To Carry the Horn

Chapter 10-2

He walked over and looked down at a map of the area that seemed to cover about ten miles across, with the manor and its palisade in the center. The Blue Ridge and the local stream were clear, and Greenhollow with its bridge, but this was the first overview he had seen. There were cleared farms but no other visible settlements, and no roads over the mountain.

“Let me find north,” he said. George had an excellent sense of direction, and he confirmed it with his compass. Ceridwen looked at the device with interest. He moved the scroll to conform.

I wonder how you can tell distance, he thought, if it’s like stars where “small and close” looks the same as “big and far away.” He closed his eyes again and pointed to his entry spot in real space. He opened them, leaned over the map, and placed an inkwell on it as a marker. “I know the distance of this one, close enough. I’ll use that as a gauge of distance for the others.”

Reclosing his eyes, he identified the most obvious one, south of the village near the road. Ceridwen confirmed that as the Travelers’ Way. It was further than he would’ve thought, so it seemed that the sense of ‘big’ was easily confused with ‘close.’

The next was a small one in the direction of the gate, which Ceridwen marked in the clearing before the main gates. “That’s the way for guests,” she said.

George stayed close in and identified another small one, very nearby and due south. “That’s the Family Way. It comes out in the kennels.”

“No other defense needed?” George said.

“The family doesn’t fear the hounds, and we wanted the endpoint to be something easy to guard, if it was going to be within the palisade.”

George swept around west of the manor. “There’s one here, in this direction. Judging by these others, I would say it’s very small and fairly close.” He put a smooth stone from the desk on the scroll where woods were indicated, west of the palisade, not far away.

He pinpointed the last one. “Here, north of the manor. Medium-sized?” Looking at the map, he dropped a small paperweight in a cleared field halfway up the ridge. “Somewhere along this line, depending on its real size.”

Ceridwen looked shaken. “We know nothing of these last two. I must tell Gwyn and Idris immediately.”

George stood on Ceridwen’s doorstep, watching her hasten off to the manor. He saw the armory across the lane and was reminded of the afternoon training sessions. Never too soon to start. How bad can it be, someone my age with a bunch of youngsters, he thought, wincing in anticipation. He walked over and caught sight of the weapons-master within.

“Master Hadyn, thank you for the use of this sword. There was no opportunity for me to embarrass myself with it, but that’s all to the good.”

Hadyn’s mouth quirked.

George continued, “You mentioned training for the beginners in the afternoon. Do you think I could join the session today?” Might as well find out how long it’s going to take me to become competent enough to hold up my head.

Hadyn nodded. “We start in an hour. Keep the sword while you’re here, you’ll need it for training.”

George thanked him and returned outside.

Now for the hounds.

“Quiet down, now,” George told the hounds at the kennels as they crowded up against the bars of the pens and began to bark in excitement. And they did, not violently as if turned off at the switch, but cooperatively, as if they understood him. It was the same command he gave to his dogs at home when they got noisy, and while he’d noticed that it usually worked, he assumed it was nothing more than their familiarity with the words and the tone of his voice. These hounds didn’t know him, but it worked on them, too. It can’t be this easy, he thought uneasily.

He looked over the yard with his new attention to the travel ways and spotted the small presence in the center. He couldn’t see anything as he circled around it. It can’t just suck people in, here in the middle of a public space, he thought, and he nerved himself to walk right through the spot. It tingled slightly, but nothing happened. Perhaps you need a destination in mind, or one of those tokens.

He entered at the doorway on the left at the end of the yard and found Ives in the same place as yesterday, plaiting a thong for a riding whip at the table while other lutins stirred the cauldrons.

Ives looked up and smiled. “Thank you for letting Isolda practice her driving skills on you this morning. They don’t all take her seriously around here.”

“That was Rhian’s doing, but it was a pleasure. She’s quite competent. What does she hope to do with this line of work?”

“Our families work with the animals, here and on the farms, but we tend them rather than using them for our work. I know of a few who’ve taken up riding on ponies or small horses, but we think them rather odd. Driving’s more unusual yet, and Isolda’s the only girl I know who’s ever taken an interest.

“Most of the wagoners are big folk, strong enough to move heavy freight around and control the big horses. She’s fine with the horses, but I think she’ll need to stick to carriages for people, where the freight can move itself. There’s enough of a call for that for her to do well, if she wishes.”

He put down the leather work in his hands. “Was there something I can do for you?”

George considered how much to reveal. “I’ve been asked to see what I could do with the hounds, based on skills they think I have.”

“Do you know who will be huntsman, then?” Ives said, rising from the table.

“They’re weighing their options. Do you have any opinions they should know about?”

“The great hunt must happen. If she were older I’d recommend Rhian, but I think it’s too soon.”

“Not Rhys?”

“He’s not dedicated to it, and the hounds would know. He’s fine as a whipper-in, but it’s just one step in his training for him, not a life. The same for Rhodri, who also came through here in his time, as a whipper-in.”

Ives looked at George speculatively. He has some idea about my situation, George thought, but is too politic to mention it first.

“Let’s take some of the bitches out into the paddock and see if they’ll listen to you,” Ives suggested.

They went down the corridor to the b***h pen, where all the hounds jumped down from the benches at their approach. Ives picked out three couple of hounds and released them into the corridor. He looked at George and said, “They need to go down to the end and out that door into their yard.”

George understood the implied challenge. “Are the yard’s outer gates closed?” Ives nodded.

George addressed the hounds. “Alright, ladies, pack up.” They looked at him and settled down in the corridor. He pushed his way through, making sure to focus on each one and give her a touch as he went by.

He led them to the outer door at the end of the corridor and went through it, blocking the hounds with his body as he checked to see the yard was empty and its gates were closed. The fence enclosed about an acre and a half. Then he opened the door fully and released the hounds to run in the grass for a few moments and let off some steam.

Ives named the hounds to him. “They’re a mix. I gave you four biddable hounds, one good but stubborn leader, and one shy but good trailer that the others pick on. If this group will listen to you, you’ve a good chance with all of them. That Rhymi there is the head bitch.”

George watched them run about, sniffing the markings from the other hounds and anything else they could find. Rhymi was a powerful hound, with a few scars to show she didn’t lead a peaceful life in kennels.

He walked out to the middle of the yard, leaving Ives leaning against the fence. “Rhymi,” he called, “Come.”

The hound’s head went up and she trotted over to see what he wanted. “Pack up,” he called to the rest of them. With their leader already in place, they weren’t hesitant to join in.

The shy one got too close to the others and was snarled at. “Ah, ah, ah,” George said sternly to the offender, who looked surprised at the reprimand.

Ives spoke from over by the fence, carefully expressionless. “Never heard that one before.”

George flushed. “I think all domestic animals speak ‘cat’ as a second language, since they all seem to know ‘scuss’ and ‘ah, ah, ah.’ Works for me, anyway.”

He turned and called out, “Pack up,” without looking back. The three couple followed him in tolerable order as he walked around the yard. He kept watch from the corner of his eye, and as one paused to investigate a leftover bone in the grass, he told her, “Leave it,” and she returned to the pack.

It was exhilarating to work with the hounds this way. He knew this level of communication wasn’t normal, and that’s why it had never occurred to him to try it before. On those occasions when he had been working as temporary Rowanton huntsman, he assumed the smoothness of the pack was just the good training by the real huntsman of which he was able to take advantage. This time, he was looking for the difference, and he could feel it. If he put enough serious intent into his voice, the hounds took him seriously in turn. It wasn’t orders and obedience, but more like a musical dialogue where he led and they agreed to follow, mostly. This was like the golden thread that huntsmen speak of connecting them to their hounds, but with much more specificity.

He tried an experiment. He pointed at Ives, now standing watching a few steps away from the fence. “To Ives,” he told the pack. They looked at his gesture and headed in that direction. He wasn’t sure if they understood the directionality only or the destination, but they stopped at Ives rather than continuing on to the fence, and then he knew: they understood the name. A shiver went up his spine and his ears pulled back on his head.

“Pack up,” he called, and they returned. “Alright, ladies, enjoy yourselves,” he dismissed them. They bounded off to continue exploring in the yard while George walked over to Ives.

“That was very interesting,” George said. Maybe this would be possible. But a little group like this inside an enclosure didn’t prove much. Could he do this dance of command and persuasion for a pack five times this size? Much more doubtful.

As if he could hear his thoughts, Ives warned him. “They won’t all be so cooperative, Cythraul particularly. Still, you clearly have what you need to hunt them.”

“I’d need to know the standard commands Iolo used, his horn calls, all the things they’re used to.”

“Of course.”

No point dodging the obvious, thought George. “So, do you think I can do this, just to cover until the great hunt? Do you think I should?”

“I think you can, and I don’t know who else could, if you don’t.”

I can see where this is headed, George thought, as he walked back to the armory. Now, what about my real life? Can I just drop everything at work for a two-week sabbatical? Do I really want to? Well, why not? Sam’s been itching for an opportunity to run the whole company. This can be his chance, and I can do a serious evaluation when I get back. Two weeks of no electricity or other mod cons will be plenty for me, though no doubt I’ll want to come back for visits, if that’s possible.

All of this assuming I can actually do the job. A job that ends up with someone dead.

As he entered the armory, he stopped one of the young men inside and asked about the training class. Together, they joined a group at one end of the building where Hadyn was waiting for them.

George reminded himself, this isn’t about sport and exercise. Someone killed a man yesterday with a claw-blade, and everyone was shocked by the murder, but not by the violence of it. What would I do in a world without guns if someone came at me with a knife? Or a sword? Better learn quickly.

He hadn’t anticipated his first assignment from Hadyn.

“Partner up with young Brynach there,” he told George.