The Caineron and the Randir were at odds from the onset. Clearly, the Randir master-ten, Reef, thought that Gorbel was nothing but a buffoon and treated him as such, casually countermanding his orders and in general assuming a superior air that made the Caineron Lordan grind his teeth.
For her part, Jame was reasonably pleased with the Brandan master-ten, Berrimint, who showed all the solid dependability of her house if rather less imagination and incentive than Jame would have liked. Doni, the young Danior master-ten, tried very hard but deferred too much to his seniors. Still, he was good at converting Gen hazard cards into real situations of potential use in the war.
Only the Falconer’s class continued to meet across game lines, although their animal counterparts might yet be used against each other in play. That prospect pleased none of the Falconeers; while the rules sought to limit violence between cadets, companions were often seen as expendable.
“They don’t understand,” Mouse said, protectively cuddling a handful of fur and busy whiskers. “No one does but us.”
Twenty days before Mid-Winter, the Commandant wrote the Highlord a note that contained a surprising suggestion. Torisen read it with raised eyebrows, then put it aside for consideration.
Ten days before Mid-Winter, something began to prey on the cattle herds when they were left out at night. From the marks of gigantic tooth and claw left on the dismembered carcasses, it was clear that the enemy this time was not human. Guards were set. In the night, in a storm, several were killed. Others spoke of a huge blackness moving among the terrified beasts and of the flash of something white that had driven it away. In the morning, Jame found the horse-master stitching four gashes as wide as the span of both her spread hands on the rathorn’s shoulder.
“It looks worse than it is,” he assured her, fending off the colt’s snap at the needle’s bite. “He’ll be stiff for a while, though.”
Jame touched a raw seam. My baby’s first battle scars. “What do you think did this?”
“Some say dire wolves, others a catamount. Myself, I think it’s a Trinity-be-damned big cave bear, probably an old male strayed out of its territory with the onset of the mating season.”
“Gorbel thinks the same. He’s asked permission to hunt it, and the Commandant has agreed. It will be nice for him finally to have something he can lawfully kill.”
“Huh. If it doesn’t kill him first.”
The scene in the square later that morning strongly reminded Jame of the past summer’s muster to hunt the rathorn, which a wandering golden willow and other natural hazards had frustrated. Here again were horses and riders, the former this time with rawhide boots to prevent the ice from balling under their hooves, the latter in hunting leathers lined with fur. Gorbel was taking four Caineron ten-commands including his own, some to ride, others to run the hounds. A third group waited with bow and arrow to serve as beaters and backup. Three experienced sargents went one each with the three less proficient ten-commands. No one suggested that Gorbel take one, although Reef whispered something to her Five, who snickered.
Meanwhile, dogs of all sorts seethed in their individual packs: lymers to catch the scent, coupled direhounds to course the prey, Molocar (hopefully) to bring it down.
Gorbel had even had his pet pook sent from Restormir to attract its own share of fascinated attention. The shaggy little dog looked like a hassock, one end hardly distinguishable from the other. Moreover, the only way to determine how many feet it had was to flip it onto its back and rub its stomach, whereupon four paws flailed the air in delight and one end or the other of it made whuffling noises.
More stifled laughter rose among the Randir.
“What can it see through all that hair?” called Reef. “What can it smell but itself?”
Gorbel glowered. “Twizzle is a hill-pup. Whatever I ask him to find, eventually he will, however the land folds.”
Twizzle sneezed like an exploding mop. Gorbel rubbed his own nose. Watching, Jame thought, Hmmm.
At last the Caineron swung into the saddle, the hunting horn blew, and they rode out.
On the whole, Jame didn’t envy them. So far the day was bright and the sky cloudless, but the Falconer had warned them that this was only a lull between storms.
Three days passed.
No one was greatly surprised at this: a bear hunt is more like a running battle than the short, sharp pursuit of hare or hind. Because a bear usually hunts a long way from its lair, multiple parties set out to find its scent, each with at least one especially good lymer. When the scent is found, a horn summons the other parties to join the chase. Because of the bear’s stamina, relays of hounds are often used. If the beast is brought to bay at twilight, dogs surround it all night to keep it from slipping away. If slip it does, the chase continues the next day, and the next, and the next. Killing is done with bows, arrows, and spears—anything to keep out of the bear’s lethal reach.
In this case, all close signs had been obliterated by the storm the night before. Consequently, Gorbel sent his parties out in all four directions on the chance that one of the lymers would catch the scent before the pook discovered it by his own slower means.
On the third day they began to come back. Only the western group had found and killed a bear; however, the experts declared it too small to have inflicted such dire wounds on the slain cattle. Gorbel’s northern party straggled in by twos and threes, reporting multiple false trails and occasional sightings of paw prints bigger than any of them would have believed possible.
Last to arrive, with a storm building on his heels, was Kibbet, white with fatigue. He all but fell out of the saddle, but at the Commandant’s approach made an effort to pull himself together.
“Where is Gorbel?”
“Dead, Ran.”
Randon, sargents, and master-tens gathered in the officer’s mess where Kibbet sat at a table, picking at a bowl of stew.
“We went north,” he began, meeting no one’s eyes. “It was a fragmented trail when we finally found it. First Obidin, Amon, and Rori split off to follow one lead; then Higbert and Fash, another; finally Dure, Tigger, and Bark a third.”
“Why didn’t Bark stay with his master?” asked the Commandant as he circled the table, hands clasped behind him. He spoke gently, but with a steel click to his heels on the stone floor. They were, after all, speaking about his lord’s son.
“Bark wanted to, but Ten said that Dure and Tigger didn’t know what they were doing and needed their hands held. That left Ten, me, and the pook.”
In a sheltered place, they had found huge footprints, twice the length of a man’s and four times as wide. Gorbel had sounded his horn, but no one answered, only echoes off the steep mountain slopes of the ravine into which they had ridden. Kibbet wanted to go back to collect the others, but Gorbel was hot for the kill and the pook Twizzle was whuffling with excitement. Then the bear had come at them from around a boulder. It towered, roaring, over Gorbel’s horse, and with one great blow ripped off both the saddle’s cantle and most of the horse’s rump. The horse went down, squealing, and the bear fell on it.
“I think Ten got his spear butt braced on the ground and the bear fell on that too. I heard bones breaking, but I couldn’t see Ten at all under that mountain of black fur. It quivered, then it was still.”
Kibbet fingered his wrist and drew down the cuff, but not before Jame had seen a ring of bruises encircling it.
He had tried to free Gorbel, he said, but had only managed to drag out one hand. It had no pulse. Then, because there was no way that he could shift that vast weight by himself, he had come back for help.
“Did you mark the ravine entry?” asked the Commandant.
“Why, no, Ran, but I’ll recognize it when I see it again.”