* * * * *
King Harold pulled his horse to a sudden stop and silently counted to remain patient.
“Come now, Gareth! Show some mettle and control that horse beneath your saddle. You must be stern with such creatures. I had hoped you might have learned as much after spending so much time with old Ebon and the war dogs.”
Gareth tugged at his horse's reigns. Rather than right the horse in the direction he desired, the effort further agitated the neighing animal.
“Focus Gareth!” King Harold shouted. “Hold firm! How will you learn to command men if you cannot learn how to command a horse? You're a Stonebrook, and one way or another, you'll discover some of that stone coursing in your blood!”
Gareth sighed as his brother Markus, his senior by three years, trotted his horse next to him. Markus sat much higher in his saddle. His horse did not twist and turn against command. Gareth thought three years made a cruel difference between brothers.
“The horse Gareth rides has always been temperamental,” Markus defended Gareth's effort with a wink at his brother. Leaning in his saddle and gripping the reigns to his brother's horse, Markus helped Gareth rediscover the proper direction. “The horse is always nervous whenever we trot it out of its stable.”
King Harold focused his gray eyes upon Markus. “You'll not be able to help Gareth forever. The sooner you let him fall in the mud, the better it will be for the both of you. That's a fine horse for Gareth. Let him learn how to demand courage so that he might also demand such courage from himself.”
“I summon courage in the dogs!” Gareth shouted in defense.
Markus chuckled. “You've still not learned not to question your king.”
King Harold's eyes flashed before he craned back his neck and laughed. “Indeed, Gareth of the Bitches and the Bastards. Still, you cannot ride!”
The barking din that joined in the king's laughter did not help Gareth's efforts to guide his mount. Five of Harold's finest war dogs, including the mighty, dark Hrothgar, swirled around the horse's legs, as if trying to coax the creature forward with their yelps. Gareth never resented the company of such a fine pack. His father always claimed the finest dogs Ebon's efforts trained, and Gareth, who realized it must be difficult for Ebon to hand his dogs over to the King whenever he finished raising them, never failed to count any moment he was allowed to spend with war dogs as a blessing. Still, Gareth wished those dogs might give him a bit more space as he wrestled against his horse.
Harold turned his horse around and continued, reminding Markus and Gareth that he was also king and could not waste time waiting on sons. A king was too seldom afforded the simple pleasure of a morning ride. He wanted to hear the stomping of his war horse, to feel his plate armor rattling against his chest. He wanted to feel the wind stroke the graying hair of his beard. He wanted to feel speed soothing the wrinkles the stone crown etched into his forehead. A Stonebrook king did not always have to be a rigid stone, and Harold hoped that Gareth would soon learn to appreciate the sensation of movement, before that son became too rooted to the Stonebrook homeland. A homeland contained only so much room for brothers.
Harold would not deny that Gareth was observant. He would be careful to encourage a trait so valuable among kings and lords. Harold noticed that all their horses were not at ease that morning. Something in the air made them nervous. Harold wondered what they smelled in the smoke drifting from the last pyres of cut trees the huntsmen had gathered for flame. Regardless, such uncertain creatures needed strong hands gripping the reigns, hard kicks to preserve focus. Markus and Gareth were of an age when they needed to learn such things.
Gareth frowned as his father rode ahead. It was not his idea to spend his morning in the saddle.
“I'll never understand his obsession with horses,” Gareth grumbled to Markus.
“Nor do I understand your fascination with dogs,” Markus replied. “I suspect one would search a long time before finding reasons for a man's obsession.”
“You sound like an old teacher.”
Markus released the reigns to his younger brother's horse, and instantly the animal twisted. “I can't help but notice your dogs don't seem themselves this morning either. They usually don't bark so much when they get the chance to run with the horses.”
“It's the smoke,” Gareth answered. “It's that infernal smoke, thick and black, that makes the dogs, and the horses, so nervous.”
Markus frowned. “You spend too much time with Ebon. Now you sound like a superstitious fool. It's only smoke.”
“It's sacrilege,” Gareth snarled.
Markus retook his brother's reigns, pulling both their horses to an abrupt stop.
“You will not speak such a thing around father if you value your tongue,” Markus hissed.
Gareth's gray eyes betrayed a little of the Stonebrook temper.
“It's the stench of that smoke that frightens the animals.”
“Get used to it, Gareth. It is the stench of your king's empire. Don't forget it's an empire built for you as much as it is for me.”
Gareth's eyes burned. “The horses and dogs understand he will have to pay for all he has burned.”
Markus's eyes narrowed. “I pray to the Maker father never hears that. I am only a brother, and so I can forgive you for the treason that seeps between your teeth. But son of his seed or not, father will have you swaying from the throne chamber's high rafter if he hears you say such a thing. He has hung huntsmen for whispering less.”
Markus released the reigns and slapped Gareth's mount. The horse bolted ahead, jostling Gareth in the saddle, whose knuckles whitened as his hands clutched at the pommel. Concerned for their favorite Stonebrook son, the pack chased after the horse, barking while Gareth bounced upon the mount's back. The yelping did nothing to calm the horse, who bucked to empty the saddle.
Be it courageous or cowardly, Gareth released his hold and granted the horse its desire. He wanted nothing more to do with the animal. In the instant before the ground rose up to strike him, Gareth reminded himself that it would better for his body to go limp. In that instant, he prayed the Maker would not punish him too harshly for thinking the sky a safe alternative to a saddle.
The ground proved the Maker unmerciful.
Breath fled Gareth's lungs as he struck the earth. A sharp, searing pain ran the length of his right arm. The dogs surrounded him before he opened his eyes. They sniffed at his hair and licked at his face. They whimpered and nudged against his hurting side. Gareth struggled to calm his heartbeat while engulfed in a sea of fur.
“How bad?” Markus asked from his saddle.
Gareth winced. “I think I broke my right arm.”
“You'll be in pain throughout the rest of the season's sword training,” Markus sighed, “but maybe a broken arm will be enough to convince father to forgive you for falling of the saddle.”
The winds shifted, bringing the smell of burning wood to the brothers and the pack. The dogs went rigid. Their eyes peered at the rising, black smoke. Their nostrils flared. Hrothgar barked, and the pack bolted in the direction of Harold's trail.
“Do they smell game?” Markus asked.
Gareth winced as he stood. “They would've waited for us if they smelled game. The pack bolted. They smell danger.”
A blare shook the air and rattled through the brothers.
“That's a huntsman's horn,” Markus gasped. “A huntsman does not blare his horn without good reason.”
“Help me into your saddle,” Gareth lifted his good arm.
Markus shook his head. “No time to trot with an injured brother in the saddle with me. Father will have the danger under control before I get a glimpse at whatever moved a huntsman to sound his horn. I'll ride back with your dogs to tell you about it.”
Gareth growled as he watched Markus gallop away in direction of the rising smoke. Something sinister rose in that smoke. Markus warned him that he spoke treason, but Gareth thought treason and truth might be the same word in the
language of kings. Every step pained his right side, but Gareth gritted his teeth and trotted towards that rising smoke. For not the first time that day, he prayed to the Maker.