Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [8]
“These are beautiful dogs,” declared the awed Calishite. “They are yours, are they not?”
Tristan felt a flush of pride. His hounds were the passion of his life, and he was always pleased to have them complimented.
“Indeed,” he said. “Are you familiar with the hounds of the Moonshaes?”
“Any man who enjoys dogs has heard of the moorhound. I have trained many types of dogs in my life. For many years, in Calimshan, I worked with desert racers. I had thought no dog could compare to the racer as a hunter, but these hounds are superior in size and power! Oh, for a chance to train such as these!”
Robyn looked warmly at Daryth, then turned to Tristan, a mute appeal shining from her dark eyes. Again the prince felt that surge of jealousy.
The doors to the great hall swung open, and a maid emerged to escort them in, for Caer Corwell had no heralds. “The king awaits you,” she announced with a polite nod.
The trio entered the shadowy hall. They walked between a pair of huge oaken tables toward the great fireplace at the far end of the hall. Before that fireplace, in a heavy wooden chair, sat King Kendrick of Corwell.
The king looked up at their approach, but said nothing. Tristan could not help but feel an irrational flicker of guilt at the sight of the deep lines of sorrow etched into his father’s face. He steeled himself for the encounter.
King Bryon Kendrick’s hair was black grown heavily streaked with gray. Among the lines on his face, one could see strength and determination, as well as pain and grief. The king’s beard, like his hair a mass of black salted with patches of gray and white, flowed down his chest.
As usual, King Kendrick looked bored at the prince’s approach. It was no secret to anyone that the prince of Corwell was something of a disappointment to the king. Tristan hoped the king would not harangue him with sarcasm in front of Robyn and the others.
To Tristans relief, the king turned to smile at Robyn, and his eyes, briefly, flashed a spark of warmth. Then, cold again, they regarded the approaching Calishite.
Next to the king sat Arlen, captain of the king’s guard and Tristan’s lifelong teacher. The grizzled warhorse looked at Tristan speculatively as he and his companions reached the seated men.
“Hello, Father, Arlen,” began Tristan, while Robyn curtseyed quickly.
The prince looked again at Daryth, and the Calishite responded to the glance with a fast smile. And with that smile, Tristan felt the beginning of a deep and true friendship, something stalwart and fine that would last between the two of them for the rest of their lives. His mind made up, he quickly settled upon a strategy to save the Calishite’s life.
“Father,” Tristan said again, turning to the king, “I would like us to hire this man as the royal houndmaster.”
*****
Grunnarch the Red stood boldly upon the rolling deck of his longship as the sleek vessel pitched and rocked through looming swells. All around him, like a forest of tall trees, the masts of longships jutted proudly from the Sea of Moonshae. The northmen sailed to war!
Grunnarch, and dozens of the ships of his henchmen – the lesser lords of Norland who owed fealty to him, their king – had taken to sea a week earlier than caution dictated. A late winter storm could have caught his fleet unawares, and wreaked fearful havoc.
But the King of Norland was a gambling man, and a fearless one. He had never shirked from risking his own life, and would not tolerate a follower unwilling to do the same. So his men, by the thousand, had followed him to sea.
The gods of war had thundered in Grunnarch’s mind throughout the winter, and he had paced his gray fortress like a raging Firbolg. The tension, he knew, had been felt throughout Norland. Thus, even before the weather had broken completely, the northmen had provisioned their longships, bade farewell to their homes, and taken to sea.
The long summer before him beckoned like a seductive woman, and Grunnarch’s mind roamed happily over prospects of raiding and stealing,