”
Rhinebeck let out a slight whine, the crank bow shaking so noticeably in his hands that those in his immediate vicinity took a step back, watching it warily.
The others weren’t much better. Mickael was squeezing his crank bow so hard Rojer thought the wood might crack, and Pether appeared to be uttering the first sincere prayer of his life. Even the soldiers in their escort looked ready to soil their fine wooden armor, clutching their spears tight.
Lord Sament looked at them in disgust. “Is this the courage Angiers wants Miln to ally with? If we send men to fight the Krasians, will you fight shoulder-to-shoulder with them, or cower at their backsides?”
It was an une
xpected slap from the previously mild lord, but the naked night had a way of bringing out the truth in a man. The words startled the elder brothers and men-at-arms back to the present.
Thamos pointed to where a pair of ridges formed a narrow pass, gently outlined in the clear light of the gibbous moon. A handful of stunted trees grew high on the steep slopes, naked of leaves in the late season.
“Those trees are too sparse to have drawn any wood demons,” Thamos said. “Sament, take your Mountain Spears to the northern slope. Brothers, you take the southern.”
“And where will you be, brother?” Rhinebeck’s tone made clear there would be a reckoning if they made it home. Rojer feared Thamos had pushed too far.
But if Thamos understood the damage he had done, he showed no sign. His blood was up, and every Hollower knew what that meant.
“Behind those rocks,” Thamos pointed, “until Rojer lures the demon into the pass. He will take position at the far end, while we move in to the rear with a spear wall to prevent it from escaping the pass while you shoot.”
“Don’t spare the quarrels,” Gared noted. “This is a twenty-foot rock, not some stone demon you can put down with a bolt or two. Even if every shot’s perfect, your first volley’s just going to piss it off. You’ll need to empty your quivers and turn its head into a ripping pincushion.”
“I think I’m going to slosh,” one of the Wooden Soldiers said. Everyone looked as he slapped a hand to his mouth, heaving.
“Sergeant … Mese, isn’t it?” Thamos asked. The man nodded, eyes wide and cheeks distended with bile.
“Spit it out or swallow, Sergeant,” Thamos said. “No one’s dying tonight if they keep their heads and do as they’re told.”
The man nodded, and Rojer had to suppress a heave himself as Mese scrunched his face and swallowed his half-digested dinner back down.
Gared, Thamos, and the Wooden Soldiers moved behind the rocks while the others climbed into position along the ridges. Even with his wardsight Rojer could not make out the men hidden in the trees, which meant the demon would not see them, either. They flashed their lanterns and Rojer raised his fiddle, lifting his chin to let the magic of the instrument send his call far into the night.
Demon Cycle 04 - The Skull Throne Page 47
