Days of Air and Darkness - Katharine Kerr [82]
“I would be known as Menw, because in the other world where we do walk at times, there was a great warrior of that name who befriended me.”
“Done, then,” Evandar said. “Menw you shall be. In honor of the setting of your name, you shall ride beside me as we seek out the howling harridan, that scraggly shrew who nags two worlds, my wife, Alshandra.”
All round him his men leapt up, laughing and jeering. Suddenly a host sprang into existence, called by that laughter, of swordsmen and archers, dressed in silver mail and carrying weapons, or the images of weapons, made of silver as well. When Evandar raised his hand, a silver horn appeared, dangling from his fingers by a leather strap. He raised it and blew, summoning horses.
“The hunt is up!” he called out. “Havoc! I cry havoc!”
The cheer roared in answer like the beating of a winter sea. The Bright Host mounted and rode out in the musical chime of silver armor, silver gear, bridles ringing, and swords flashing in a light turned suddenly pale, a greenish light that thickened to mist at the far edge of the view. At a fast trot, they plunged into a forest. Even though the ancient trees stood gnarled and grasping, and the bracken grew thick among thorn and vine, the horses never stumbled nor slowed, and not a single twig tangled itself in horse gear or the riders’ clothes. On and on they rode in the eerie corrupted light, past huge stones set among the trees, and ruins that hinted of dead fortresses and dead kings.
As they traveled, other warriors joined them, slipping out of hollows and thickets or riding up boldly on hidden roads. These wore black armor, but of some enameled stuff, never iron. A mix of beast and man they were, some furred and snouted like Westlands bears, others sporting glittery little eyes and warty flesh like a Bardek crocodile. Some seemed almost human until they raised a paw, not a hand, in salute; others were like great wolves, running along the ground behind the horses. A fair number seemed stitched together from three or four creatures— the head of a boar with human hands and a dog’s tail, perhaps, or dwarven torsos on animal legs, human heads, cat heads, dog faces, braided manes like the Horsekin, dwarven hands, elven hands, ears like mules, hair striped like a tiger, but whatever their appearance, all were armed and ready for war.
At the last, carrying a herald’s staff wound round with ribands, rode an old man, a hunchback, his face all swollen and pouched, his skin hanging in great folds of warty flesh round his neck. He urged his palfrey up to keep pace with Evandar’s golden stallion.
“My lord!” His voice rasped like sand under a boot. “The men of the Dark Host have remembered their vow. We come to serve you.”
“Well and good,” Evandar answered. “And I shall make you a promise. In return and once the war is over, you shall have new bodies to wear, all harmonious and of a piece.”
They cheered him in a screech of voices and cries.
“My lord?” the herald continued. “Your brother will meet you at the beacon that marks what used to be the boundary between your lands and his.”
“Used to be?”
“Well, my lord, now they all belong to you.”
Evandar smiled, pleased that they remembered this as well.
The beacon stood in a clearing, a tall and ancient tree half of which grew like spring in green leaf, while half burned, clothed in fire along every branch and twig—yet never was it consumed. Underneath the green boughs sat a warrior on a black horse. Though he was wearing black enameled armor, his helm hung from a strap at his saddle-peak, and his