Lord of Mountains: A Novel of the Change by S. M. Stirling Read Free Book Online Page A

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 ofthe 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. Somethought 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