again with his own pride as they dropped to the right and
left. His arms felt, not the endless weariness of the accursed
dead, but the growing soreness and strain of a living
warrior. His eyes flicked back and forth alertly, noting even
how a sweet night wind ruffled the grass into which allies
and enemies were falling.
Ahead of him a draconian crouched over the prone stag,
bringing a sword down with all the force he could above the
near-motionless neck. The stag had not even looked up, dust
and chaff barely moving in its nostrils.
The king dove forward, sword aimed at the draconian’s
heart. He made no attempt to parry the descending sword as
it passed through his ornamental armor and into him.
His own blow took effect a moment later; the
draconian doubled over, gasping, and froze that way, a
corpse carved from a boulder. The king, carried by his own
momentum, rolled against the stone body and winced with
the pain. “I’ll have a bruise tomorrow,” he thought vaguely,
unsure after all these years what a bruise felt or looked like.
He lay still and listened, hearing nothing but the stag’s
labored breathing. He struggled to his feet, barely able to
hold his sword but aware of triumph and of great pain.
The stag opened his eyes. “Peris. The draconians?”
“Dead.” Never, in Darken Wood, had the word been said
with such satisfaction.
“An unusual way to end a hunt, with dead hunters.” “You
have said so before.” The king knelt, taking the stag’s head
on his lap. The stag’s chest wound, pulled free of the
ground, re-opened, but the king paid no attention. “You
have often said that at a hunt’s end the hunter should be
alive, the quarry dead.”
“I have often been insulting.” His eyes blurred; with
great effort he shook his head and cleared them angrily.
“What will happen now?”
“If I know soldiers, the commanders who ordered the
search of Darken Wood will decide to delay another search
until they feel they can risk further loss. They will also hope
that their quarry, the questing party of the other night,
appears elsewhere, as someone else’s responsibility.” He
shuddered. “At any rate, we will have saved this part of the
world for a while – if, as they say, I know soldiers.”
“You know soldiers well. You lead them still better.”
“Thank you.” The king sat down heavily by the
bleeding stag. “A satisfying night, but not an easy one. I
have been wounded.”
“Recently?” The stag grunted as its forehead horn,
cracked by the sword-blow, split all the way to the skull.
“Tonight, in fact.”
“At any other time, I enjoy a joke – ”
“Seriously.” Red leaked through the holes in the king’s
armor, as though the rubies were melting. “I had forgotten
how painful this was.”
“You could have asked me.” The stag raised its pain-
wracked head. Now the split horn sagged apart, its cleft
gaping, and exposed bone at its root.
“I could have,” the king agreed. “It seemed rude.” He
spoke with difficulty. “It seems I have fulfilled a pledge and
will die in service.”
The stag said, “I also.” He added, “Could you help me
over to the last standing draconian? I would not mind dying
with such memorial.”
The king, gasping, carried the shuddering body of the
stag to the foot of the standing draconian. “He has – ” He
coughed.
“Can you speak no more clearly than that? I seem not
to hear well just now.” The rumble of the moving horns
covered all sound.
The king braced himself and said distinctly, “This one
has a hoof-print on his chest. Yours?”
“I would nod, but I have a headache.” Blood ran from
his split forehead. As though watered, the twin horn-shards
sprouted buds of antlers.
“Then he will wear my marks as well.” Holding the
stag with one arm, the king removed his own crown and
placed it on the stone figure before sliding wetly down its
side to the grass.
The stag rasped, “Either I am overly sensitive by
nature, or this seems harder than usual.” Blood was flowing
darkly around the dust in his chest wound. “Could you not