The Horse Lord (The Book of Years Series 1)

by Peter Morwood

  “What in hell’s the matter?” Aldric’s studied coolness was slipping and he thumped his stamping, sidling horse. “Why won’t this brute follow that one?”

  “Sorcery,” said Joren. “Some sort of barring-spell was laid here.” He didn’t elaborate. Magic was a subject shunned by Alba’s kailin-eir, and even knowing what kind of spell it was might be too much for decency. “No, I don’t know why,” he added as Aldric’s mouth opened for the inevitable question. “But this is an ancient part of the forest.”

  His brother looked around with well-concealed interest. That same interest had led him to read the dusty, abandoned books on forgotten shelves in Dunrath’s great library, and given him knowledge beyond anything taught by his most liberal-minded tutors. His father’s views about such knowledge and its source meant Aldric knew how to keep it to himself.

  “These woods were here before Dunrath,” Joren continued. “And mother’s people were here before then. You’d better read the Archive when we get back.” Aldric glanced at him. You mean read it again, he almost said aloud, then thought better of it as Joren turned away. “Let’s go home.”

  “And leave the boar?” Aldric’s imagination landed, returning him to reality. He gave the beast a thoughtful glance and hefted his spear.

  “The horses won’t…” Joren began, then stopped and stared as his young brother dismounted. “What are you doing, you idiot? These aren’t cross-bar spears! He’ll come right up the shaft to get you!”

  “Let him try.” Aldric grinned, though the grin went a little thin and stretched as he realised the margin between bravado and stupidity was so small. He drew the heavy falchion sheathed under one saddle-flap and thumbed its edge, but when he strapped the weapon round his waist Joren made a disbelieving noise and started to swear.

  “You’re not impressing anyone, you know!” he finished after several noisy seconds in which he didn’t repeat himself even once. Then more plaintively, “Light of Heaven, Aldric, what will I tell father if you get killed?”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “I could order—” Joren hesitated, because Aldric was old enough that any command to stop would be ignored. “Just… Just be careful.”

  He ruffled his youngest brother’s hair and Aldric flinched away. It was kailin-length now, down past his shoulders, and he was close enough to the Eskorrethen ceremony to resent another warrior touching it, even one of his own family. By tradition no kailin put hand to another’s hair except to lift his severed head.

  “Aren’t I always?” Aldric hefted his spear, loosened the falchion in its sheath and walked towards the boar. The animal snapped its tusks once, twice, and charged.

  Aldric dropped to one knee, spear braced, and let the boar run straight onto the levelled point. It came on up the shaft as Joren had warned, but in that brief time Aldric let go of the spear and sidestepped. The falchion’s wide blade blurred from its scabbard and whipped down across the boar’s thick neck even as Aldric skidded and fell flat. He was in no danger, because the cut had enough force and precision to leave the boar dead before its slayer could pick himself up from the ground.

  Aldric sat up, feeling foolish about his tumble. The coppery stink of blood clogged his nostrils, his head buzzed inside and the walls of his mouth were dry and sour. Then he shuddered and stared about him. For a few seconds the valley had become a battlefield, scarlet not with poppies and low sunlight but with puddled gore from corpses in outdated armour, hacked and torn with fearful wounds. He rubbed his eyes, and it was as if the vision had never happened. A skylark chirruped high in the blue dusk, and things were all so ordinary now it was as if he had been dreaming. Yet when he looked at the boar’s carcass, he felt more than willing to leave without it.

  He lost that chance when the others came down the slope, chattering with congratulations and good-humoured banter, but when the butchering began Aldric retreated. Real or imagined, he’d seen enough raw meat for one evening. A hound whined and licked his hand, for dogs and horses alike had followed their masters into the valley as if they had never feared it.

  Odd…

  Aldric shook his head to clear it of confusion and looked across to the far slope. Remnants of sunset glowed amber behind the trees silhouetted stark on the skyline. A few hazy patches of mist trailed like forgotten scarves along the ground, ghost-pale against the shadows. He sighed and sat down – then yelped and sprang up again, rubbing a bruised buttock. With no trees nearby, the offending object couldn’t be a root. He kicked at it, and when the thing shifted under the turf he dug it free with falchion and fingers.

  His eyebrows went up, because what he held was a sword-hilt in the blocky, massive style not made since before the Clan Wars. There were several like it in Dunrath, hanging on walls or stuffed away in untended corners of the armoury. They were horseman’s weapons, each pommel chained to a wristband so if the sword got knocked from its owner’s hand it wouldn’t be lost underfoot. There was something strange about this rusty remnant of a forgotten battle and it took a few seconds before he realised what it was. The hilt had been lying under the sky for uncounted years and though it was thick with corrosion, there wasn’t enough damage. Time and the elements should have eaten it away, yet they clearly hadn’t found it to their taste.

  Aldric recalled his hallucination, wondering now if it was anything so simple. For many years before an Mergh-Arlethen, the Horse Lords, came out of the sea mist to claim Alba for their own, scholars of Great Principalities and lesser domains had recorded history, legend and gossip. But even they hadn’t troubled with some things. Those were the old tales of magic gold and talking animals, some to send children to bed and others to keep them sleepless when they got there. Yet every tale once had reason to tell it, and every wisp of smoke rose from an ember be it ever so small.

  A wolf howled among the distant trees and Aldric’s fingers spasmed against the ancient hilt. He scowled, both at the display of nerves and at the beast which should have been miles farther north at this time of year. With a mental note to organise another hunt, he moved the hilt towards one of his hunting-jerkin’s deep pockets…

  Then he shivered as if he had been touched by a chilly breeze, and all his curiosity about the old sword-hilt vanished in the same instant, whirled to extinction like smoke on that breeze. Now the chunk of bronze and iron was no more than a piece of grubby refuse, and he would have dropped it back onto the ground, if the near-completed pocketing movement hadn’t been easier. But by the time it slithered out of sight, he had forgotten its existence.

  Instead his mind wandered down the macabre lanes and back alleys of imagination, recalling stories read, overheard or deliberately told to frighten him by Baiart when they were both much younger. Aldric muttered a soft oath as he mounted up to the high-cantled saddle and let out a hollow laugh at working himself into such a state.

  Joren, laden with joints of boar, overheard the laugh and gave him a strange look but withheld other comment. Stars glittered in the darkening sky before they were ready to leave and, as the moon rose farther, the woods and valley took on a frosty sheen. Aldric felt cold, and as the others rode off he gladly turned his horse to follow.

  Then he jerked on the reins and stood in his stirrups as a fragment of shadow detached from the forest. It flitted down into the valley, ghosting from one gorse-clump to the next, and the fine hair on Aldric’s arms and neck stood on end. A short heavy bow hung in its saddle-case behind his left knee, a laden quiver behind his right, and he reached for the weapon as if seeking comfort from it. There had been enough irrationality for one night; the bow was solid and real. As his hands moved through the practiced sequence of arrow from quiver and nock to string, he strained his eyes to see what the lean shadow might be. He thought he knew already.

  He was right. A monstrous wolf, grey coat tipped silver by the moonlight, came padding up the slope. It ignored the dark patch where the boar had been cut up and headed straight for a patch of disturbed earth, making Aldric fr
own as a faint memory nagged him for a moment. The wolf began to dig, careful jabs with one paw at first then with increasing frenzy until soil flew in all directions.

  Abruptly it stopped, raising its long muzzle to sniff. Now the wolf’s eyes reflected the moonlight like two green jewels staring straight at Aldric. That was ridiculous, he was downwind and invisible under the trees. If it could see him, it would run, and the next he’d hear about it would be slaughtered livestock and complaining farmers. Better to kill it now, while he had the chance, than explain to his father why he didn’t. He drew back the bowstring, hoping the uncertain light wouldn’t spoil his shot, and a low, rumbling snarl reached his ears as the wolf crouched. It wasn’t going to run after all.

  It was going to pounce, and a beast that big could be on him in two bounds and a snap…

  “Aldric!”

  The distant voice made him start, the bow loosed with a slap, and the wolf went down yelping. But it wasn’t dead, far from it; wood cracked as it bit the arrow from one hind leg and when it rose, limping and unsteady, those blazing eyes fixed once more on Aldric as if etching his shocked face into its memory. Then Joren came trotting up, Aldric glanced towards him, and when they both looked back the wolf had gone.

  “What’s the matter with you?” After hurrying back in case his little brother had fallen foul of roots or hanging branches, Joren was less than pleased to find him shooting at shadows. “Well?”

  “Nothing.” It came out far too fast. “Nothing at all.”

  “Does ‘nothing’ make you sweat like a wash-house window?” Joren was right. Aldric’s whole body was damp and he all but steamed in the cool air.

  “I shot at a wolf,” he said, tugging a shirtsleeve away from his clammy skin.

  “Then a pity you missed. If it was there at all.”

  “It was there! And I didn’t miss!”

  “So where’s the body?”

  “It… It ran off when you shouted.”

  “My shout, or your bad shot? After what I taught you, things you hit don’t run off. They don’t run at all. So you didn’t hit it. As I said: a pity you missed.” The irritable edge in Joren’s voice stopped further protests. “Now come on home before you catch a chill.”

  Aldric took one last look across the valley and did as he was told.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Five weeks later the great feast-hall at Dunrath blazed with candles and lamplight made brilliant by the shifting hues of elyu-dlasen, the crested Colour-Robes of the Alban clans. It was Aldric’s twentieth birthday, his coming of age, and Haranil-arluth had made an occasion of it by inviting relatives and friends to the least degree.

  “My lord?” The arluth looked up, and his steward bowed low. “There’s a stranger at the gatehouse, my lord. He requests shelter.”

  “So? Grant it, grant it. Why bother me?”

  Travellers were rare at this season, and announcing their arrival was equally rare since any clan-lord, high or not, would grant guest-right without question or condition. The steward looked uncomfortable and made another anxious bow.

  “My lord, he won’t come in.” Haranil raised his brows, and the steward continued in a hasty babble. “He says he can’t come in until his host invites him across the threshold. He says it’s the custom of his country.”

  “Stupid customs, stupid foreigners…” muttered Haranil, very comfortable right where he was. “Did you tell him that this isn’t his country?” There was a platter of quince-and-honey cakes in front of him, a dish of walnuts at his elbow, and the goblet of wine to wash them down wasn’t his first. Yet on a day such as this refusal was out of the question. He stood up, gestured at his neighbours to stay seated, shrugged into an over-mantle offered by the steward and strode out of the hall. When he returned still alone, Joren gave him a quizzical glance.

  “Our new guest is changing to more suitable clothes for the occasion,” Haranil explained. “Foreign yes, overly punctilious yes, but a gentleman.” He glanced at the empty chair where Baiart had refused to attend Aldric’s Eskorrethen banquet. “Unlike some.”

  When the new guest finally appeared, his ‘more suitable’ clothes muted conversation for several seconds. The man was stocky, his hair and small neat beard was brindled silver and his gown and breeches were an unassuming grey. But his over-robe was pure white velvet, stiff with embroidered patterns and lined with azure silk, and as he bowed to Haranil Talvalin the fabric rustled like armour.

  “Gracious good my lord,” he said, “may warmth be always in the hearth of this house.” Haranil acknowledged the compliment with a nod and indicated Baiart’s empty chair. When the stranger moved to take it he winced.

  “My horse and I argued with a tree, my lord,” he explained. “I lost. But your pardon. Here I sit at your table, by your fire, beneath your roof, without a name for you to call me by.” He laid one hand over his heart and spread the other wide. “Duergar Vathach, a passable historian though indifferent horsemen, very much at your service.”

  He sat down with a grunt of relief while servants set a tall bronze cup of spiced wine at his right hand, then stared as plate after dish after bowl passed before him. Roasted mutton, pork and goose all came with their accompaniments, then river-fish with fennel, gingered eggs, vegetables both green and root…

  It far exceeded the typical hospitality of an Alban high-clan household, because the Talvalins took pride in being open-handed. At last Duergar begged a respite so he could eat rather than admire, though it didn’t stop him talking all the time between mouthfuls. If his conversation had been dull it would have been unmannerly; instead, despite his accent and occasional difficulty with language, he had an entertaining opinion about every topic mentioned at the lord’s table.

  Except for one put forward by Aldric.

  “Duergar-an, did you come south from Datherga?” When the pale eyes focussed on him Aldric noticed how the man’s face lacked expression when no longer animated by his frequent smiles.

  “Sir, you are…?”

  “Kailin-eir Aldric un-cseir Haranil ilauem-arluth Talvalin inyen Dunrath. Third son.” He had never given the full rollcall of his rank and title before, and it sounded good. Duergar looked impressed, as if forgetting the company he might expect at the high table.

  “Then well met, my lord. And no, not Datherga. I came by Elmisford and along the outskirts of Baelen Forest. Is it important?”

  “Maybe. I shot a wolf a few weeks back. There are people,” he gave Joren a hard stare which went unnoticed, “who say, have said, I missed. At that range I don’t miss, so the brute’s wounded and dangerous. It needs tracked down before it raids the winter flocks and someone gets hurt.”

  “If your wolf isn’t raiding already, it won’t now,” said Duergar. “They don’t bide their time.” He shrugged. “Perhaps you did miss.” Aldric blinked, stared, opened his mouth then closed it again, and there was a brief, uncomfortable silence while those within earshot scrutinised such thoughtless words for a veiled insult. Rowdy normality from farther down the hall made the silence still more awkward, until Duergar stood up and bowed. “But more likely it ran away to die.”

  Someone somewhere cleared his throat, the talking began again and the moment was past. Two retainers set a carved stool on the gallery of the great stairway and the murmur of voices died again, this time to an expectant whispering. More servants helped an old, white-bearded man to his seat and set a harp of black wood into his hands. He made a deep, graceful bow towards the high table and spoke, his resonant voice thick with a Hertan burr.

  “Gracious good my lords and ladies fair,” he said, “I would have your leave to sing.”

  Haranil-arluth and Lord Santon’s wife granted him that leave, but the old man didn’t begin at once; instead he ran one finger across his harp, stroking a flowing chord from the strings, and the hall fell silent as he played a melody as natural as water on rocks or birdsong in trees. As the old bard touched the harp’s strings, he also touched the hearts of his listeners.
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  He played of sunrise and spring, courage and love and laughter, the sheen of swords and maidens’ golden hair; he played of the wind in the trees, the waves on the sea, of luck and the joy of living. Then he began to sing, and though older than any in the hall, his voice filled every corner with cunning music and subtle words.

  He sang the old stories of magic and adventure, when lean firedrakes flicked flaming across the sunlit sky and sorcerers worked their spells by starlight. He sang of battles lost and won, and the love of kings’ daughters for brave strangers. Archaic names sprinkled his songs like rare jewels, and earlier ages flowed from his music in a golden haze of memories. Long-forgotten voices spoke again through the harper’s mouth, captains and kings and beautiful ladies who returned from the dust to live for a space, warmed by the suns of past summers.

  The old Hertan struck three crystal notes which shimmered to silence in the vast hall, and bowed his head. There was a pause, and then his audience erupted into applause. Haranil had the old man brought before his chair, where he filled a guardsman’s high-crowned helm with silver marks and placed it in the harper’s hands. Then he took a crested bracelet of Prytenek gold from his own arm and snapped it shut around the minstrel’s wrist. Its deeply incised decoration, a Talvalin eagle in halathan style of wings spread wide, glittered in the candlelight, and the old man bent his head in thanks for a token of approval more personal than mere wages.

  “Arr’eth-an, a question for you,” said Aldric. “Do you know any tale about Baelen Forest, and a valley filled with dead men’s bones?”

  His question drew curious stares, for until now he hadn’t mentioned what he had – or thought he had – seen after the hunt. Aldric didn’t admit it even to himself, but the experience worried him. There were several sparse Archive mentions of a battle in Baelen Forest, yet a lack of useful details there or elsewhere in an exhaustively searched library left him willing to try any other source.