Sound The Last Horn

Felix Ulveus had grown up in two worlds. Neither of which suited him. His white skin burned too easily under the unrelenting sun of Navarre, and the light reflecting off every hard, flat surface of the stone citadel of Kaldiz hurt his palest of pale blue eyes.

On Greyshale, the grandson of Bjern Bearskinner had needed to prove himself again and again. Blacking the eyes and bloodying the noses of other boys. There, at least, his size had helped. It was easy for Felix to be stronger, faster, better at everything the raiders respected. But even in his grandfather's hall he'd been an object of fear and superstition.

Only among the wardens of the north did his albinism not single him out as being odd or peculiar. And it was during those too infrequent visits to The Greenwoode with his father that he'd felt his most at ease.

He could have been happy at Castellayne. King Robin had shared with him a secret glade. And the nymph Annaed had gifted him his first kiss.

Only with a leaf, she'd whispered to him, can I talk of the forest.

He had thrown all that away the afternoon he'd chanced to find Princess Marisanne alone in the stables. She was older by some six years, but he was already taller and stronger and, oblivious to her suffering, he'd slaked his urgent, adolescent lust between her trembling thighs. His hand clamped around her throat to choke off her screams.

He'd left without explanation. Fearing King Robin's wrath. Riding north towards Wyrm Crag, then west as far as Willow Rush on the Peat river, north again through the Mountains Of Ghorme, and across the wastelands into Darkelyn. At first he'd thought to wait until he could make his way east, to the coast, where there were Norren settlements in the hills around Byrne Slough. From there he could take ship back to Greyshale. His mother Freya was queen there. No one knew where his grandfather was. The Bearskinner hadn't returned from one last voyage to the New Worlde, and all believed him lost at his sea.

Would his mother grant him sanctuary at the risk of souring the friendship with Rhealmyrr and King Robin?

A man should make his own way, he'd decided. Fight his own battles.

In time, when he was ready, he would sweep through Navarre with fire and sword. And without its strongest ally...

Crush Rhealmyrr under his heel.

To the horned men of Darkelyn he was a god.

On the eve of the summer solstice they brought him a virgin girl.

He gave them her strangled corpse in return.

Among the savage horsemen of the plains tribes he was The Frost Giant.

Such was his strength he could squeeze a man's skull with the fingers of one hand until the ears bled and the bulging eyeballs burst out of their sockets.

In Petros he was an abomination who crucified.children.

He slaughtered and pillaged at will.

No cub now, Felix Ulveus was a snow bear full grown.

_

Duke Rhowyn of Navarre stood with his head bowed, crowned in rose coloured light where the morning sun was refracting through a stained glass window set high in the chapel's frescoed wall. Don Matteo had been laid to rest alongside Rhowyn's beloved Alejandro. Sebastian and Isolde lay, together for eternity, in the transept's matching twin opposite. Waiting near the altar was the newly appointed Marshall, Don Eduardo Des Montoya.

Don Eduardo was the brother of Rhowyn's wife, Lady Caitlyn Louisa. The bond of friendship had been slow to take root between the two men, but the years had seen it grow, season by season, until their respect for one another was buttressed by true affection.

Your Grace?

Rhowyn turned. Yes, I know. It's time. You have a long ride ahead of you.

The Petroans would be expecting Navarre's forces to join theirs five days hence, beyond the Fern river. From there the two armies would skirt the foothills of the Mountains Of Ghorme and advance together into the flat grasslands of the plains.

Without the support of Navarre horse the Petroan heavy infantry could be separated and surrounded by the plains tribes on their sturdy ponies and decimated by arrows, weakening the squared shield walls until they collapsed, and their long spears were next to useless.

I'm tempted to come with you, said Rhowyn. Felix has gone unpunished for too long. But you understand why I can't, don't you? Matteo's son played with mine own boys when they were children. That we might meet in battle would be...

Eduardo nodded to show that he understood.

Rhowyn's two sons were staying at Kaldiz for the same reason.

Does he know, do you think? Eduardo asked Rhowyn.

That my sister gave birth to his bastard child? I doubt it. Nor does he deserve to know. I'm just thankful the boy wasn't tainted with the albino's evil seed.

Felix Ulveus avoided the Al Den Gir warriors with their stench of sour mare's milk as much as was possible, preferring to pass his orders on through the horned men he'd chosen to lead the raiding parties that brought back slaves from settlements all along the border of Petros to be sold on the auction blocks of Qin Xa. A pretty boy could bring a small fortune in the east. The few who survived castration and the long sea voyage were prized by the Qin as exotic bed warmers. There was less demand for girls and women, so the Gir usually kept them as saddle wives and future breeders.

Human sacrifices were custom among the plains tribes. Young females in their moon blood would be buried up to their necks and left to die of thirst or exposure, thus ensuring the fertility of mares and women alike.

The boys of a rival tribe who were unlucky enough to be taken captive were pinned to tree trunks by arrows through their hands and feet, while still alive, so any pregnant women would give their husbands sons.

The Snow Bear didn't encourage it, but nor had he tried to put an end to it. He doubted he could. And besides, it served his purpose well enough. His enemies feared him. How was that not a good thing?

King Robin walked with the wizard Aldhyrwoode in the walled garden at Castellayne where the hundreds of white rose-bushes planted all around the pink granite memorial to Robin's mother were in full bloom. The wizard's hair and beard were silver, and he'd begun to lean more and more on his staff, but his back was still straight and a young man's eyes looked out from under caterpillar brows.

He liked to say he was still a spring lamb, though few lambs could number their years at three and fully five score.

At eight and three score, Robin had more grandchildren than grey hairs in his beard, and the face beneath it was as smooth and flush cheeked as his youngest grandson's. A youth of six and ten, Prince Aldhyn was so much like Robin in so many ways that people often remarked on it. Something the boy's mother, Princess Marisanne, was thankful for.

This trouble with Felix, Aldhyrwoode said to Robin. I think you should stay well clear of it. Rhowyn has the right idea.

Rhowyn has Eduardo to lead his army, said Robin. Who is there here but me?

Why not send Sir Wulfram?

Because the captain of the castle guard needs to be here, to guard the castle.

From what? An invasion of field mice? There hasn't been any unrest in the kingdom since the uprising of the clans. And Roger's son Sir Rufus holds the north. Even Felix's mother Queen Freya wants no part of it.

For all his faults, said Robin, Felix is still her son. She would save him if she could. I promised to return him to her, alive. The only way I can keep that promise is if I'm there.

And what if something happens to you? Asked Aldhyrwoode.

Then, said Robin, Marisanne will be queen until Aldhyn comes of age.

Not Rhowyn?

It was Rhowyn who suggested it. He says he can't be both a duke and a king. He's happy in Navarre. His son Rafael will follow after him. The Dons have agreed to it.

Felix is Matteo's son, said Aldhywoode. He has as much right to claim the thorned crown as Rafael.

True, said Robin. But who in their right mind would nominate him?

The wizard wasn't so sure. Stranger things had happened. It would be better, he thought to himself, if Felix Ulveus could somehow be removed as an option altogether.

That very same day a raven flew westward from the wizard's tower.

Felix Ulveus watched the Gir scouts ride into camp.

Well?

The most senior of his horned men bowed and said, Bronze heads. Too many to count. The scouts say there are steel heads with them. Many horses.

An alliance then, Felix said, talking to himself more than he was to the men around him. Between Petros and Navarre. They mean to crush me. But I'm no beetle to be so easily ground under foot. Tell the Gir to string their bows. We will ride to meet the steel heads. The Petroans are only foot soldiers. They might as well be tortoises.

The horned man frowned. We fight?

We sting them, said Felix. We kill a few and then we fly away. Like hornets. They'll try to catch us on their heavy horses. We sting them again. And then again. And all the time we'll be drawing the steel heads further away from the bronze heads.

The horned man nodded. It was how the plains tribes fought. Hit and run. Wear the enemy out. The Gir on their small ponies wouldn't stand a chance against the knights of Navarre in close combat. But an arrow from a Gir bow could pierce armour plate before the steel heads could even free their swords.

He turned to explain it to the others...

Big horse is slow horse.

From his place on the far right of the first rank, Xanis of Petros looked out on a wall of grass taller than he was. His men stood ready, their shields locked together and their iron blade tipped spears pointed toward the enemy. Or where they thought the enemy would come from, at least. It was impossible to see. Stretching away on his left were three other phalans, two hundred men wide and four deep. On his right were four more. There were as many spears as there were blades of grass.

Don Eduardo repeated his orders. There would be no reckless pursuit. No mad dashes forward. No matter how many times the enemy rode close enough to fire a volley of arrows and then gallop away. The lines of heavy cavalry would advance at a walk, not engaging, but pressing the Gir back. Turning them. Forcing them closer and closer to the ranks of Petroans and their forest of spears.

Only when the wild tribesmen were held firm against the anvil of Petros would Navarre's hammer fall.

The Snow Bear saw the trap closing. Calling back the few hundred Gir and less than a score of horned men who were left, he turned north and rode for the Darkelyn forest. Only to see the sunflower yellow pennants of Rhealmyrr cutting off his retreat.

Roaring defiance, he sawed at his horse's reins and turned to spur it in the only direction that was still clear. The shoreline and the endless blue sea.

That was when he saw the longship.

Its oars churning the water white.

Not slowing as it headed straight for the narrow strip of stony beach.

Keel scraping.

Helmed warriors leaping over the sides.

Waving their arms.

Calling his name.

Long, low, and windowless, the interior of the feasting hall on Greyshale was a puzzle of shadows on even the brightest of summer days. What it was. What it shouldn't have been. What it had never been, for as far back as Felix Ulveus could remember, was empty. No torches flickered. The fire in the large, round hearth in the centre of the hall was naught but ash and embers. The gloom was almost impenetrable.

Hello! He called. Mother?

A voice came out of the shadows. She's not here, boy.

Anger flared. Felix turned. I'm not your...

The back of a hand as large as an oar-blade slammed into the side of his face. It loosened teeth and almost dislocated his jaw. He laughed and shook it off. You'll have to do better than...

The huge, hulking shadow shambled closer.

Felix's palest of pale blue eyes widened. But you're...

Dead? Asked Bjern Bearskinner. You'll wish I was.