Authors: Michael Pryor
He hadn't gone far before George appeared at his
elbow. 'I say, Aubrey, where have you been? I couldn't
find you anywhere.'
Aubrey waved a hand. 'Oh, talking to people.' He didn't
feel it necessary to tell George who he'd been talking to.
Not at the moment.
'Time to get our guns, is it?' George nodded at the
tent.
'It wouldn't be much of a shoot without them.'
The Holmlanders were gathering eagerly at the tent.
Their clothes were dark, navy blues mostly, of a slightly
old-fashioned but expensive cut. Their boots were rather
heavier than fashion dictated, however, and looked as
if they were of military issue. There were half a dozen
older Holmlanders, distinguished by their heavy whiskers
and quite startling moustaches. The younger Holmlanders
were mostly clean-shaven and generally of a brooding
aspect, apart from a few like Hugo von Stralick, who were
cheerful and jovial, enjoying the carnival atmosphere.
All of the Holmlanders had upright postures, as if a
steel rod had been sewn in the back of their jackets.
As well as being flanked by two of the fit young men,
the Prince was accompanied by a gaggle of other men
and women. Aubrey recognised most of them as the
younger sons and daughters of peers, the sort of carefree,
unoccupied crowd that could be relied on to present
themselves at any social occasion, as long as it had sufficient
wealth and prestige attached. Most of them did
little more than float from gala opening to coming out
ball to Empire celebrations, exquisitely dressed and
immaculately polished. Aubrey tried to imagine them
actually
doing
something, but found it difficult. He
thought they probably spent their time between social
engagements simply propped up in a corner in their vast,
ancestral homes, like waxwork dummies, waiting for the
next party.
Aubrey recognised others from the previous night's
dinner. They were the researchers, colleagues of Professor
Hepworth. They looked a little puzzled in these surroundings,
peering at the sky and the open field as if
they'd been shut away for days and had emerged, like
moles, blinking in the light. Most of them were dressed
even more eccentrically than Professor Hepworth –
patched woollen overcoats, hats that looked as if they'd
been worn on expeditions to the tropics, tennis shoes
with tartan socks. The bright young things with the Prince
were careful to keep their distance from the researchers,
as if they feared they were contagious.
The rest of the crowd out that morning were the assistants
and beaters recruited from the village.
Aubrey pointed. 'A shooting weekend like this must be
a good source of income for them.'
'A shooting party couldn't happen without them,'
George said.
There were boys and girls who couldn't have been
more than ten years old and a few grey-haired gaffers
who would have been too old to fight in the last war.
They wore an assortment of old but clean clothes.
Aubrey narrowed his eyes. All of the assistants were
wearing identical headgear – a hard rounded hat with a
metal flap at the back that projected down to cover the
neck. He looked around. The gamekeepers had all
donned similar apparatus.
'Interesting hats,' he pointed out to George.
George raised an eyebrow. 'I don't think they'll become
fashionable in the city.'
The head gamekeeper was speaking to this raggedy
army. They were obviously well accustomed to the rituals
of the hunt, for they spread out quickly and headed towards
the forest at the far end of the shooting ground,
getting ready to drive the game towards the shooters. The
older hands ran close to the ground, bent almost double.
Two youths, one with a red flag and one with a blue, were
dispatched to either end of the line to mark the extent of
the beating.
George steered Aubrey towards the entrance of the
gun tent, but they had to stand aside to allow a pair of
Holmlanders to exit. The Holmlanders were comparing
the gleaming shotguns the Prince's staff had lent
them, which they carried broken on their forearms.
George nodded in approval. 'Roberts and Malone. Top
manufacturers.'
Aubrey stared at him. 'I never knew you were so
knowledgeable about shotguns.'
George shrugged. 'I managed to make some money as
a gun boy on the estates around our farm. The more you
know, the better off you are.'
Indeed
, Aubrey thought.
'Those guns, the ones the Holmlanders had, were both
hammerless breechloaders. Single trigger. Very nice. I
don't think anyone will be able to blame the guns today,
if they have any trouble.'
'I prefer an over-and-under,' Aubrey said airily, grasping
at something he'd recently skimmed in preparation for
the weekend. 'Helps me feel as if I'm looking right along
where I'm aiming.'
George snorted, perfectly aware of Aubrey's tenuous
understanding of shotguns.
They entered the tent. Some quick negotiations with
two armoury keepers and George handed Aubrey a gun.
Immediately, Aubrey knew he was handling a piece
of fine machinery, the culmination of a hundred years
of skill and refinement. The wood was dense, highly
polished and so smooth it felt like glass. The metal was
dulled to avoid reflection, but had a satin lustre that made
it almost soft to touch.
As they left the tent, Aubrey made sure he was carrying
the gun correctly – broken over the forearm. 'The only
time a gun should be shut is when it's loaded and ready
to fire,' he remembered his father saying.
One of the fit young men came up to them. 'Sirs,
Collins is my name. I'm your loader and assistant for
today's shoot.' He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wore a
waistcoat over a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He
had an open, sunny face and he carried two guns over his
muscular forearms.
'Excellent,' Aubrey said. 'Glad to have you aboard,
Collins.'
George led the way to the butts, which were stretched
over about fifty yards of broken land. The stone semi-circles
looked as if they had been freshly scrubbed and
Aubrey thought that Sir William might actually have
organised such a thing for the Prince.
'Collins,' Aubrey said as they found themselves an
empty butt, about two-thirds of the way along the line,
'any idea what these Stymphalian birds are? They sound
familiar, but I just can't recall . . .'
'Not exactly, sir.' Collins grinned. 'Something out of
the ordinary, that's all I've heard.'
Around them, people began to spread out. A more
serious mood came over the party as the non-shooters
retired to the tents for refreshments. Aubrey saw much
studying of guns, discussions with loaders and looking
to the sky to judge wind conditions. The Holmlanders
marched to their positions, issuing orders to their loaders
in clipped, no-nonsense accents. Prince Albert was
ushered to a butt in the middle of the line, no doubt
chosen by Sir William to ensure the best shooting.
The dim light of dawn had given way to the soft gold
of early morning. The air was still and cool, with the
heavy smell of damp earth and vegetation. Aubrey looked
along the line of shooters. Some were slouching, guns still
broken; others were leaning against the stone walls of
their butts. The Holmlanders were alert, guns at the
ready, eyes scanning the forest ahead.
Aubrey's gun was still broken and he wondered if it was
time to load. The back of his neck began to itch and he
rubbed it.
'Nearly seven o'clock,' George said and tucked his
watch away. 'We should hear something soon.'
Aubrey nodded, and the prickling sensation at the back
of his neck returned. 'Odd,' he muttered.
'I beg your pardon?' George said. He handed his gun
to Collins for loading.
'There's some strange magic afoot, George. I can feel
it.'
George frowned, but before he could reply a hullabaloo
erupted from the tall trees at the end of the
shooting ground.
Between the shouting, whistles and sound of pots
and pans being struck, it sounded to Aubrey as if all the
fiends of hell were tuning the instruments of an infernal
orchestra.
'Ready, sirs,' Collins said from behind them. He took
Aubrey's gun and, as Aubrey turned, thrust another on
him. 'The beaters are doing a fine job of driving the game
towards us.'
A new sound rose over the din in the forest, a shimmering
noise like metal sliding on metal. Aubrey held his
gun loosely and tried to see what was happening in the
trees.
Something brass-coloured shot out of the woods and
climbed, whirring, into the sky. From Aubrey's left,
someone stifled an oath and the bird arrowed overhead,
sun reflecting from its wings. It had gone before anyone
had time to loose off a shot.
Aubrey looked at Collins. The young man grinned and
pushed back his cap. 'No expense spared here.'
'Stymphalian birds,' Aubrey said and he suddenly
remembered stories he'd heard years ago.
George grimaced. 'Tell me quickly, Aubrey.' Another
metallic shape whirred from the trees and darted overhead.
This time, the shooters were more prepared. Three
or four shots rang out, but only expressions of disgust and
disappointment followed the salvo. 'What are they?'
'One of the twelve labours of Herakles was to rid Lake
Stymphalus of a flock of brass birds.'
'Brass? That'll make the shooting tricky.'
More shots came from the other shooters. George
brought the gun to his shoulder.
Three birds flew out of the woods and soared upwards
until they were yards overhead. They hovered, clattering,
and began to swoop.
'Of course Herakles found these birds to be more than
a little aggressive,' Aubrey added.
George had time for a startled glance at Aubrey and
then the birds were on them.
Aubrey was sure it hadn't been Sir William who'd
decided to make the shooting party more interesting than
the usual affair. Adding a touch of danger to an occasion
where the Crown Prince was present was not Sir
William's way of thinking. Perhaps it had been Bertie's
idea. Aubrey knew he had a wicked sense of humour
that, unfortunately, had few avenues for expression. He
may simply have dropped in a few suggestions, then let
Sir William make the arrangements.
A scream like a sheet of metal being torn in two came
from the birds as they swooped. Two beaters who had
emerged from the woods threw themselves flat on the
ground and the birds shot past them, shrieking in disappointment.
'I think I see why the villagers have those
hard hats,' Aubrey said.
The Stymphalian birds drove upwards. As they did,
three or four of the guests fired. Their guns coughed with
the sound of expensive firearms, but the birds flew higher
and circled, unaffected.
George shot, then looked at Aubrey. 'You're not
shooting.'
'In a moment. Just readying myself.'
A few more volleys thundered out. One bird, instead of
retreating, screamed and dived towards the shooters.
One of the guests was braver, or more foolhardy, than
the others. While they scattered, she stood there, slim and
dressed in grey, calmly holding out her hand for the gun
the nervous loader was thrusting at her.
Caroline
, Aubrey thought, and he held his breath. Without
consciously willing it, he began measuring angles,
widths, going over spells in his mind, gauging the wind,
a hundred things at once.
He had actually taken a few steps towards her when she
snapped her gun shut, raised it and shot at the bird, which
had obviously decided who its chief tormentor was.
A loud 'Spang!' came from the creature, followed by an
indignant squawk. Caroline took a neat step to the side as
the bird tumbled past. She swivelled, tracking its progress,
but she didn't use the other barrel as the bird flapped
and mounted into the air again. She watched it, gun
pointed carefully to the ground. As the bird laboured into
the air, a feather detached itself and fell to the ground
with a clank.
Aubrey, by then, was hurrying towards her. More birds
were driven out of the woods and the shooters were
suddenly busy not just idly shooting, but defending
themselves.
When he reached Caroline, she glanced at him while
keeping most of her attention on the swooping birds.
'Careful,' she said.
'You shoot well. Very well.'
'It's a stupid waste of time, but my father insisted I
learn. One of his friends is Lord Sumner. He taught me.'
Aubrey blinked. Lord Sumner had won the King's
Prize for the last six years in a row. He was considered
unbeatable at any form of shooting.
She bent and picked up the brass feather. 'Stymphalian
bird.'
Aubrey took it. He turned it over in his hands. It was
about ten inches long and, apart from the fact that it
was made of brass, looked identical to an ordinary bird's
feather.
'Fine work,' Aubrey murmured.
'It should be. Your father's company was responsible.'
With an effort, Aubrey didn't roll his eyes. 'It's no
longer my father's company.'
'It's appalling, all of this,' she said, ignoring his protest.
'Using magic to create monsters and legendary beasts,
then shooting them. Your father has a lot to answer for.'
'Well,' Aubrey said, searching for a reasonable tone to
overlay his desire to defend his father, 'surely it's better
than shooting real animals. No blood and all that. Shoot a
gryphon and it just vanishes.' He waved a hand at the line
of shooters blazing away. 'They seem to be having fun.'
Caroline rounded on him. 'That's not the point.
Hunting is a trivial thing to waste powerful magic on.
Hundreds of hours of skill and effort are wasted on rubbish
like this!' She swung one hand wide, while cradling
her gun in the other.
'Ah, I see.' Aubrey felt her blistering glare as he sought
for a suitable response. 'Umm . . . Well, it keeps the
shotgun makers in business.'