“A storm has already ravaged the land. Another might destroy it.”
Fire replaced the honey in Bachel’s eyes. “Then destroyed it shall be, and a new and better world will rise from the ashes!” Fast as flowing quicksilver, her expression softened. “But not today, Kingkiller.” She stood then and descended from the throne, and the acolytes parted before her. “Come now. If you are to stay with us, Kingkiller, I have arranged a most amusing diversion.”
Wary, Murtagh said, “And what would that be, my Lady?”
She swept past him, the train of her dress trailing across the floor. “The sport of kings, my fair princeling. A boar hunt!”
CHAPTER VII
Tusk and Blade
A boar hunt would have thrilled and daunted Murtagh when he was younger. Boars were dangerous animals, and he’d known of at least four earls who had been maimed or killed by a wild hog. The danger was part of the appeal; it was an opportunity to prove your mettle, sharpen your martial skills, and—for many a man—win favor with the women at court. The first time Murtagh had gone boar hunting had been with a group of nobles, headed up by Lord Barst. It had been…a less-than-enjoyable experience. He’d missed his chance at a boar and ended up smeared in mud from crown to sole. Lyreth and his peers had relentlessly made fun of him on the ride back. He’d had better luck on future expeditions, but they’d always been colored by his memories of that initial humiliation.
Now, though, Murtagh found no thrill in the prospect of a hunt. His wards removed any possible danger, and with it any sense of challenge or accomplishment, leaving only slaughter for the sake of meat. It was a dour thought. There was a significant difference between a hunter and a butcher, and he had no desire to be a butcher.
Along with Bachel and her retinue, he departed the temple and returned to the front courtyard.
Dust shook from the building as Thorn landed beside them.
Bachel spread her arms in a welcoming manner and said, “A hunt, noble dragon! Join us on our venture, and you may slake your thirst for blood and hunger for flesh.”
Thorn snorted and looked at Murtagh. She enjoys making lots of noise, like a magpie in the morning.
Do you want to come?
The dragon licked his chops. I’ll not let you wander off with her alone. Besides, she is not wrong; I do hunger.
“Assemble, my faithful children!” cried Bachel. “Bring us horses and water and wine and all the things needed for a hunt. Quickly!”
Dozens of grey-robed cultists and white-robed temple acolytes rushed about the courtyard as they sprang to obey. Alín approached carrying two braces of broad-bladed, short-handled spears, one set of which she handed to Bachel and the other to Murtagh.
Bachel tested the edges of her spears with her thumb and then pointed a spear at Murtagh, like an accusatory finger. “There is a condition to the hunt, Kingkiller.”
Of course. “And what would that be, my Lady?”
“No spells are to be used in the killing of the boars. They are sacred beasts, touched by the power of this place, and it would be disrespectful, as well as blasphemous, to do otherwise.”
Murtagh likewise tested the edges of his spears. They were tolerably sharp, but the metal seemed to be rather poor iron; they would bend after the first hard blow, and the edges wouldn’t stay sharp for more than a few strokes. Using them would be a challenge, as would forgoing magic.
He liked the idea.
“That seems eminently reasonable. I shall abide by your custom.”
She inclined her head. “The Dreamer will look kindly upon your efforts, my son.”
Then Murtagh gestured at her spears. “Do you mean to hunt as well, my Lady?”
A gleam appeared in Bachel’s eyes, and she hefted one of the spears with surprising ease. “Think you that I am incapable?”
Murtagh didn’t, but neither did he have a good measure of her. In a mild voice, he said, “Hunting boar takes great strength. I have never seen a woman attempt it.”
Bachel’s laugh echoed off the mountains, and crows cawed in response from the Tower of Flint. “A human woman, you mean to say. ’Tis good, then, that I am not wholly human. The blood of the elves runs in my veins. Though it may not be so thick as my mother’s, it is still thicker than that of the women of your kind.”
“Then I look forward to seeing your prowess upon the field of action.”
“And I yours, my son.”
As the cultists hurried to organize the hunting party, several of Bachel’s servants brought screens and held them about her while Alín and two other women attended her. When the screens were lowered, Murtagh saw Bachel no longer in her dress of red but now garbed like a man, with leather vambraces upon her forearms and chased riding boots that went to midthigh and a peaked helm divided by lines of bright rivets. The helm had a half mask to protect her eyes and nose, and an aventail of fine mail edged with rings of brass or bronze. It was a handsome look, Murtagh thought, for war or for sport.
From among the stone buildings came men leading a score of horses—short, hardy animals that were barely taller than ponies. Their coats were shaggier than those of any horse Murtagh had seen before, as if they were wearing their own knotted blankets for warmth in the long northern winters.
The cultists gave him a mare with a liver chestnut coat to ride. She was a far cry from the chargers he’d been trained on, but the animal seemed steady enough. He just hoped the mare’s nerve would hold during the hunt.
Before getting on the horse, he slipped off his cloak and tucked it into one of Thorn’s saddlebags. It would only hinder him when on foot.
As he climbed onto the mare, Thorn’s disapproval washed over him. It does not seem right to see you ride one of those hornless deer animals.
Horses. They’re called horses, and you know that.
But it sounds more insulting to call them hornless deer.
Murtagh glanced over. If Thorn were human, he would have sworn the dragon was smiling. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?
Thorn coughed in his chest. It is not every day I see a Rider riding a horse.
As the hunting party readied itself for departure, a realization came to Murtagh: Dogs…They don’t have any dogs. Now that he thought of it, the village was surprisingly quiet. There were no hounds baying, nor were there mutts yapping in the streets or scrapping over food. It was an odd thing. In all his years and all his travels, Murtagh had never before seen a human settlement without dogs.
Are dogs so important? Thorn asked.
They are. For the common man, having a dog is the closest thing to the bond you and I share.
Do you mean to compare dragons to dogs?
No, no. Not as such, only to say that the connection a human may share with a dog can—in part—resemble the connection that we have.
Thorn seemed unconvinced. Mmm. Did you ever have a dog?
You know I didn’t…. The other boys would have hurt or killed any dog I owned.
Thorn’s lip wrinkled slightly, not enough that others would notice, but Murtagh saw. They would not have dared were I there.