The Broken Kings Page 9

  Some way distant, there was laughter. Colcu and his escort of pale-featured youths had heard Kymon’s outburst and were mocking him. It had the effect of cooling the boy’s blood, concentrating his fury.

  “He’s tall and looks very strong,” Kymon murmured. “This will be a hard game. Hard to put the chin-cut on him from the vantage point of victory.”

  Urtha glanced at the tall chalk-haired youth, now parading barefoot and in his battle harness. “Yes. You are up against the odds. But remember: what to Colcu is a formality to you is a challenge that will earn you a line in the history of the year. There’s a bard watching us. He’s quite young, probably looking for some good verses, some good sneers and gibes. To be mocked or praised? That’s up to you, now. Make an opportunity out of a formality. Whatever happens, you will have received your chin-cut. Then the game can begin in earnest. And then—never forget—there will always be other bards!”

  Urtha embraced his son before helping the youth dress for the contest.

  * * *

  The cut on Urtha’s chin was so clean, so healed, that I had noticed it only when the faint scar caught bright moonlight, at a time when we had been in the snow-covered Northlands together. Even then, I had assumed it was a battle-taken wound. In fact, he had received it when younger than Kymon, though he had made the cut on his opponent first.

  Both Colcu and Kymon would receive the cut, each from the other, but to place the mark as the winner—the first to cut—would be remembered. It would also be remembered who had placed the second wound, the loser’s strike: Colcu would swagger through the final years of his youth, by all the signs, and Kymon’s appetite for age and honour would be severely blunted.

  Urtha could tell this. Kymon was taking his anxiety out in no uncertain terms with his father, criticising this, growling at that, becoming heated and wet-eyed in anticipation.

  Urtha drew away from him, hardening his attitude, making a slight mockery of the boy himself. But he added: “Colcu won’t crow for long. His swagger will be his downfall. Any man who makes such a wolf’s kill of meeting his opponent will soon find himself howling.”

  A wolf’s kill. A mess. A badly performed action.

  Kymon spat into his left hand, and clenched the fist. Urtha enclosed his son’s hand with his own, then looked up at the sky; it was darkening, and the clouds were moving fast from the west. The breeze was strong, bringing the scent of his own land.

  “Cut him cleanly,” was all he said, still staring at the heavens. “Make him remember you. Tomorrow we’ll hunt this bellowing stag; then we’ll get back to the business of persuading them to help us.”

  * * *

  A ring of champions, old and young, stood leaning on their shields, a fence around the circle where the contest would be played out. There was no favouritism; the ring of solemn men was silent, appraising the two boys as they met in the centre and embraced, then returned to their horses.

  From the moment they rode at each other, through the watching circle and into the weapons arena, Urtha’s heart sank a little; it was clear that his son was outclassed.

  The two youths charged each other down, voices shrill; then each bent down from the saddle to scoop up a weapon: Colcu grasped a broken spear, Kymon a blunted iron sword. The first furious meeting was inconclusive, but Colcu was lithe, twisting and stooping, flicking up sharp stones, using lengths of frayed rope to snare and snag his opponent’s struggling mount.

  In every way, Colcu outwitted and outrode the Cornovidian youth. Though Kymon managed a savage strike, playing on Colcu’s faulty use of the left-hand back-strike, Colcu at once acknowledged his weakness, covered it, and compensated for it.

  When the two of them faced each other on foot, the horses being tired and fleeing the arena when freed, Colcu surprised Kymon with a double leap, and though Kymon leapt back, Colcu caught his opponent’s calves with a broken spear shaft. He brought the boy down, placed the shaft across his throat, and knelt on it, pinning Kymon into submission.

  The son of Vortingoros drew his bronze blade and made the triumphant cut along the angle of Kymon’s jaw. He let Kymon up, stood facing him as Kymon made the mark upon his opponent’s chin.

  The chin-cut was done.

  The two young men then embraced three times, solemn and silent, unbothered by the flow of blood from their skin, one of them deeply unhappy indeed.

  As Kymon left the arena, passing through the silent ranks of older men, his blood flushed as he heard the spontaneous laughter of Colcu’s comrades.

  He made his way to the guest lodgings, where Urtha was in conference with his advisors. The king had not stayed to watch his son’s humiliation, slipping away after the first few rounds of the contest. Kymon had seen this and been startled by it.

  “I have a question,” Kymon said boldly to his father, though he was shaking.

  Urtha glanced round at him. “Yes?”

  “Was your own chin-mark obtained in triumph, or on the losing end? I’ve never thought to ask this before.”

  “In triumph.”

  “Mine was not.”

  “I know.”

  “Should I feel ashamed? Angry? Humiliated? What should I feel?”

  “What do you feel?”

  “Angry. Warped and angry. Hugely angry. I will burst through my skin at any moment.”

  The retinue laughed quietly, though they were tapping their knives on wood, a sure sign that they were not mocking the boy. Urtha turned back to the issue at hand, adding only, “There’s nothing wrong with that. I pity the stag in the hunt tomorrow night.” He glanced at his men. “I expect you’ll see Colcu’s face even in its backside as it runs from us. I’d hate to be that stag.”

  More gentle, appreciative laughter. Kymon retreated in confusion, slumped into a small corner of the lodge, glared for a while, then cried as softly as he could.

  * * *

  I did not witness the Moon Hunt. I had withdrawn by that point, attending to other matters. I heard about it from Kymon, later, and what he told me astonished me. If only I had had the wit to understand the significance of the event.

  Chapter Ten

  Moon Hunting, Oldest Animal

  The sounding of bronze bells summoned the hunters. Urtha and Kymon, in the king’s hall, had finished their preparations. Their faces were streaked with a dark dye, and the fleeces of black sheep were tied around their shoulders. When they stepped outside, they found their horses waiting for them; the horse-handlers had replaced the metal harnessing with leather. The moon was low, and not quite full, flaring and darkening as clouds moved across her face.

  Twenty men had gathered for the Moon Hunt. They formed a circle around the Speaker for the Land, who was cloaked in black crows’ feathers and crouching on the ground. He seemed disturbed, as did Vortingoros, who acknowledged Urtha then returned his attention to the agonised activities of the druid.

  Colcu had led his own horse to the circle and glanced briefly and sourly at Kymon, but he was now on his best behaviour. A quick mocking touch to his scarred chin and he looked away.

  The Speaker for the Land listened at the earth, then slapped his palm seven times on the dry grass. Urtha whispered a question to the hunter who stood next to him. He learned that the druid was confused as to the size and nature of the stag. The sound it made was familiar, but the way it was running was not. It was at the edge of the wood, directly towards the moon, and was moving steadily towards the fortress. But the land was not responding as it should have been to the presence of the creature. There was something not right.

  The Speaker for the Land rose to his feet and addressed Vortingoros. The hunt should be abandoned, he counselled. The stag had got wind of the impending hunt and was gathering elemental forces to protect it. This was something he should have been able to see more clearly, but was failing in the task. Abandon the hunt.

  Nonsense, was the king’s reply. We have guests. The hunt may bring home a beast ten times larger or ten times smaller than expected, but the
Moon Hunt would proceed.

  There was some dispute about this among the king’s entourage, to which Vortingoros listened with visible irritation.

  The druid spread his cloak of crows’ feathers on the ground and lay down upon it, to remain there in shame until the hunters returned.

  “Are we going, or are we staying?” Kymon muttered impatiently. He felt his father’s gentle grip upon his shoulder.

  “Going, I think. Stand quietly. Don’t forget we’re guests.”

  “I haven’t forgotten how I was treated,” the boy responded grimly, eyeing Colcu. “My spear will pierce the stag’s hide before his, I promise you.”

  “Make sure his spear doesn’t pierce yours in the darkness.”

  “Thank you for the advice.”

  “By the breath of Hernos … I think a decision has been made!”

  Vortingoros had hauled himself onto his horse and turned for the gate. The rest of the hunt mounted, settled, and rode in some disorder down onto the plain, turning towards the moon and the far forest.

  The moment they left the fortress, Kymon felt himself become detached from the rest of the hunt. The land whispered to him. The moon seemed to swell. His horse, cantering on the hard ground, became softly fluid, rocking like the wooden model on which he had played when very young. The other riders moved dreamily away from him in the darkness, spreading out to face the forest. The sounds of hooves diminished. Kymon felt enveloped. He looked for his father, but he had been drawn into distance and gloom.

  This surreal sensation was abruptly snapped when Colcu rode up beside him, spear held above his head, dye-smeared face grinning. “My cut is already healed. You should have cut deeper. Or used a sharper blade!”

  He kicked away, spear now lowered, head down, riding in the direction of the moon itself. The insult—the reference to the blade—infuriated Kymon, as it had been intended to do. His first instinct was to hunt in a different direction than his tormentor, but after a moment’s pause, he followed Colcu at a gallop.

  As at Taurovinda, the land around the Coritoni fortress had been cleared to the distance of a spear thrown five times. The edge of the wood rose like a wall, cut clean, shimmering in the three-quarter moon. The hunters now prowled along that edge.

  The language of the hunt was a series of brief horn calls and owl sounds. Messages rippled along the line, confusing to Kymon—and no doubt to his father—but meaningful to the Coritoni.

  There was sudden movement; the line turned to the north and rode swiftly, again spreading out, but this time wheeling round abruptly and entering the forest, slouched low in the saddle, working their way between the trees. There were no hounds on this hunt, no baying, no snarling, just the crash of horses, the chatter and drone of the signals. Birds flew skywards, alarmed. Creatures snuffled and fled through the underbrush. Kymon became lost in the darkness, forcing himself to follow the sounds ahead of him. Colcu passed in front of him at one point, recognisable by the darting, bright-eyed, and insulting glance, then he, too, was gone.

  The earth shuddered, then; the sensation was of something gigantic beginning to run. The hunt turned south, through the woods, men streaming past the confused form of Kymon. Urtha recognised his son—Hernos alone knew how—and urged him to follow.

  “Is it the stag?”

  “It’s something,” his father agreed. “Though how it’s managing to run in these woods is a mystery to me.”

  Again, Kymon was lost. He could hear the sounds of the hunt all around him, but he himself had broken cover. He was not back on the plain but in a clearing. A ridge of bare land rose before him, the moon half-concealed by the escarpment. The earth shook again. His horse became nervous, trying to back away from the ridge despite Kymon’s attempts to urge it on.

  A flurry of startled night-wings told Kymon everything he needed to know: the earth-shaker was on the other side of the ridge, approaching.

  Spear held high and ready, he waited for the rise of antlers against the moon. Instead, a horseman galloped along the ridge, stopped, turned about, and reared up. Colcu raised his own spear at the oncoming beast, then cried out in alarm.

  No antlers rose against the moon. The shape that loomed suddenly and hugely, small eyes sparkling, white tusks gleaming, was a boar of monstrous proportion. It charged swiftly onto the ridge and with a toss of its head had savaged the horse, throwing Colcu to the ground. The youth rolled out of the first lunging strike of those tusks, tried to fling his javelin but had no angle to make a good throw, and the weapon glanced harmlessly off the great boar’s flank.

  The animal growled deeply in its lungs and straddled the nephew of Vortingoros, who screeched as the beast placed a foot on his chest and turned its head for the slashing kill.

  Kymon shouted a nonsense word, a distracting cry, a fury sound. He kicked his horse towards the fray and flung his own javelin with all his might. The blade struck the animal in the ear, and it straightened up, furious and howling. Kymon, standing on the saddle now, leapt at the raised face, narrowly avoiding the tusks as they tried to catch him, and somersaulted onto the boar’s back, his hands making the lightest of touches with the spine-sharp brow.

  He turned and pushed his sword into the tender flesh behind the creature’s ear, his legs wrapped around the neck, his left hand gripping the razor-edged tusk. As the blade sawed and sank, so the boar shook and screamed, then was very still.

  It growled again. There was pain in the sound.

  “Not the ear! Take the blade out!” it said, its voice a deep rumble of pleading. “Not the ear. It hurts too much.”

  Startled, Kymon released his grip, and in that instant was shaken to the ground. As he sprawled, so the animal leapt upon him, leaning down to push its earth-stinking mouth close to the boy’s face. Kymon’s heart raced and he cried out to Avernus, thinking he was about to die, asking for a good walk to Ghostland.

  But the killing blow never came. The boar suddenly rose onto its hind legs, a massive silhouette against the gleaming moon. With human hands it plucked the javelin from its cheek, looked at it, made to snap it in two, then changed its mind, tossing the weapon onto the earth. Bright eyes regarded Kymon. The beast’s belly grumbled.

  “That was a fine leap and a good throw,” the boar said. “I’ll be in pain until this time tomorrow. Perhaps longer.”

  “What are you?” Kymon asked nervously, getting carefully to his feet. “Man or boar?”

  “I am Urskumug. I am both. Old animal. One of the many. Something has woken us and we are looking around. Freedom is a luxury that doesn’t last for us. A good leap. A good cast.” The towering form again stepped closer to Kymon. Rank breath and fear made the boy recoil. He stepped back until he came up against a tree and felt frozen there. The boar’s nostrils flared; the brow furrowed. The face of the creature was almost human, marked out by chalk, the sketch of a man on the face of a beast.

  Urskumug said, “You stink of possession. Inhabited. There is more in you than just boy. You are dangerous. Killing you would make my life easier. But so would making you a promise. Which do you prefer?”

  Pinned against the tree, Kymon had no hesitation in answering, “The promise.”

  “I can’t promise much, but say my name in any of my sanctuaries and I’ll growl at you. I don’t have many, but they’re well concealed.”

  “What good is there in growling?”

  “What good is there in leaping?” Urskumug retorted, rubbing his bloody ear.

  Then Urskumug raised his snout and sniffed the air hard. “Sour scent. The scent of other lands. Do you smell it? There is something extraordinary in this blighted land. Something at large. Oldest animals waking up. Old ghosts, too. Something shaping. Be careful.”

  The beast turned away, dropped back on all fours, growled, tusked the earth, and was gone.

  * * *

  A while later, a horse whinnied with a moment’s pain and died, released from the agony of disembowelment. The sound snapped Kymon from his daze. At the bottom o
f the ridge, Colcu rose from the grim task, cleaning his blade and murmuring an invocation to Riannon, gatherer of battle horses. Then he walked over to the tree and faced Kymon squarely.

  “I was not frightened of you in the combat ring, and I was not in awe of you. I am not frightened of you now. But I am in awe of you. That creature could have killed us both. I am alive because of your well-thrown spear and that fine leap. You are alive because the beast spared you. I understand very little of what has happened … Kymon.”

  “Neither do I. Colcu.”

  “Then again, understanding is for druids. Action is for the rest of us. I have twenty good horse-riders, all of my age, all well-experienced with the feats. I will bring them to your father. I lead them. Do you understand? You can join us if you wish. But I lead them.”

  “That is an acceptable condition,” Kymon said in the formal manner.

  Colcu hesitated, meeting the other’s gaze hard. “That creature … it said you were possessed.”

  “I know.”

  “What did it mean, do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you feel possessed?”

  Kymon looked up at the ridge, then towards the darkness of the woodland where Urskumug had disappeared. After a moment he answered: “I don’t know. All I know is: I will be King in my own land!”

  The talk was uneasy. Colcu smiled for the first time without the expression being a mocking one. “No wonder our poor Speaker for the Land was so confused,” he said. “I think we should call to the rest of the hunt. Call it off. It was the wrong moon.”

  “I agree.”

  Colcu was not quite finished. There was sweat on his face and apprehension in his eyes. He said, “I will be High King when my uncle, Vortingoros, passes on. I have sown the land with charms to make sure this happens. Will you be High King when your father crosses the river?”

  “I expect so. But in due course. Not yet. And I have no charms to sow.”

  “Your accession is safer. You are a son, not a nephew. Will we be friends, I wonder? Or enemies? What does the possessed man think?”