Harry Turtledove: The Scepter's return

"Almost reason enough," Ortalis said.

When they got to the woods, the new leaves uncurling from their buds were a brighter, lighter green than they would be once they'd been out for a while. Lanius pointed to them. "That's the color of spring," he said.

"You're right," Ortalis said. They nodded to each other. In the palace, they didn't get on well. That wasn't just because of Ortalis' streak of bloodlust, either. Grus' legitimate son wanted to be King of Avornis himself one day, and to have the crown pass to his sons and not Lanius'. At the moment, he had no sons, only a toddler daughter. But who could say how long that would last?

Here in the woods, differences of rank and ambition fell away. Lanius swung down off his horse. He rubbed his hindquarters when he did; he was not a man who made a habit of riding. Anser laughed at him. The arch-hallow loved horses only less than hunting. Even Anser's mockery was good-natured. What would have been infuriating from Ortalis only made Lanius laugh, too, when Grus' bastard did it.

Why couldn't they have been reversed? Lanius wondered. I would never have to worry about a usurpation from Anser. And Ortalis — Ortalis would have made an arch-hallow to set evildoers trembling in their boots. Things were as they were, though, not as would have been convenient for him. He knew that only too well. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been a small, oft-captured piece in the great Avornan political game for so much of his life.

Carrying bows and quivers, he and Ortalis and Anser went in among the trees. The beaters spread out to drive game their way. Some of the guards accompanied Anser's raffish crew. Others stayed with the king, the prince, and the prelate. Lanius' boots scuffed through the gray-brown rotting leaves that had fallen the autumn before. Try as he would, he couldn't move quietly. Ortalis was far better at it. As for Anser, he might have been a poacher himself by the way he silently slid along.

A squirrel jeered at them from high in a tree. Ortalis started to reach for an arrow, then checked the motion. "No point to it," he said. "I'd never hit him up there, not shooting through all those branches."

One of the royal guards who'd gone on ahead came pounding back. Anser winced at the racket he made. The guards, however, refused to let Lanius go off without them. If that hurt Anser's hunting, they didn't care. This one said, "There's a nice clearing up ahead."

That made the arch-hallow happier — it didn't take much.

"Lead us to it," he said. "Without too much jingling, if you can."

"I'll do my best," the guard said. And, no doubt, he did. That his best was no good… Anser was too kindly to twit him too much.

And the clearing was as good as he'd claimed. Fresh bright grass smiled at the sun. A magpie, all black and white and iridescent purple, hopped on the grass. It flew away squawking when Lanius stuck his head out.

Faintly embarrassed, the king drew back behind a tree trunk. "This does seem a likely spot," he said.

"Well, yes, if you don't frighten away everything within five miles," Ortalis said. Had Anser said the same thing, Lanius would have laughed and forgotten about it. From Ortalis, it annoyed him. Anser might have meant it just as much. He probably would have, as passionate for the hunt as he was. But the words wouldn't have stung coming out of his mouth. Coming out of Ortalis', they did.

What Anser said now was, "Don't worry, Your Highness. The beaters will make sure we don't go home empty-handed. Pity the antlers won't be as fine as they would in the fall."

"I don't care," Ortalis said. "I want the venison." He sounded hungry, all right. Was it for meat? Maybe. Lanius thought it was more likely to be for the kill itself.

A deer bounded into the clearing. "Go ahead, Your Majesty," Anser said. "First arrow of spring."

Awkwardly, Lanius drew his bow, took aim, and let fly. The arrow whisked over the deer's head. That was where he'd aimed it, so he wasn't particularly unhappy. He liked eating venison, too, but he didn't care to be the one who'd killed it.

Killing didn't bother Ortalis. Even as the deer bounded away, he loosed his own shaft. Unlike Lanius, he always took dead aim. He was a good shot, too, also unlike the king. His arrow flew straight and true, and struck the deer in the side.

"A hit!" he cried, and was out of cover and running after the wounded animal. Anser ran after him, bow at the ready. So did Lanius, a little more slowly. "An easy trail!" Ortalis said, laughing with pleasure. Sure enough, the deer's blood marked its path. Well, it will be over soon, Lanius thought. The deer won't suffer long. It won't wander through the woods a cripple.

There it was, thrashing in some bushes it hadn't had the strength to leap. Ortalis drew a knife that would have done duty for a smallsword. "Careful!" Anser called. "Those hooves are still dangerous." If his half brother heard, he gave no sign. Avoiding the feet that flailed ever more feebly, he cut the deer's throat.

More blood fountained free. "Ahhh!" Ortalis said, almost as if he'd just had a woman. As soon as the deer was dead, or perhaps even a moment before, he flipped it over and began to gut it. Arms red almost to the elbows, he turned and smiled up at Lanius and Anser.

"Good shot," Anser said, and clapped him on the back. Lanius managed a nod that didn't seem too halfhearted. But that avid expression on Ortalis' face as he wielded the knife chilled the King of Avornis. Yes, he thought, this is why he hunts.

When Grus first got to know Hirundo, his general had been a bright young cavalry captain. King Grus himself had been a bright, reasonably young river-galley skipper. Now his beard was gray and the tendons on the backs of his hands all knobbly and gnarled. How did I get to be sixty? He wondered, as any man will with so many years behind him and so few probably ahead.

Hirundo was a few years younger, but only a few. He still had traces, though, of the dash he'd shown all those years ago. "South of the Stura, eh?" he said gaily.

"We've been looking at this for a while now — ever since Ulash's sons started squabbling over the bones of his realm," Grus said.

"Oh, yes. We've been looking at it and thinking about it," Hirundo agreed. "Most of what we've been thinking is, This doesn't look like such a great idea right now. And what do you think now, Your Majesty? Do you think Pterocles and the other wizards really can cure the thralls south of the Stura? Do you think they can keep the Menteshe from turning our army — and us — into thralls if we cross the river?"

Before the Menteshe overran the lands south of the Stura, those lands had belonged to Avornis. The peasants on them had been no different from the ones anywhere else in the kingdom. The descendants of those peasants were different now. Dark sorcery from the Banished One had made them into thralls, only a step or two brighter than the domestic animals they tended. The same cruel fate had befallen the last Avornan army that dared go south of the Stura. Fear that such a disaster could happen again had kept Kings of Avornis from troubling the Menteshe in their homeland for more than two centuries.

The sorcery that made men and women into thralls wasn't perfect. Every so often, a thrall would get out from under the spell and cross the Stura into freedom. But the Banished One sometimes used thralls pretending to have escaped from thralldom to spy on Avornis. That made any runaways hard to trust. The Banished One's magic was so deep, so subtle, that Avornan wizards had an almost impossible time telling a thrall who had truly broken away from it from one serving as the enemy's eyes and ears.

Since the very beginning, Avornan wizards had tried to craft magic to break the spell of thralldom. They'd had very little luck. An escaped thrall could seem free of all traces of the sorcery that enslaved him — until, sometimes years later, he did the Banished One's bidding.