The Sword

Part One

The dogs warned Tobeszijian that something was wrong.  It was only midday, but the sky hung low, as dark as weathered steel. Snowflakes like tiny chips of ice dropped steadily, turning the shoulders of his burgundy wool cloak white and gathering in its folds where it lay across the powerful rump of his stallion. The king was large, his human blood having given him the same vigorous frame as his father, with broad shoulders, long arms bulked with muscle, and a neck like a pillar. When geared for battle, encased in full plate armor and a crowned helmet fitted with the full spread of gold danselk antlers, he was massive, truly an awe-inspiring sight. But today the king was hunting, and he wore only chain mail and a breastplate embossed with the lightning bolts and hammer that symbolized the connection between Netheran kings and their gods.  A bow was strung across his strong chest; a quiver of arrows was tied to his back at his belt. His sword, Mirengard—spell-cast and eldin-forged, which no man’s hand save his own could touch—hung at his side, its two-handed grip twisted with gold-wire and studded with a great emerald set in a gold gryphon’s claw. His riding gauntlets, crafted of the finest, most supple leather upon his hands and flaring wide to his elbows, were embroidered with gold thread, again displaying his royal crest of lightning bolt and hammer. Hunting spears of pure white ash clattered in his saddle quiver, and his spurs jingled with the clear, ringing sound of pure silver.

The king’s dogs, tall slender beasts with white curly hair feathering thickly on their long legs, ran ahead. Cresting a rise, they lifted their slim muzzles and barked excitedly. The king and his lord protector rode right behind them. They parted to dodge a stand of snow-laden fir trees, and plunged down the slope toward a thicket of briars and choked undergrowth. Tobeszijian’s gaze swept the snow ahead of him, noting the scuffed tracks—not fresh—and the nibbled tips of branches. Deer had come this way, all right, but not as recently as Count Mradvior had led him to believe.

Clamped between his strong thighs, his black stallion stretched its muscular neck and fought the bit, trying to outrun the dogs, who were bounding gracefully over the snowdrifts, baying now with a sharp, shrill unfamiliar note.  Tobeszijian reined back, forcing the excited stallion to slow.  Half of the hunting party came into sight behind him, shouting encouragement to the dogs; the rest galloped in from his left.

Ahead of him, the dogs reached the thicket, snapping and growling, then one of them yelped sharply and sprang back. Blood stained her white coat.  “That’s no hind!” Kuliestka shouted.

Tobeszijian felt a surge of excitement. Since rising at dawn, he’d been eager to course the deer that Mradvior and Surov had claimed was out here. He’d dressed swiftly, eaten light, and kept his horse at a ground-eating canter right behind the dogs. “Nay,” he said. “I’ll wager my spurs it’s a stag that’s gouged the bitch like that.”

Another dog yelped and dodged, the snarling and snapping taking a vicious quality unusual when they cornered a deer. Tobeszijian frowned, but could see nothing in the thicket except a violent shaking of the branches and brambles.  “Thod take the creature!” Prince Kuliestka said. “Will it stand here or will it run?”

An arrow skimmed Tobeszijian’s left arm just above the elbow, ripping his cloak and sliding harmlessly off his chain mail. It nicked the shoulder of his horse, which reared, screaming.

Fighting to keep control of his animal and furious at whoever had shot so carelessly, Tobeszijian tried to look to see who was shooting, but his glance took in only a confused blur of snow and trees, rapid movement as the hunting party galloped closer, and a series of rapid jolts as his horse bucked. From the thicket, something suddenly exploded forth, racing away black and swift, with the dogs in rapid pursuit.

Tobeszijian spurred his stallion, who galloped after them. Blood was still streaming from the horse’s shoulder, splattering back across Tobeszijian’s gauntlets and thigh. He put his anger aside, knowing he would deal with the matter later, and bent low over the stallion’s whipping mane, urging him on faster.

In minutes, he grew certain they chased no stag. The creature was larger, fully as big as a danselk, but too swift. Now and then Tobeszijian caught glimpses of it, too fleeting to tell what it was, except that it was black, the color of no stag that he knew, nay, and no danselk either.

They were rapidly leaving the gentle rolling country behind for steeper hills and sharp little ravines where half-frozen streams plunged. The forest grew much denser here, in some places impassable. It was hopeless trying to keep the rest of the hunting party in sight. Tobeszijian focused on his quarry. He was curious about it now and fevered from the thrill of the chase it was giving him. By Thod, he thought joyously, this was good hunting.

He stayed low in the saddle, his stallion flashing through trees and under low-hanging branches far too fast and wildly for safety. The dogs streaked ahead of him, almost but not quite able to catch their quarry. He realized he had left Kuliestka behind, and wondered how that could be. His lord protector’s horse must have stumbled or blown its wind from the furious pace. The sounds of the others crashing and shouting behind him grew fainter, heading in a different direction. The other dogs must have scented another deer. Tobeszijian cared not.  His own dogs were running easily, their pink tongues lolling. His horse was strong and not yet tired. If necessary Tobeszijian could keep up this chase for another hour, surely long enough for the quarry to tire and begin to slow.  He lost sight of it and reined up sharply, listening to his breath panting in his throat. The dogs were running in silence now, and for an instant he heard nothing except the snorts of his horse as it champed the bit. His saddle creaked beneath him, and he stood up in the stirrups, shielding his eyes from the sting of snowflakes as he peered ahead.

He had stopped halfway down a steep hill. A ridge rose sharply before him, blanketed almost entirely with snow-dusted trees. If the dogs lost their quarry in this tight country, he would not find it again.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, the creature bounded into sight in a small clearing halfway up the rise before him. It paused there, holding its head high, puffing white from its nostrils. It was a stag, brown with a white throat and belly, antlers spreading a full twelve points.

The dogs came into sight at the bottom of the hill, yelping and casting for the creature’s trail along the bank of a narrow, ice-scrimmed stream. Calm, even noble, the stag gazed across the valley at Tobeszijian. He reached for his horn to call the dogs back onto the trail, but confusion suddenly swirled in his mind and he never blew it.

Was this another deer? He’d been chasing something black, not brown. He’d seen no flash of white from its flag and hindquarters. Had the dogs confused two trails?

From far away to his left came the low blat of the huntsman’s horn, startling Tobeszijian. He hadn’t realized he’d gone so far east. Or maybe he’d lost his direction entirely in this rough country. It was easy enough to do with the sun hidden behind such dark snow clouds.

The dogs suddenly found the trail and leaped the stream. They went streaking up the hill, glimpsed here and there through the dark green of the firs and spruces. The stag remained motionless, except for flicking one ear in the dogs’ direction. It seemed unworried by their approach.

Tobeszijian told himself to spur his horse forward and catch up. This was a fine stag indeed. What did it matter if the dogs had lost whatever he’d been after?  He felt a shiver brush the back of his shoulders beneath his clothing, like icy fingernails scraping there. An unexplainable but powerful reluctance to go farther seized him.

That hillside, he felt certain, held his death.

Tobeszijian had never been able to part the veils of seeing and gaze into the second world, or even the third, despite his being half eldin. It was said his father’s human blood ran too strong in his veins, blinding him from having the sight. He’d never cared much if he lacked the eldin gifts, until now when he found himself wishing violently for the ability to see what had become of his mysterious quarry.

A second shiver touched him, and he felt a dark, malevolent presence, unseen and unsensed even by his horse, which was tugging at the bridle and pawing with a forefoot.

Danger lurked behind Tobeszijian as well. Remembering the close call with that arrow, he leaned forward and touched the wound on his stallion’s neck. It had stopped bleeding. The cut was shallow and would cause no harm to the animal, but had the angle been different, had the arrow gone into his armpit instead of glancing off his elbow ...

A chill swept through Tobeszijian, and his nostrils flared in a mixture of anger and alarm. There had been too many near misses and almost accidents already during this hunting expedition, enough to make any sane man cautious.  But he could not sit here all day if he was to bring down this stag. His horse pawed again, rested now, and the stag’s ears pricked toward the dogs, which were nearly upon it. Again the stag glanced at Tobeszijian, as if to say, Why don’t you come? He let his horse trot forward down the rest of the slope, then canter across the stream, kicking up water and ice around him. He could still see the stag, standing motionless amidst the trees. Tobeszijian believed it was waiting for him, tempting him. By now, the dogs had reached it, and were yelping in excitement, but their barks suddenly changed to that shrill, frenzied noise they’d made earlier.

It was the sound of fear, Tobeszijian realized. He saw the stag whirl around. It charged forward with its antlers, then sprang aside and went bounding through a stand of thick pines. As it did, the air around it seemed to shimmer. The pines themselves rippled, and Tobeszijian glimpsed something black and sleek instead of the flash of white he should have seen off the animal’s hindquarters. A smell rolled down the hill to his nostrils, a thick decayed smell of carrion left to ripen. Shapeshifter.

Fear burst in his chest, and he reined so hard he made his horse rear up.  Tobeszijian’s head nearly cracked against an overhead tree limb, but he paid no attention. He was hauling back on the reins, yanking cruelly at his horse’s mouth before finally succeeding in pulling the animal around. Feeling breathless and choked, he spurred it hard, and the horse plunged back across the stream.  For an instant he could still hear the excited barking of his dogs, those brave handsome creatures coursing tirelessly after their prey. Regret flashed through him, and he reached for his horn to call them off.

But then his hand dropped from the horn hanging on the front of his saddle. The dogs had the creature’s scent well in their nostrils and they were close enough now to course it by sight. They would not turn back no matter how much he called.

Tobeszijian fled in the opposite direction with his heart pounding too fast and his breath tangled in his lungs. There was little enough in this world that he feared, but no one but a mad fool took on a shapeshifter alone in a deserted wood.

After a few minutes he realized he was bent low in the saddle, shaking all over, mindlessly urging his laboring horse yet faster. Coming to his senses, he reined up, making his horse stumble. He nearly pitched forward out of the saddle, and had to grab the pommel hard to hang on.

Together, horse and rider paused there in a small hollow next to a fallen log overgrown with ivy now burnished red and gold by the autumn frosts. Tobeszijian willed his pounding heart to slow down, willed his mind to start thinking.  He was drenched and shivering with clammy, miserable sweat beneath his clothing and mail. Wiping his face with an unsteady hand, he realized he was alone out here. The members of his hunting party were well to the west of his current position. He could hear them, but they were too far away. His lord protector was either among them, or separately searching for him, or dead of an arrow in his back.

Frowning, Tobeszijian pushed that last thought away. The afternoon was well advanced by now. The gloomy skies were much darker than before. Nightfall would come early tonight.

Nightfall with a shapeshifter in the forest.

A keeback burst from a nearby tree with a loud flurry of its wings, making him start violently, and flew away, calling kee-kee-kee.

Tobeszijian believed the shapeshifter had been leading him into a certain trap.  How far would he have chased it, galloping to his death like a mindless fool, before it turned and attacked him? Or led him to an ambush of soultakers?  He shivered again, drawing his cloak tighter around him.  His horse stood with its head low and sides heaving, blowing hard through its nostrils. Steam rose into the air off its shoulders.

The arrow, he understood now, had been intended to spring him into the chase.  Everyone knew how much Tobeszijian loved hunting, how obsessed he could become, especially when he escaped court and Grov and fled into the snowy wilderness up north to the World’s Rim. There, mountains stood as a barrier to the ice-coated Sea of Vvord, and bottomless fjords held water so clear and still it seemed to be made of glass.

Every autumn Tobeszijian allowed himself this one excursion for pleasure, taking himself far from the cares and intrigues of politics, the day-to-day management of his kingdom. Summers were for war against Gant and sometimes Klad. Winters were for remaining denned up by the fire, clothed in wool and heavy furs against the bitter cold, plotting strategies while the harsh weather raged outside.  Spring was for taking his lady wife out into the forests, officially to hunt with her dainty falcon, but in reality to let her visit her people in privacy away from the disapproving stares of his subjects and the churchmen. But autumn was for hunting; autumn he saved for himself.

Gladly he abandoned the mundane duties of his office for two months of glorious play, hunting and camping in the wilds with his most stalwart knights and whatever courtiers were in favor. It was a way of clearing his mind and restoring himself. He had gone forth every year since taking the throne, telling himself that his enemies could not wreak too much havoc in his absence.  His fear had left him now. Reaching out, Tobeszijian scooped a handful of snow off a pine branch and rubbed his face with it. The snow was dry and powdery, burning his skin with its cold. He ate some of it and tossed the rest away. He felt hollow and a little embarrassed by his extreme reaction. Still, he knew himself to be no coward. It was not foolish, but prudent indeed, to flee one of the Nonkind.

Frowning, he put the other incidents of this trip together, piecing them into place the way Princess Thiatereika might solve one of her puzzles.  The first incident had been with the white beyar.

He always started his hunting trips by traveling far to the north in search of the fabled white beyars of Omarya Fjord.

Sighting a white beyar was considered a very good omen. To capture one was rare indeed, and he had set his heart on someday having white beyar fur draped across his winter throne. Every year, he always came home without it.  But this time, he had actually sighted one—a huge male with intelligent black eyes. The animal’s throat was banded in dark gray, and he stood on an ice floe bobbing on the surface of the fjord, staring right back at Tobeszijian as though in recognition.

Holding his bow undrawn, Tobeszijian had found himself transfixed, unable to breathe. A voice tugged at his mind, and he could almost hear the words who/who/who/who.

“Look at him,” Prince Kuliestka said, breathing the words in Tobeszijian’s ear.

“Magnificent devil! He’s not afraid of us.”

“He’s waiting,” Tobeszijian said in sudden understanding. “Waiting for his rider.”

Kuliestka’s hand tightened on Tobeszijian’s shoulder. “Shoot him now. It’s a clear shot, perfect.”

But Tobeszijian did not move, did not draw. The beyar was still staring right at him, as though he knew everything they thought and said. A cold shiver ran down Tobeszijian’s spine. He glanced around, at the steep snowy slopes of the hillside that ran straight down into the water. Tall pines, spruce, and firs grew in heavy thickets, snow bending their branches almost to the ground. The eld rider could be anywhere, close by or a league away. Tobeszijian had not sensed his presence, but then he had been killing game all day. The smell of blood hung thick in his nostrils, and the proximity of his human companions was smothering his senses.

A short distance away, angled up the bank from Tobeszijian and kneeling behind a fallen log, Count Mradvior nocked his bow and aimed it right at the king, who was in the line of fire between him and the beyar. The count rose as though to shoot over the head of the king, and Tobeszijian sensed rather than saw him.  Anger flooded his mind. He stood up, turning in one fluid motion, and hurled his bow like a spinning scythe at Mradvior.

The heavy bow hit the count, knocking him over and spoiling his aim. His hastily released arrow flashed in a short, high arc, coming down harmlessly into the water.

“He is not your game!” Tobeszijian said angrily.

Mradvior stood up, floundering in the deep, powdery snow, and swore long and loud. His voice echoed up the hillside, bouncing between sky and water. Keebacks flew from the tree-tops, making their plaintive kee-kee-kee sound.  Mradvior glared at Tobeszijian. “I was trying to pin him for your majesty. I was trying to help your majesty get the perfect shot.”

Tobeszijian was not appeased. He needed no help in shooting his game, but that was hardly the point. Mradvior was always trying to step in where he was not needed, helping where no help was wanted, offering assistance that was in the way, hastening to perform tasks of service such as plucking a freshly filled wine cup from the serving boy’s hand and bringing it to Tobeszijian himself. New to court and far too ambitious, Mradvior seemed to think he had to work hard to win favor, when that was the surest way to lose it. Tobeszijian had regretted bringing him on this hunting trip from the first day. And now he was certain he had made a mistake.

“Surely our noble companions have informed you by now that I need no help in making my shots,” Tobeszijian said furiously. “I am not enfeebled. My eyesight is not gone.”

“No, your majesty,” Mradvior said, beginning to turn red as everyone stared at him. “Forgive me, your majesty. I was only trying to help.” “Couldn’t you see the beyar is an eld-mount?” Tobeszijian said in disgust.