To Carry the Horn

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

As they mounted up at the stables, George saw Isolda waiting atop a large open carriage quickly filling with her father and several of the kennel staff he recognized. Others were piling in as he watched. They were uniformly attired in more formal clothing than he had seen before, with dark red coats and weskits and buckskin breeches. Some had families with them, the wives and daughters in dark red skirts. These lutins had probably known Iolo all their lives, George realized, and now he was gone.

A few lutins were mounted, but there were more than could fit in one carriage, and he saw that the other drivers were not lutins. Isolda showed no discomfort among her peers, and George nodded encouragingly at her across the distance, bringing a smile to her face.

He walked Mosby over to Eurig and Tegwen, and they led him to a place in the procession that was forming. At the head were Gwyn and Creiddylad, Rhys and Rhian, with Idris and others following. A group of guards rode close behind.

Next came Ceridwen and a low open wagon carrying Iolo’s body encased in a decorated wooden coffin. Eurig’s group formed up behind them. As they moved slowly down to the main gates, George looked back and saw the long tail of the procession behind them, a mix of riders and carriages.

At the gates, there was another, smaller, group waiting to join them. Eurig leaned over to him, “People from town, come to pay their respects.” George spotted Angharad among them, on a coal-black horse with a compact well-muscled frame. She was dressed in gray, and her auburn hair was the only bit of color about her. She nodded at him as their eyes met.

The two groups merged and turned left up the road to the north. After clearing the palisade of the manor, the road passed through ever denser woods on both sides, and continued to ascend the slope of the Blue Ridge obliquely as it went.

As they rode, at a walk, George realized they were headed in the general direction of the way he had pointed out earlier in the day, and he tried to locate it again. He was startled to realize that the road seemed to be headed precisely there. He could see that Idris was on the alert; perhaps Ceridwen had told him.

Less than a mile from the end of the palisade the road widened out into an open meadow of several acres with a few patches of bare rock exposed. The main road continued north, but there was a footpath leading down from a gap in the ridge above them, running alongside a small stream. Tegwen, on his right, said, “Crossroads, water, fire, stone, woods. It’s a suitable sacred place.” The words caught his attention and he looked down at her, startled to see a saber of her own fixed to her saddle on the left.

There was a bier waiting in front of a prepared pyre of criss-crossed logs, and Iolo’s body was brought there for final farewells. The procession pulled off to the side to allow enough room for everyone to assemble.

George excused himself and rode over to Idris. “Did Ceridwen tell you? I think that way is right over there,” facing upslope and pointing to the right.

“Yes, that’s why we have so many guards. She thought it might be focused in this spot. Is it open?”

“How would I know? It seems like all the others at the moment.”

“Tell me immediately if it changes. Only you and Gwyn can see it well, and he’s occupied with other responsibilities.”

He let a look of frustration cross his face. “I don’t believe this is coincidence. What if someone killed Iolo, knowing we’d bring him here, where we’re all gathered together, outside our defenses? I don’t like this at all and advised Gwyn not to come.”

He shook his head. “He wouldn’t take the prudent course.”

He turned and positioned several of the guards between the bier and the place George identified, and more of them near Gwyn, but he was hampered by the need to stay clear of the ceremony itself.

George put himself mentally on guard, trying to maintain a sense of the way at all times, like listening for a particular background noise. He positioned himself at the back of the crowd around the bier, his back to the dormant way, and a good downslope view in front of him.

The individual visits to the bier gradually lessened, and Gwyn nudged his horse forward to stand beside it.

“Today we make our farewells to Iolo ap Huw, foully slain. I knew him all his life and his father before him. None was ever so worthy as he to hunt the Cwn Annwn. He will be sorely missed, and I vow to find his killer and bring him to justice.” He gestured, and several of the guard bent to lift the coffin to the pyre while Gwyn drew his horse aside.

In that moment when all eyes were on Gwyn, George felt a change of atmosphere, as though a window had been opened. He whirled Mosby about and saw a mounted archer appearing out of thin air just behind him, already drawing on Gwyn. He shouted. Idris, who had been keeping an eye on him, had began to yell at the guards, but it was all taking much too much time.

George threw his right rein to his left hand and closed his right hand on the lower edge of his flowing robes. He flung up his arm with the heavy satin widespread, thinking to block the archer’s view. The arrow went right through the material, but he hoped there’d been enough resistance to change its course.

He didn’t turn to see what happened but dropped the robe and drew his saber awkwardly, launching Mosby up the hill against the lighter horse and rider. Mosby took his intent and, after a brief gray passage, the upslope meadow vanished around them and they barreled into the other horse, knocking him over.

Around them three riders stood in an open field on a river bottom. They were startled at the crash of the archer’s horse and George’s unexpected appearance, but drew their swords and made for him.

I am in so much trouble, George thought distantly, but his blood was up and he was already looking for a target. He discounted the archer crushed to the ground and pushed Mosby after the nearest approaching rider. I’ll have a better chance if I can take them one by one, he thought.

Time slowed as the two of them neared each other. George reflected on his own advantages of weight and height versus his opponent’s probable experience. The only way this is going to work is if I go berserk on him and give him no time to realize my own lack of skill.

He yelled like a banshee and brought his saber forward like every charge of the heavy cavalry scene he’d ever seen. He bore down on his opponent bearing to the right and parried his blow, then struck him from behind as he passed. The man wove in his saddle, clearly injured, and George spun Mosby around in a loose circle at a canter to focus on the other two.

They had taken the opportunity to bunch together and began an approach at a slow trot. Oh, well, George thought, it was too much to hope that I could do that again. He brought Mosby back to a gallop and aimed for the same angle of attack, from his own right, since he would only be more awkward from the other side.

The outer rider split away as he got closer, to get him from behind, but George put it out of his mind and focused on the one in front of him. An explosion of sound behind him made him break off, and as he swerved, he saw that Gwyn had appeared and was taking on the second rider.

George curved Mosby around and returned to his initial target, only to see that he had turned and was galloping swiftly away down the field.

Gwyn’s opponent did the same. George knew Mosby couldn’t catch them, but looked at Gwyn hopefully.

“No, we can’t stay. They’re the ones holding this way open, and eventually they’ll remember that. We must leave or be trapped here.”

George wasn’t ready to stop. “Who are they? Can’t we learn anything from these?” gesturing at the archer still trying to free himself and the one he had wounded, now sitting dazed on the ground having fallen from his horse.

“I’ve seen all I need to. Come with me now.”

George subdued himself to Gwyn’s urgency. With Gwyn beside him, he passed through the way again.

Things had changed back in the mountain meadow. The guards were drawn up in formation surrounding the way and prepared for some sort of breakthrough, and the armed guests had drawn swords and moved in front of the non-combatants.

Idris cantered up to Gwyn in a fury. “You should’ve waited for us to join you.”

George had cooled off enough to realize what Gwyn had risked coming after him that way. Perhaps no one else could have seen the way to follow them.

He bowed to him in the saddle. “Thank you for saving my life,” he said.

“And I thank you, for deflecting that arrow and pursuing the enemy. You did well, for a man in his first sword fight.”

“I was lucky,” he said. And besides, it was exhilarating, he thought. The reaction might hit later, but it would be worth it.

His blood pumping, he smiled fiercely at Gwyn. “I’ll take that job.”

Gwyn returned the smile, and they trotted down the slope together.

With the guards firmly in place before the way exit, and the way dormant to George’s senses, the remainder of the ceremony went smoothly. Iolo’s body on its pyre was consigned to the flames, and the procession returned to the manor gate. George rejoined Eurig and Tegwen on the ride back and told them what had happened in detail, buoyed by his success.

Friends from village and manor stood about in parting conversations, those who weren’t coming up to the manor for dinner. While George waited for the crowd to clear, he looked for and located the guest’s way that Ceridwen had described. A path split off from the main road to a cul-de-sac, and the way was clearly there.

He turned to Eurig and asked, “What happens when someone using a way is confronted by someone going in the opposite direction?”

“It’s not a problem. Ceridwen once explained to me that a way’s like a tunnel that allows smaller tunnels to pass through. There are size limits to each way, so if one tunnel in use is as large as possible, perhaps a second tunnel can’t come into existence, but I don’t know anyone who’s done the experiment. Ask…”

“Ask Ceridwen. Yes, I get it.”

Eurig smiled. “Well, that’s her job, isn’t it?”

The remnants of the procession entered the yard and began to disperse. George walked over to the carriage that held Ives and his kennel lads. “Could I speak with you a moment, Master Ives?”

He dismounted and Ives walked off to the side with him. “You’ve decided to do it,” he said, looking at George’s face, still flushed with excitement.

“Yes, and I’ll need all your guidance not to be an unnecessarily disruptive force. I may make changes, but they must be done deliberately, not from ignorance. Can I count on your help?”

“Of course. Iolo would’ve wanted that.”

“I’ve committed myself for the great hunt, not beyond, and one of the first things I must keep in mind is any transition afterward. I don’t yet know what Gwyn may want, but I’d like to start to place others as junior huntsmen and whippers-in, to ride with me and to grow into the positions, at least eventually if not right away. I haven’t seen her yet with hounds, but I believe Rhian may be one such candidate and I plan to find out. Do you see any problem with that?”

“She works with the hounds all the time. If Gwyn will permit it, that would be a good idea, for when she’s older.”

“I’ll ask Gwyn’s permission, and speak to Rhian.”

He continued, “What time tomorrow would you like to see me at kennels, to begin my instruction about Iolo’s routines?”

“The kennel lads start at dawn, and Iolo would come before breakfast to ensure all was well, then return to start his work after breakfast. He was usually free in the afternoons.”

“I’ll need to do something about clothing, and I have plans for weapons training in the afternoon, but otherwise that should work well. I’ll see you after breakfast in the morning.”

George walked to the council room door off the great hall. Dinner was being set up, but not yet ready.

He stuck his head in the open doorway, saw Gwyn alone, and knocked on the door. “May I speak with you for a moment, sir?”

Gwyn nodded him in.

“Some procedural matters… How do I acquire things like work and hunt clothes or other small items that I need?”

“Ifor Moel, whom you met at Iolo’s death, is our steward. I’ll ask him to meet with you to find out your immediate requirements.”

“Once I get pen and paper, I’ll need to send another note to my grandfather, without urgency this time. Is that something I should ask Idris about?”

“Yes, he’ll arrange connections with the human world for you.”

George paused while he considered how to ask without seeming rude, and just spit it out. “Please forgive me, but why isn’t there any huntsman in waiting for Iolo, no backup?”

Gwyn looked pained. “We simply didn’t envision the need. It sounds foolish now, but Iolo had been hunting the hounds for so long, we couldn’t imagine training someone for a role they’d never get to play.”

“I’d like to start changing that. I’d like to begin training novice huntsmen and perhaps other staff, for when I leave.”

Gwyn nodded.

George said, “I think Rhian’s interested. If so, may I begin with her?”

“Certainly,” Gwyn said. “But you hesitate. What is it?”

“It seems to me that Iolo was killed to injure you, to prevent the great hunt. If so, then by taking the job I’ve painted a target on my own back. If they think I can do the great hunt, then they’ll also want to eliminate me.”

He continued. “I’m alright with that. In fact, if I can get them to aim at me, we may be able to expose them better. I think I can hold their attention on me, but there’s a chance that any trainees may also be at risk, as potential threats.”

Gwyn said, deliberately, “Rhian’s very dear to me, but she’s almost a woman and must make her own choices. If she wishes to do this, after your warning, then please coordinate with Ceridwen and Ifor Moel who between them govern much of her education.”

“One last question for now, sir. How long do I have to train, that is, when do we next hunt?”

“Say, for deer, a week hence on Tuesday, and thereafter following the usual schedule.”

“Alright, then,” George said. One week to find out how to hunt this pack, in front of guests who didn’t all wish them well. What have I taken on?

Gwyn returned to his speculations about the way at Daear Llosg after George left. The way had no sense about it of distance, as many of them did, and he couldn’t tell just from that where it had led to. The sun’s position was unchanged while he was there—by habit, that was the first thing he checked. So it must be here, in this new world. He recognized the trees and other vegetation, so it mustn’t be too far away, south or north, but there was little else he could use to pin down the location. Certainly he didn’t recognize it, and he had traveled everywhere in his own domain.

He considered returning there tomorrow through the way, if it was still there and still open to him, but that would be horribly imprudent. If the way closed and no other one was found, he might find himself hundreds of miles from home just two weeks before the great hunt, and that couldn’t be risked.

Who was this enemy who used the ways as a fundamental tool for his attack? Way-finders were always more common in his bloodline than in others, and he knew them all. Maybe not, he thought.

George was a new player. How did George sense this way? When Ceridwen had rushed in to tell him about his discoveries earlier, he was disinclined to believe her. After all, he couldn’t sense it, from here, and George’s blood could only be a diluted reflection of his own. But he knew now that couldn’t really be so—the way was there, and George had located it.

Oh, he didn’t doubt George was his descendant, but what was his father? This tale of Corniad Traherne sounded like the kind of game Cernunnos might design, but he didn’t think George was a conscious agent, more like a piece Cernunnos had created and put into play to do what he could. That he blended both his own and Cernunnos’s blood was just the sort of twist he would enjoy.

Could he be huntsman for the great hunt? If he can handle the hounds, he’ll still have to handle the great hunt itself, with its ways and its quarry, and he’s never even seen it before. Iolo wasn’t a way-finder, and Cernunnos didn’t move through him. So why has Cernunnos presented me with this new player, so very different, and why now?

He hasn’t taken an active hand since the downfall of Arawn and the resettlement of Annwn here in this new world, away from the political strife of the old. Arawn lost his place because he proved himself unworthy, and Cernunnos himself brought him down. At least, that’s how I see it, Gwyn thought. My father would disagree.

My own conscience is hardly clean, he thought, shying away from exploring the great void where his wrath and frustration caused him to so betray himself when he held his enemies in captivity. He thought he was bearing his own righteous punishment, with the struggles on Nos Galan Mai, but maybe Cernunnos felt differently, maybe he had proven himself unworthy, too, and it was just taking a while for the hammer to fall.

Was George here as a help in his time of trouble, or as a replacement?