The Price Of Command

He looked back over his shoulder, to see that the handful of women who’d ridden out with the King’s party were still there, keeping up valiantly, and already outdistancing the likes of the Lord Baron.

Last year there hadn’t been any women with the King’s party, but since Kero’s arrival—and example—there were a respectable number of ladies exchanging their skirts for full-cut breeches, and riding neck-and-knee with the men. And some of those ladies were not young; Lady Sarnedelia, who had a formidable reputation as a rider on her own estate, had hailed Kero’s “innovation” with relief and enthusiasm. She was right up there beside the best of the riders, proving rumor to be truth—and she was fifty if she was a day.

I can’t help but wonder how many others would have joined us, but weren’t willing to risk losing suitors or enraging husbands. I know the Lord Baron’s daughter looked as if she’d rather have been with us. His granddaughter is, and I’ll bet that’s what kicked off that tirade about “disgrace.” Of course, she’s safely wedded to young Randel, and she can snap her fingers at what her grandfather thinks, since her loving spouse thinks that everything she does is wonderful. And if I could find a lady that suited me as well as she suits him, I’d probably think the same. Huh. Wonder whatever happened to that little prig Daren, who was horrified at the notion of “Lady Kerowyn” riding to hunt exactly like this? Maybe he grew up.

He leaned forward into his horse’s neck, ducking a low-hanging tree limb. He saw a fallen trunk just ahead of them, and braced himself for the jump.

The gelding took it, but stumbled; he recovered quickly, but not before he’d made Daren’s teeth rattle.

They broke through a screening of bushes into a clearing, and ahead of him Daren saw Kero’s big, ugly mare sail over another fallen tree-giant with a twinge of envy. The Shin’a’in-blood was taking rough ground with a contemptuous ease that left most of the other horses faltering or outright refusing. About the only ones that were keeping up with her were himself, the King, and the huntsmen.

And probably only because we have Shin’a‘in-breds, too. Though not like that. No wonder people would kill to get a warsteed.

This boar was leading the hounds a merry chase; he was obviously fast and canny. I hope he’s the one they wanted us to go after; he’s surely acting as if he was the bad one. The local farmers had reported some trouble with an unusually large and evil-tempered boar to the King’s huntsmen—a boar who had already killed one swineherd and wounded others, stealing their herds of pigs for his harem when they took the beasts into the forest after fallen acorns. That was why they’d hunted stag this morning; to give the horses a chance to run off any skittishness before going after such a dangerous beast as a boar.

That’s the one time I’ve seen Kero back down from something, he thought, as the trail wound deeper into the forest, and the horses were forced to slow their headlong gallop. When she said she’d stay a-horse, even Faram was surprised. But then she’s never fought on foot, and she didn’t even bring a proper boar-spear with her, just that saddle-quiver full of lances.

Curious weapons, those; Daren had never seen anything like them. She had told him that they were used by the Shin’a’in, and it was obvious that they were not intended for game—those were man-killing weapons, with narrow, razor-barbed metal heads as long as Daren’s hand.

Well, maybe if it runs, she can sting it with one of those and turn it for us.

The pack was belling ahead of them, and the huntsman sounding the “brought to cover” call on his horn. The horses emerged into a tiny clearing before a covert; that was obviously where the boar had holed up, and now they were going to have to flush him into the open.

While Kero stayed on horseback as she’d pledged, the rest dismounted and went ahead on foot. The pack was still ahead of them, and the huntsman sounded the “broken cover” call. Daren broke into a trot; he heard Kero’s horse behind him, eeling through dense brush that even he was having trouble with, afoot.

The sound of the pack changed, just as the huntsman sounded “brought to bay.”

Daren vaulted a tangle of roots, and burst out into a clearing. The boar was standing off the pack; he was an enormous brute, with a wide, scarred back. Not a wild boar at all, but a domestic beast gone feral.

That made him all the more dangerous. Daren pulled himself up before charging into the fray, and looked at his brother.

Faram read the plan in Daren’s look and nodded—they’d hunted boar together for years now, and needed only a glance to determine what the other intended. This time Daren would be the bait.

The huntsmen pulled the pack back at his command, and while Faram moved quietly around the edge of the clearing, Daren shouted at the boar, getting ready to drop to his knee or dodge aside at any moment. The success of this tactic lay in the fact that once a boar this big began a charge, it had trouble changing direction quickly, and its poor eyesight interfered with its ability to follow anything moving in a way it didn’t expect. You only had to avoid those slashing tusks—

Only. “Hey!” he yelled at it, stamping one foot. “Hey!”

It waved its head from side to side, nose up in the air, seeking a scent that the musk of the dogs covered— then saw him, and charged perfectly down the center of the clearing.