S. Stirling - Lord of Mountains

Beyond was a savannah with scattered lodgepole pine and rather shrubby Garry oaks, probably stinted communal common-pasture for whatever manor held this area. Then they were into the hills with the pines thick around them, steep trails-steep enough to make them dismount and lead the horses at times-and jays scolding, squirrels running up the tall trunks in gray chattering streaks, bright sunlight spearing down. The air smelled a bit damper here and full of the sweet scent of the wood. Once Dancer shied a little; a tree nearby bore long parallel gouges and there was scat on the ground by it.

“Cougar,” Huon said, pointing at the gray hairs caught in the bark, and Lioncel nodded.

“Not nearly big enough for tiger and that’s the wrong color,” he said.

“Lots of deer sign too, and elk, I think.”

“And sage hen and grouse. There’d be good hawking here, and some most excellent hunting. But no boar,” Lioncel added.

“We get lots of boar near Gervais,” Huon said animatedly. “In the marsh along the river, mostly. I’m looking forward to that when I’m older!”

“Me too. Ours are in the Coast Range forests, except that my lady d’Ath says they spend every night in our vineyards and gardens, eating.”

They shared a nod at that. Swine were smart; their wild cousins were wickedly intelligent, making nothing of fences in their raids on crops, and they hated men. Hunting them was part of a lord’s obligation to protect his lands and dependents, as well as fine risky sport and a useful source of meat and hides. Lioncel went on enthusiastically:

“My lord my father took one that weighed five hundred pounds last year! Lady d’Ath got one nearly as big that afternoon too, I was her spear-bearer. Dad let me have a tusk.”

He rummaged in his belt pouch and proudly brought out nearly six inches of polished ivory threat, like a curved dagger. Huon whistled appreciatively and handled it for a moment.

“I’m going to have it worked into a hilt for a hunting knife when I get the time,” Lioncel added.

“That will be cool.”

Neither of them had the years or heft for hunting boar yet; you took the beasts by getting in their way when they charged and letting them spit themselves on a broad-bladed spear. One with a crossguard forged into the base of the socket, so the prey couldn’t run up the shaft and rip you open with their tusks. Usually the nobles waited while dogs and beaters flushed them out of thickets, though some preferred a lone stalk. The boars came out on their own fairly frequently too, like huge black projectiles shot from a catapult and armored in bone and gristle. Some thought them nearly as dangerous game as tiger or bear, and every year a few reckless or unlucky men or ones stupid enough to go hunting drunk were killed.

That’s how a troubadour gets rid of an inconvenient character if it isn’t time for a battle or duel, Huon thought. ‘Ripped up by the boar.’

They swapped hunting stories for a while and discussed horses and hawks and hounds. Hoof-beats carried farther than quiet voices, so it didn’t make them any more conspicuous. Then they fell silent as Huon held up a hand, looking around; he could feel eyes on them. It was a relief when two crossbowmen stepped out from behind trees and demanded the password; he’d begun to think he must have missed the trail. The grim graying man-at-arms in command of the outpost took the sealed envelope with a salute and grunted:

“My thanks, young sir.”

Meaning, get lost, kid , Huon thought, returning the gesture and nodding gravely in reply.

He didn’t mind, since he was fully aware of how young he must look to the scarred veteran. Being a squire was supposed to teach noblemen humility, among other things.

“No return message,” the man added.

The next two were the same. The last had something different; only one soldier on guard, to start with. When they pushed their horses through a screen of brush into a sloping meadow of ten or fifteen acres Huon’s eyebrows went up as he saw why. His bow did for a second too; there were about twenty men there in the gear that Boise’s light cavalry wore. Just leather breeches and mail shirts, but unmistakable in detail, along with their helmets-sort of an understated sallet they called a Fritz, which together with the stars-and-stripes flag emblem were their inheritance from the ancient world.

But they were disarmed and dismounted, under the guard of the outpost’s complement and a couple of conroi of men-at-arms led by a knight Huon recognized. None of the enemy were wounded, so they hadn’t been captured in the course of ordinary fighting. That probably meant they’d come over of their own wills. Being a royal squire meant you heard things; among others, that a lot of people in the United States of Boise weren’t happy with their General-President Martin Thurston, especially now that the story of how he’d murdered his own father to take over the position had gotten around.

Especially now that his own wife and own mother and own sisters escaped with the aid of the Dúnedain and are telling the truth to everyone. Not to mention his brother Frederick is the High King’s friend and one of the Companions of the Quest, so there’s someone for soldiers to go over to. Boise will be part of the High Kingdom too, and under the High King’s peace!

“Sir Ogier!” Huon said, dismounting and saluting; high politics weren’t his affair yet, but that didn’t stop him thinking.

The young knight looked up; he’d been a royal squire too, until the High Queen gave him the accolade on the field of honor not long ago, and was still a fairly junior household commander of the High Queen’s menie . He was a little over two years older than Huon and around six feet, probably his full height though he was still lanky with late adolescence; his hair was a very dark brown-yellow, like barley, and there was a spray of acne across his cheeks and nose-something Huon had been spared so far. His smile was genuine and warm beneath the raised visor; they’d served together, after all. And though Ogier of House Renfrew was a son of the Count of Odell, one of the great Peers of the Association, he was the youngest son, with two elder brothers, not to mention three sisters who’d be needing dowries.

“Good to see you again, Huon,” he said, taking the dispatch, looking at the address and handing it over to the signal detachment commander. “And you too, Lioncel.”

“I noticed you’d been sent on a mission, Sir Ogier,” Huon said.

The knight nodded. “I was out meeting these fellows, they slipped a message across the lines that they wanted to switch sides, and Her Majesty thought a man of rank should meet them, being tactful and so forth.”

A snort. “And thirty lancers with me, to make sure they were honest about it.”

He turned his head to Lioncel: “Any news from your brother?”

“Not lately, Sir Ogier,” the blond youth said. Then he grinned: “But my lady my mother is delivered of a daughter, who’ll be christened Yolande. Your lady mother the Countess and the ladies your sisters were there at Montinore manor for the accouchement.”

“Excellent!” Ogier said; he seemed to be happy with the world today. To Huon: “Lioncel’s little brother Diomede is paging it with Countess Anne in Tillamook off on the Pacific shore.”

“Don’t let him hear you say little brother, Sir Ogier,” Lioncel said, grinning.

It was all part of the network of fosterage and service that tied the great houses together. There had also been persistent talk of a marriage between the Countess-regnant of Tillamook, or the County on the Edge of the World, as it was also known, and Count Conrad Renfrew’s youngest son. Marriage was another part of the network.