Chapter Thirty-Eight - The Hunt

‘The dogs have a scent.’

The hounds raced away into the trees, pawing at the loam, and Ragnolf watched them go, fingering his spear haft. Elkan straightened in the saddle beside him.

‘Finally!’ the young Lord groaned, shifting uncomfortably. Ragnolf looked away, frowning. Dawn had broken, but the misty haze of morning was still filtering through the trees, glimmering wetly. It had snowed last night, and the ground was thick with it. Snow made for bad footing. Bad footing made for a bad hunt. That’s what Aengus always said. Gods, but he missed the old bear.

‘Boar for dinner, then!’ he said gamely, and a few of the other warriors grinned.

‘The princess will be pleased.’ Elkan agreed, combing back his smooth blonde hair with one hand.

‘That she will.’ Arnora would be with them, if he’d let her. But the warriors with him had held spears since they were babes, and had the weight to use them. Still, wasn’t like any of them would want to tangle with her, if she got hold of one. But her mother… Well, the Queen wouldn’t approve. All this shield-maiden nonsense was very unladylike.

‘I suppose it won’t be long, now.’ Elkan said, just a tad breathlessly.

Ragnolf stared at him for a moment, trying not to frown, failed, and busied himself inspecting the trees, instead. New furs, saddle polished to gleaming, sword at his hip about as scratched as fresh snow. In truth, he’d only let him join the hunting party to avoid shaming him. No matter his distaste for the man, it would do him little good to make an enemy of him, what with half the wealth of the North under the hills of the Ironhead. Still, it rankled him a little, he had to admit. A hunt was no place for politics. Everyone had to carry their weight, and he’d bet whatever gold he had left that Arnora was better with a bow than this pup. Probably stronger, too. He doubted he’d ever brought down a piglet by himself, let alone a boar. Ragnolf’s frown deepened, and he felt a familiar pair of eyes watching him from the shadows of the pines, half-turned to mist. But his brother didn’t say anything. He never did. So Ragnolf went back to his frowning.

The hunting party sat in silence for a time, waiting. The sun gleamed through the trees, setting spear tips flaming. The warriors shifted and clinked in their saddles, all fur and steel, skin thick as leather and scarred like old wax, women and men both. There were still a few good ones left, at least. Those who still remembered the war. Who remembered why he had such distaste for Dekar’s lackeys.

‘I had news this morning, your Majesty.’ Elkan said as they waited, still shifting in his saddle. ‘From one of my men in the south.’

The King looked at him, and the young Lord smiled.

‘Seems our missing lordling has crossed the Sea of Storms.’

‘Where?’

‘Riftlands, by the sounds of it. Made a bit of noise at an inn somewhere just west of the Rift.’

‘Sounds like our man.’

‘I’ve got my best men on it, your Majesty.’ Elkan went on. ‘They’ll bring him back in irons, or they’ll bring back his head.’

Ragnolf looked away into the trees. He found the idea of anyone doing either of those things pretty unlikely, but he wasn’t going to stop Elkan from trying. Blood paid for blood. That was the way of it. If only blood had been the only price they'd paid.

Off to the north, the trees were stirring, shifting in the hazy stillness of the air. The warriors stiffened in the saddles. Elkan blinked.

‘Your Majesty?’

‘Wait.’

Somewhere away in the trees, one of the hounds howled. Then another, and another, wailing on the half-still air. Ragnolf slipped from his saddle, ignoring his creaking back, and hoisted his spear.

‘On me.’

Around him, the rest of the hunting party slid from their horses, spreading out into a broad semi-circle between the snow-capped trees. Too many trees, in truth. But there was nothing to be done, now. Nothing except be ready. The hounds were coming closer, and something else was being driven in ahead of them. A dark shape, looming black through the mist, drumming in the snow. Ragnolf set his spear in the fresh powder, digging the haft into the dirt beneath, and readied his legs. His hip clicked, his knee groaned, and he ignored them both.

‘Steady!’

The hunters had their spears at the ready, jaws set. Beside him, Elkan held his spear uneasily, limp in his gloved hands. The footsteps were coming closer. Pounding, thundering, snorting. Ragnolf set his teeth, shifting so that the young lord was just a little behind him. The ground rumbled beneath his feet, and his spear tip wobbled in the pale air, frozen in one last moment of stillness.

The boar burst out of the mist like a thunderclap, flailing, squealing, screaming. A big one, too, broader than a horse, tusks like daggers. Veins bulging blue against the bald hide of its face. Spears darted, slicing silver at the air. The beast spun wildly, trapped, thrashing across the snow.

‘Bring it down!’

Spears flashed, blood sprayed. The boar screamed, crashing into a tree trunk, and snow showered over their heads, filling Ragnolf’s eyes.

‘Look out!’

He blinked. The beast surged at him out of the haze, thrashing its tusks, and he stepped forward to meet it, half-blind and roaring. His spear caught it in the flank, glancing a rib, and snapped off in his hands. The beast screamed, catching him a glancing blow across the shoulder and sending him sprawling into the snow. He gasped, pain clawing across his back.

‘Your Majesty!’

There were hands on his shoulders, dark shapes leaning over him. He shrugged them off, hauling himself upright. His eyes blurred. Something on his cheek was burning. The hounds were howling, streaming away to the south.

‘Fuck! It’s gone.’

‘A big one, that.’

Ragnolf pushed them aside. The black shape of the boar was disappearing into the mist behind them, trailing crimson blood into the snow. Something cold yanked at his gut, and his brother’s eyes gleamed from the shadows.

‘Arnora!’

*

Arnora had always hated the wind.

It clawed at her beneath her cloak, finding every gap in her clothes, shivering over her skin like a fever. At least, it did when you had to sit still in it. She frowned, lowering herself a little deeper into the folds of her furs, and grimaced.

‘Cold, your Highness?’ Einald asked her.

‘I’m fine.’ she replied, forcing a smile. ‘They’ve been gone a while.’

‘There’s no rushing the hunt.’ Einald said, looking out into the trees. ‘Your father knows the right way of such things.’

The wind rose, whining through the branches, and their horses shifted nervously, snickering. They were sitting in a small clearing, thin mist sifting through the dark shapes of the pines around them. To the north, hoof prints, a dozen across, trailed away into the boughs, indents slowly filling with fresh snow. Behind them, she could just make out the keep looming out of the shifting clouds, tall and proud, flickering with orange light.

‘I’m freezing.’ Freya muttered beside her, shivering. ‘Why did we have to come?’

‘You didn’t.’ Arnora told her, fingering the bow strapped to her saddle. ‘And I would have gone with them, if he’d let me.’

‘Still don’t know why you bothered to bring that thing. What would your mother say?’

‘I don’t care. She can stay beside the fire and twiddle her thumbs all she likes, doesn’t mean I have to join her.’

‘The Queen was never much of a rider.’ Einald chided her softly.

Arnora didn’t reply. In truth, it was her mother’s aversion to mud that drove her indoors, but she didn’t tell Einald that. It did not befit a queen of the North to shun such pursuits, even if such pursuits would normally have amounted to waiting and trying not to freeze. The Queen was overlooked by such customs, and most of the court wouldn’t consider a Pearl Islander a Northerner, anyway. ‘My mother would have me stuck in the keep being courted by every ugly brat with half a name from here to the Teeth.’

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‘She wants you to marry.’ Freya replied, giving her a devious look. ‘Nineteen winters is a long time to wait for grandchildren.’

‘Are we not the same age?’ Arnora shot back, glaring at her.

‘I am committed to my Lady’s service above all else. And a great honour it is.’ Freya grinned. ‘I’m sure the Queen has her hands full with the little prince, anyway.’

Arnora did her best to ignore that, wondering silently how much time her mother spent with Ake when the King wasn’t there to see it. She frowned at herself, looking back out into the trees.

‘My father wrote to me last week.’ Freya muttered quietly. ‘He says it’s not safe outside the walls, anymore.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Arnora told her, still frowning. ‘There are no bandits stupid enough to be seen so near Jotheim.’

‘What about Brothers?’

‘Aren’t any of them either.’ She took a breath, dropping her frown, and smiled at Einald. ‘Besides, what could they do, when we are so well-guarded?’

The old guard inclined his head politely, and they settled back into a comfortable silence. Behind them, two more of her father’s house guard were sat in their saddles a little way back across the snow, long, broad-bladed spears in hand, furs rippling in the wind. Some of the newer recruits. She’d made a point of asking Einald their names, before they’d left the keep. On the left, Karl, dark-haired and pale-eyed, and the right, Tem, red hair bright as fire. Rather fresh-faced and smooth-cheeked for her father’s guard, both a little disappointed to have been left behind by the hunting party. She sympathised. Portsiders, Einald had told her. Her father was wont to recruit folk from the lower city as much as from the noble houses. The right sort of people, he always said. For her part, Arnora tried not to notice them, and told herself it was because they reminded her that she, too, had been left waiting for her father. Tem in particularly, red hair gleaming. She frowned. The wind whistled over the trees as they waited, and Arnora closed her eyes, feeling it rustle through the folds of her hair.

‘You have been in my father’s service how long, now, Einald?’ she asked after a while, opening her eyes.

‘Your father?’ Einald hesitated, frowning. ‘Seventeen years, I should say. His father before that? A score more, give or take a winter or two.

‘May I ask you something, then?’

‘Of course, Your Highness.’ the old warrior replied, dipping his head respectfully. ‘Though I do not pretend to know his Majesty’s mind.’

Arnora hesitated, sniffing.

‘The man from Valia. The one he sent away.’

‘Ah, yes.’ the old guard said softly.

‘He was angry.’

‘Your father is a wise man. He remembers the war, better than most. Lost kin, as well as all the rest. The price the North paid for our freedom was a heavy one.’ Einald paused, looking away into the trees. ‘The Valians aren’t to be trusted. Northmen spent thousands of years under the thumb of the King in Uldoroth, and look what that got us. Nought but blood. Better off ruling ourselves.’

‘I know, but…’ Arnora hesitated, frowning. ‘He seems, different, of late.’

‘Perhaps. The King has been... troubled. Since that unfortunate business with Aengus’s son.’

Arnora could feel Freya’s eyes on her back. She looked down at the ground beside her horse, watching the mist shifting thinly over the snow. For a moment she was elsewhere, with a different wind in her ears. Smiling. She shook herself, and her frown deepened.

‘Lord Aengus and his kin are well missed.’ Freya was saying. ‘But what that brute son of his did…’

‘You are quite right, M’lady.’ the old guard agreed. ‘Still, there’s no worse punishment than Exile. That’s a hard thing for a father to accept for his son.’

‘Aengus’ll come around.’ Freya replied. ‘The King had no choice. He knows that.’

‘Of course, M’lady.’

Arnora swallowed, a sick feeling in the pit of her gut. She shivered, shrugging deeper into her furs, and looked out into the trees. They sat there for a while, listening to the narrow whine of the wind, watching the thin mist filtering through the branches. Somewhere in the distance, the hounds had started barking.

‘They’ve got the scent.’ Einald said quietly.

They waited. Minutes dragged by. Endless, silent, cold. The trees shifted softly, and the horses snickered. All of them were staring north, craning their ears. At last, a horn sounded, echoing over the pines, and Einald nodded happily.

‘They’ve got it.’

Arnora grinned.

‘Boar for supper, Freya. Even you can’t argue with that.’

‘Listen!’

Arnora looked at her friend, but she held a finger to her lips. The horn sounded again, a little closer this time, echoing over the silent snow. Arnora turned to Einald, but the old guard was frowning, eyes fixed on the trees. His hand was on the hilt of his sword. The young guards behind them had stiffened in their saddles. The horses snickered, toeing at the snow. Arnora sat very still, craning her ears against the murmur of the wind, waiting. Time drew past at a crawl. Mist shifted around them silently, and the wind dropped away, seeping into the dead quiet.

The horn came again. Arnora blinked. Einald dragged at his horse’s reins, turning to his men.

‘You two, on foot, now.’

The young warriors slid immediately from their saddles, slapping their rumps and sending them snorting into the trees. Freya grabbed Arnora’s hand.

‘What is it, Einald?’

‘Stay behind me, Your Highness.’

‘We should get them back to the city, Captain.’ one of the guards said quietly, coming to their side. Tem.

Einald shook his head.

‘No time.’

He pointed to the snow at the northern edge of the clearing. ‘There, follow the sounds.’

The two guards jogged away to the edge of the trees, clinking, and set their spears in the snow, guarding the way north. Einald spurred his horse again, spinning it about.

‘Get back, both of you.’ he told them, putting a hand on his sword. ‘Behind me.’

‘Gods.’ Freya cursed, eyes wide. The horn sounded again, shorter this time, and she flinched, closing her eyes with a start. They waited. Silence again. The wind whispered, and the branches creaked and groaned around them like old bones. Beside her, Arnora could feel Freya tensed against her saddle, fingers white against the reins. Arnora slipped her bow into her hands, sliding a couple of shafts between her fingers.

‘Steady.’ Einald hissed.

The horn sounded again, but this time it was not alone. There was something moving in the trees, just out of sight. Something big. Einald drew his sword, and the steely rattle of it rung like a bell. Arnora stared past the guards’ spears, squinting into the mist. Something black surging through the branches. Dark eyes, red tusks. Arnora took a deep breath, notching an arrow.

‘Steady.’

The boar burst into the clearing like a dreadwind, tusks flying, angry muscles cording like rope beneath its short fur. It had a bloody gash on one flank, and its eyes were wild with rage, hemmed in by the bulge of blueish veins and foaming spittle. Freya screamed. The guardsmen surged forward, but it was on them in an instant, enormous head flailing like a mace. One of them leapt forward with a cry, thrusting his spear for its chest. But the boar surged past him, tossing him against the base of a tree with a crash. The other was knocked flailing from his feet, tumbling away into the snow like a ragdoll, and it rushed on across the clearing, bearing down on the rest of them like a thundercloud. She’d never seen a beast so huge. Freya’s horse gave a terrified snort and bolted away into the trees, carrying the screaming girl with it. Arnora clung to her mare with her legs, struggling to keep her arm steady. It was almost on them, squealing, screaming, flailing, blood flying from its jaws. She had the bowstring taut. Eye along the shaft. There. Just below the ear. It’s red-mad eyes. Her breath caught in her throat. One. Two. Release. The arrow speared through the air, set to find its mark.

Then the boar twisted, and the barb bounced harmlessly off its thick hide. Arnora blinked. She never missed. But she had. Einald was spurring his horse forward, slashing down with his sword across the beast’s shoulders. It barely paused, sliding past him, and charged headfirst into Arnora’s mare, sinking its tusks into the horse’s chest. The animal reared, screeching. Arnora grabbed for her reins, too late, as she was thrown backwards, tumbling end over end through the air, bow flying from her fingers. She struck a tree trunk, slid to the ground, pain shooting through her gut, and rolled onto her back, gasping. Snow in her eyes. Her mare lay dead beside her, blood spooling into the pale snow. The boar thrashed, slashed, squealed, rounding on her, froth flying from its maw, tusks drenched in crimson. She reached for the dagger at her hip, yanking it loose, and held it up before her, snarling.

‘Get back!’

She blinked, and Einald was between her and the animal, sword gleaming in one hand, spear in the other, horse nowhere to be seen. The old guard lowered the spear, setting his feet, and the boar shook its great veiny head, snorting with rage. Arnora held her breath, eyes wide, as it charged, muscles rippling, hurtling towards Einald’s chest.

‘Hah!’ the old guard roared as he leapt aside, slashing his sword down across the beast’s back. Blood sprayed across the snow. The boar tumbled past, screaming, and crashed into the base of a tree. The wood groaned, split, crumbled, narrow trunk toppling sideways in a hail of splinters, and the boar squealed, blood streaming through its fur. Einald turned towards it again, lowering his spear.

‘Come on, then, you big bastard.’ he barked, gritting his teeth. The animal rolled back to its feet, spitting rage.

‘Einald!’ Arnora cried out, pressed against the base of the tree. She could see her bow, just a few feet away, sticking out of a drift of snow. She tried to get up, dagger in hand, but pain stabbed at her gut, and she groaned, doubling over again.

‘Stay back, Your Highness!’ the old warrior told her. He twirled his longsword in one hand, and the blade flashed, pale and red. The boar squealed again, flicking bloody snow with its tusks. It charged, and Einald surged forward to meet it.

Then the horn sounded again, and her father was there. He thundered into the clearing, chainmail gleaming, roaring like a breaking storm, and his spear caught the boar in the flank as it charged past him, sinking deep into the animal’s flesh and knocking it tumbling across the snow. The beast screeched in agony, flailing. Before it could regain its feet, the King leapt onto its meat, pinning it in place. His sword cut a broad arc through the pale air, and there was a crunch as the blade bit into its neck. The beast writhed, twitched, squealed, spraying bloody mist, then fell still, sagging into the crimson snow, and the King stepped from its limp flank, staggering, leaning on his sword.

‘Father!’

He was on his knees beside her, sword discarded.

‘Arnora!’ The anger was gone. There was a deep cut across one of his cheeks, leaking blood into his beard. He winced as he spoke, pressing a hand to his ribs. ‘Are you hurt?’

She grimaced as a fresh wave of pain stabbed at her gut. ‘It’s nothing.’

He frowned, taking her hand. ‘You’ve got too much of your fool father in you.’

‘Einald, he…’

The King turned towards the old guard. He stood several feet away, standing watch over the dead boar, bloody sword still in hand.

‘Einald.’ the King said, gripping his forearm. ‘Thank you.’

‘It was nothing, Your Majesty.’ Einald replied, dipping his head. The rest of the hunting party was arriving in the clearing now, chainmail jingling, spears held ready, horses snorting steam into the frigid air. A few of them held the leashes of the happy hunting hounds as they panted steam into the frigid air. The men stared wide-eyed at the giant, limp body of the huge boar, blinking. One of them was helping Karl to his feet. The young guard was looking about himself groggily, blood in his dark hair. Arnora looked at the dead shape of her mare in the snow beside her, cold to the bone.

‘Four horses bolted. Lady Freya was on one of them.’ Einald was saying. ‘Get after them.’

A few men spurred their horses off into the trees.

‘Tem.’ Arnora murmured.

‘Arnora…’ her father said quietly at her shoulder.

She pushed his hand away, hunched over her aching belly, stumbling through the red snow. The men parted around her, opening up a path, and she staggered through, blinking. The other boy, Karl, was on his knees, eyes wet with tears, head bloody. Beside him, unmoving, was Tem, limp hands trailing in the snow, head pressed up against the trunk where he’d fallen. Neck twisted like a knot, dark eyes unmoving, staring up blindly at an indifferent sky.

*

She’s ten when she sees him again.

A visit to her father, tall men with long beards and old scars. A feast. She runs from her mother. Hounds are snuffling, snarling, flashing teeth big as fingers, and he’s sitting with them, red and fearless and silent. She sits with him, and they pet them together, smiling at the secretness of it. The hounds don’t dare to misbehave. Not with his serious eyes watching them.

So they sit, and he watches them, and she watches him. Quietness made her uneasy. Her mother always said so. But not his.