The riders drew abreast of
the bushes and continued southward, spraying clumps of mud against
the blackthorns as they passed. Then suddenly there was a change in
the rhythm of hoof falls, a subtle slowing, a pause as one man
swiveled in his saddle and looked back. The sludge in Vaylo's boots
curdled. Sweet Gods, the cloak! It lay there, muddy and nondescript,
soaked in the rainy colors of the night, indistinguishable from its
surrounding in every regard. Except shape.
Vaylo imagined the rider's gaze sliding across the
blackthorns. He heard the jingle of bit irons as horses' heads were
pulled about. No words were spoken, but Vaylo imagined an exchange of
wary nods. Hammie Faa looked to his chief.
The Dog Lord spun the moment, imagining all
possible outcomes. Judging from the noise made by the horses'
trappings, the riders were well-equipped. Harnesses tooled to support
the hardware of war had a certain sound to them. The unusual quantity
of buckles and rings created a percussion of sharp snaps. For a
certainty they were Dhoonesmen—they were traveling south from
the Dhoonehouse in haste—but Vaylo doubted they'd been sent to
track him. In his experience man hunters traveled light. Whatever
their purpose they were dangerous. A small group of men did not stop
to investigate a tiny discrepancy in the dark of night unless they
were confident they could deal with surprises. Vaylo glanced at his
grandchildren and then wetted his mouth. Pushing dank air from his
lungs he whistled for his dogs. A single note, diamond-sharp, ripped
through the noise of the storm. All was given away in that moment,
and while five dogs responded with a chorus of unearthly howls,
horses were spun about and kicked into motion.
Vaylo nodded at Hammie. To Nan he mouthed the
words, Stay here and do not move. For the children themselves he had
no words. Nan knew what to do.
As the dogs homed, Vaylo moved free of the brush
and caught his first sight of the riders. Three horses, three men.
Dhoonesmen, lightly armored for travel but armed with full battle
complements. They were clad in blue wool cloaks fastened with thistle
brooches and shod in stiff boar's-leather boots. Two held nine-foot
spears, and all had the sense to don battle helms before approaching.
Vaylo felt the old mix of excitement and fear as
he prepared to face them. Here I am again, outmanned and outhorsed.
The Underdog Lord, they should have named me.
Hammie Faa picked his position—three feet
back from his chief. Even now he could not give up the habit of
respect. Vaylo reckoned he was all of twenty-three.
"Who stands there?" came a hard,
commanding voice as the riders approached. Hearing the accent, Vaylo
revised his opinion. At least one of these men was Castlemilk dressed
as Dhoone.
The dogs were rapidly closing distance, and Vaylo
waited . . . waited . . . before speaking. When the first of the
dogs—the big black-and-orange bitch—came within striking
distance, stilled her with a raised fist. Immediately the bitch sank
to her haunches, her amber eyes glowing, a growl smoldering deep
within her throat. Within moments the other dogs arrived,
instinctively forming a circle around Vaylo's party and the
Dhoonesmen. One by one, they followed the bitch's lead and bellied
the ground.
The two riders bearing spears reined their horses
within striking distance of Vaylo, whilst the third, the smallest in
stature, hung back. Their thornhelms cast black shadow across their
faces and Vaylo could not see their eyes. Both spearmen's horses were
well-made and would outpace the dogs over distance, but the smell of
the wolf dog made them nervous. Both animals were flicking their
tails and tracking the wolf dog's position with their ears. The third
rider's horse was past its prime, a dun mare long in the tooth and
short-hoofed but wasn't nervous like the others. It stood its ground
well, its ears forward interested and alert, calm under its master's
hand. Vaylo immediately
the bushes and continued southward, spraying clumps of mud against
the blackthorns as they passed. Then suddenly there was a change in
the rhythm of hoof falls, a subtle slowing, a pause as one man
swiveled in his saddle and looked back. The sludge in Vaylo's boots
curdled. Sweet Gods, the cloak! It lay there, muddy and nondescript,
soaked in the rainy colors of the night, indistinguishable from its
surrounding in every regard. Except shape.
Vaylo imagined the rider's gaze sliding across the
blackthorns. He heard the jingle of bit irons as horses' heads were
pulled about. No words were spoken, but Vaylo imagined an exchange of
wary nods. Hammie Faa looked to his chief.
The Dog Lord spun the moment, imagining all
possible outcomes. Judging from the noise made by the horses'
trappings, the riders were well-equipped. Harnesses tooled to support
the hardware of war had a certain sound to them. The unusual quantity
of buckles and rings created a percussion of sharp snaps. For a
certainty they were Dhoonesmen—they were traveling south from
the Dhoonehouse in haste—but Vaylo doubted they'd been sent to
track him. In his experience man hunters traveled light. Whatever
their purpose they were dangerous. A small group of men did not stop
to investigate a tiny discrepancy in the dark of night unless they
were confident they could deal with surprises. Vaylo glanced at his
grandchildren and then wetted his mouth. Pushing dank air from his
lungs he whistled for his dogs. A single note, diamond-sharp, ripped
through the noise of the storm. All was given away in that moment,
and while five dogs responded with a chorus of unearthly howls,
horses were spun about and kicked into motion.
Vaylo nodded at Hammie. To Nan he mouthed the
words, Stay here and do not move. For the children themselves he had
no words. Nan knew what to do.
As the dogs homed, Vaylo moved free of the brush
and caught his first sight of the riders. Three horses, three men.
Dhoonesmen, lightly armored for travel but armed with full battle
complements. They were clad in blue wool cloaks fastened with thistle
brooches and shod in stiff boar's-leather boots. Two held nine-foot
spears, and all had the sense to don battle helms before approaching.
Vaylo felt the old mix of excitement and fear as
he prepared to face them. Here I am again, outmanned and outhorsed.
The Underdog Lord, they should have named me.
Hammie Faa picked his position—three feet
back from his chief. Even now he could not give up the habit of
respect. Vaylo reckoned he was all of twenty-three.
"Who stands there?" came a hard,
commanding voice as the riders approached. Hearing the accent, Vaylo
revised his opinion. At least one of these men was Castlemilk dressed
as Dhoone.
The dogs were rapidly closing distance, and Vaylo
waited . . . waited . . . before speaking. When the first of the
dogs—the big black-and-orange bitch—came within striking
distance, stilled her with a raised fist. Immediately the bitch sank
to her haunches, her amber eyes glowing, a growl smoldering deep
within her throat. Within moments the other dogs arrived,
instinctively forming a circle around Vaylo's party and the
Dhoonesmen. One by one, they followed the bitch's lead and bellied
the ground.
The two riders bearing spears reined their horses
within striking distance of Vaylo, whilst the third, the smallest in
stature, hung back. Their thornhelms cast black shadow across their
faces and Vaylo could not see their eyes. Both spearmen's horses were
well-made and would outpace the dogs over distance, but the smell of
the wolf dog made them nervous. Both animals were flicking their
tails and tracking the wolf dog's position with their ears. The third
rider's horse was past its prime, a dun mare long in the tooth and
short-hoofed but wasn't nervous like the others. It stood its ground
well, its ears forward interested and alert, calm under its master's
hand. Vaylo immediately
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