The Broken Kings: Book Three of The Merlin Codex (11 page)

“After what you’ve described to me, are you sure it’s wise?”

“Wise? No. But the hunt is still in our blood. You and your son must join us. I will present you with the best portion of the flesh, though we must go to convivial combat together if you wish to secure the velvet and the horn.” He laughed. “What do you say?”

“I say yes.”

An owl, dark-faced, tawny-feathered, suddenly swooped through the hall and rose into the stream of light from the smoke-hole in the roof.

Frowning at the bird, which had startled him, and with the quiet comment, “Do you watch
everything
I do?” Urtha retired to the guest hall with his son and retinue, weary, apprehensive, unable to sleep.

I would have to be careful how I answered his question, when it came to the moment.

Chapter Nine

The Chin-Cut

The evening before the Moon Hunt, by arrangement and agreement between the two kings, Kymon and Vortingoros’s nephew Colcu met in the circle where the game was to be held, a wide space, defined by feathered posts and filled with a scatter of rusting weapons, wooden swords, bent-shafted spears, ropes and “leaping” points, the cut trunks of trees and carefully positioned flat-topped blocks of grey stone. A few thornbushes had been allowed to grow there, and a central oak, sufficiently battered and broken as to suggest the hazardous and limb-damaging use to which it had often been put.

Kymon inspected the circle and was contemptuous. “Nothing bright. No bright iron. No sharp-edged bronze. No shields. This is a child’s playground.”

Urtha picked up one of the discarded blades and bent it until it snapped. He had seen at once what this circle represented. Not a playground for children but an echo of the crow-ground after battle. These weapons, even the wooden batons, had been taken from a skirmish field. Urtha glanced into the fading light above him. Sure enough, a bird was hovering there, swooping and disappearing as it eyed the ground. One of the
Morrigan’s
daughters, given a small role as she herself grew to become a retriever of souls when blood-tempered iron was dipped again into the life-forge.

There would be no killing today. The bird was young, her presence in the clouds simply to watch and learn.

Colcu had been out with the group setting traps for the coming Moon Hunt. Now he trotted through the main gate into the hill on a white pony, which was decked with red and black feathers above its bright bronze eye-covers. His feet almost touched the ground. He rode straight to the games circle with his uncle leading him and swung down from the narrow saddle to confront Kymon. The two youths engaged each other’s gaze coldly while their guardians talked and laughed. Colcu was a full head taller than Urtha’s son, and he seemed to be in distress at having to “prove” himself with this Cornovidian “child.”

Although Kymon kept wisely quiet, he was alarmed to see the purple “torque heads” tattooed on each side of Colcu’s throat, a mark that always preceded the fitting of a golden torque, the mark of royalty but also of having taken a life. Colcu saw the slightly nervous glance from his opponent and let a smile touch at his lips.

Fair-faced, pale-eyed, Colcu looked like the warrior he was determined to become, his hair limed white and stiff for that form of conflict that would most likely lead to death. He wore a loose leather battle harness, a grey-and-green kirtle with red-embroidered edges, and black bull’s-hide ankle boots. The sword at his right hip had an ivory-and-onyx grip, wound around with white leather. Colcu drew the weapon slowly—with his right hand, of course—and presented it to Kymon.

No word had been spoken, but Colcu’s amused yet moody gaze had remained unblinking.

Kymon passed over his own sword. The guardians received them, and the parties withdrew to their benches, for refreshment and instruction.

The boy was anxious. “He has the marks of a torque on his neck,” he said to his father. “What does that mean exactly?”

Urtha had already spoken to Vortingoros. “There was a raid on a hunting party in the wolf-glen, south of the hill. A while ago, now. Several of Vortingoros’s horsemen were surprised by a band of
dhiiv arrigi.
Colcu and two companions were among the party, and though they withdrew when the attack came, Colcu launched a sling-stone that killed the leader of the vengeful outcasts. It was a timely shot, and he is promoted in the order.”

“Then why the contest with me?”

“He still needs to go through the formality of the youth game. This is a good opportunity for you, Kymon, should you win the contest.”

In the brief, shocked silence that followed, Kymon’s face turned from astonishment to outrage as he stared at his father. Urtha tugged nervously at his greying moustaches.

“A formality?” Kymon said in a thin voice, and then at full volume, “A
formality
? I am not a
formality
! I am nobody’s
formality.
This is an intolerable insult.”

“Not at all,” Urtha retorted. “It’s an excellent opportunity. How many times must I remind you: to keep your anger for when it can be used to full advantage. And always look for the opportunity in any situation.”

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.