Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

Rhinebeck roared a laugh. “Secondsong! I love it!”

The sound echoed off the rocks and a dozen rockbirds took flight, muscular wings fighting the pull of the ground to reach the strong winds that swept the hills.

“Night!” Rhinebeck cried, snapping his crank bow up so quickly the bolt came loose and the string twanged uselessly. Rojer and Gared loosed at well, their arrows not coming significantly closer. There were curses from the west as the other group had similar results.

Only Thamos remained calm, raising his crank bow and taking his time as he tracked one of the birds. Rhinebeck snatched another bow from his attendant and had it up while Rojer and Gared were still nocking their second shots. Thamos fired and there was a squawk even as Rhinebeck pulled his trigger with barely a moment to aim.

The rockbird cried as it fell from the sky. Thamos smiled, but it was short-lived as his elder brother glared at him. The count gave a nod. “Well shot, brother. I confess I am out of practice, but Creator willing, I’ll catch up over the next few days.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Rhinebeck’s attendant spoke. “Indeed, sire. A fine shot.” Thamos’ attendant nodded emphatically. “Masterfully done, Your Grace.”

Rhinebeck glanced to Gared and Rojer.

“Rarely have I seen such skill with a crank bow,” Rojer said. Gared remained quiet, so he gave the big man a surreptitious kick in the leg.

“Oh, ay,” Gared said, his voice flat. “Good shootin’.”

Rhinebeck grunted, slapping Thamos on the back. “You were always better with the spear than the bow.” He looked to Rojer. “You’re fault, Jongleur, for making me laugh like that.” He chuckled again. “Secondsong. I’ll have to remember that one.” The servants began to breathe again, and the tension bled from the air.

The hunting lodge was small fortress, built on high ground with thick wardwalls and a full staff year-round. It held a garrison of fifty Wooden Soldiers, and at least two dozen servants and groundskeepers in addition to the score of soldiers in the duke’s entourage, along with pages, cooks, and hounds. It even had its own brothel, with comfort women for the soldiers and choicer whores to cater to visiting Royals. Two of these were boys, but their hair and face powders made them seem as women at a glance.

“Disgusting,” Sament said, noticing one of these, but Keerin’s eyes lingered, and Rojer knew without a doubt the two would be grunting in the pillows tonight. He wondered if Keerin was the sort to take top or bottom.

Mickael and Pether blamed Rhinebeck for scaring the game, their annoyance only amplified as Rhinebeck held up his prize.

“So Thamos jumps and swings the bow so fast the ripping bolt falls free!” Rhinebeck gesticulated with the drumstick of the rockbird to illustrate his point.

With every retelling of the tale—and there had been many—Rhinebeck added little flourishes with the skill of a Jongleur. He seemed to have internalized the lie entirely.

Everyone had a laugh at Thamos, then. His brothers and their whores, the Milnese, even some of the servants. Gared studied the contents of his cup, and Thamos made a pained sound that the others took for embarrassed laughter.

Rojer, by his nature, wanted to join the merriment. Never spoil a crowd’s good mood, Arrick had taught, or act too good to be part of it.

But over the months he had spent with the man, Rojer had grown to truly like Count Thamos, and could not bring himself to add to his humiliation. He drained his wine instead.

The cooks had done a fine job dressing the prize, but the single rockbird was barely a morsel for a crowd of grown men. Rhinebeck had served it as an appetizer, so all could share in his proud “victory.” It was gamy and tough, much like the tale they were enduring yet again.

The duke’s table was piled with pork, venison, and beef, enough to feed twice the assembled group. Wine flowed freely, and those not drunk already were soon on their way, Rojer included.

Of the royal family, only Thamos had not found company for the pillows, and Rojer caught him watering his wine.

Gared followed his example. He’d withdrawn since the duke had claimed Thamos’ kill. “You’d think the throne would be enough.”

“My brothers have always been this way.” Thamos’ voice was low and tired. “Time was I would have been the same. My seal was on that bolt, and I would have delighted in showing up Rhiney and the others.” He sighed. “I might not have cared for the vagabonds in the caravan camps, either. The world looks different since I left Angiers and saw how real folk live.”

He slammed his fist on the table. Rojer glanced around, but the other Royals were making too much noise to notice. “We’re wasting time! To the north Euchor has his eye on kingship of Thesa, and to the south, our enemies mount. People starving all over Angiers, and we’re hunting! And doing a poor job of it at that. Just an excuse to get out of the city for more drinking and whoring.”

The count stood. “I need some air.”

“Going to practice your shooting, brother?” Rhinebeck called, drawing roars of laughter from Mickael and Pether. “Best be careful, or I’ll have to appoint the Wooden Soldiers a new lord commander.”

Thamos grimaced, and Rojer knew the duke had taken it too far. The count was slow to true courage, but he could be reckless when pushed past caring.

“Since your aim is so great, brother, I thought we might dispense with simple game like rockbirds and hunt something worthier.” Thamos looked around the table, catching the eyes of the other men. “That is, if there are any here man enough to test themselves against real prey.”

There were nervous looks at that, but Rhinebeck had not yet caught on. “The man who can barely work his bow doubts us? By all means, what shall we hunt? Bear? Nightwolf?”

Thamos crossed his arms. “On your feet, then. We’re going to hunt a rock demon.”

“This is madness,” Rhinebeck said, as they stalked the hills near the hunting fort. It was slow going, for while Rojer, Gared, and Thamos could see perfectly well in wardsight, the others had to rely on lanterns carried by three of the half dozen Wooden Soldiers in their escort. The men carried warded weapons, but they were raw wood, as it was said in the Hollow. Untested against the night.

“You’re welcome to go back and cower under the skirts of your favorite whore, brother,” Thamos said, drawing a glare from the duke.

Keerin had done just that, staying behind despite his boasts of bravery. Thamos’ brothers no doubt wished they could do the same, but pride would not let them show weakness before their youngest sibling.

Lord Sament had come as well, with two of his Mountain Spears. Like the other Royals, he carried a crank bow and warded quarrels, but unlike the Angierians, Sament had an eager grin on his face.

The group was just small enough for Rojer to cover them with his music.

“Do not drive the demons away,” Thamos told him as they left the safety of the fort’s wardwalls. “Let these men see what we face each night in the Hollow.”

Rojer complied, casting only a thin camouflage over the group, not dissimilar to Leesha’s Cloaks of Unsight. The demons could still smell them, hear them, even glimpse the lanterns from the corner of their eyes, but they could not find the source. They prowled at the edge of Rojer’s magic, sniffing, searching, but unable to pinpoint their prey.

A flame demon spat in frustration, and Prince Mickael jumped, his deep voice raising to a shriek. The demon caught the sound, head swiveling their way. Wooden Soldiers moved in front of the prince, shields locked and spears ready, but they, too, were shaking in fear.