The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [42]
At last Grace realized they would have to turn back. She was shivering so violently she could hardly walk in a straight line, and, while Durge was making a valiant effort, he could not keep his teeth from chattering. They had not seen so much as a squirrel, let alone a dwarf or greenman. If the Little People truly dwelled here, then they did not wish to be found. Grace started to tell Durge it was no use, that they had to turn back.
A high, trilling note rang out on the air. The sound echoed away among the trees.
“What was that?” Grace whispered. It had not been the music of bells.
“That was the call of a trumpet,” Durge said.
The sound came again, and it was closer this time—a note so high and pure and wild it caused Grace's heart to beat in a swift, unfamiliar cadence.
“It sounds to me like a hunting call,” Durge said, gazing around. The path had widened into a small clearing.
Grace hugged her arms around herself. “The king's huntsman wouldn't come so far into the forest, would he?”
“He might, if he were on the trail of a fat roe,” Durge said, though he sounded doubtful.
Grace hoped it was indeed the king's huntsman, and that he had blankets with him, and a flask of spiced wine.
The trumpet sounded again, so close the sound set Grace's ears ringing. At the same moment, a bank of evergreen bushes on one side of the clearing shuddered and burst apart, and something large and sleek and white bounded through. It paused, standing no more than five paces away, and Grace found herself gazing into dark, liquid eyes.
It was a stag. The beast was tall and muscled, its coat a silvery white that blended with the trees. It held its neck arched and proud, and its head was crowned by an enormous pair of antlers whose points were too numerous for Grace to count quickly. The stag let out a snort, then sprang away to their left, vanishing among the trees.
“May steel break and stone splinter,” Durge swore. “I've never seen so magnificent a beast.” He reached over his shoulder to grip the hilt of the greatsword strapped to his back and took a step forward.
Grace grabbed his arm. “No, Durge. Don't go after it.”
He frowned at her. “Why not, my lady? It would make a fine prize to offer the king.”
She struggled for words. She didn't know why it was wrong to hunt this animal—only that it was too proud, too fabulous to be pursued by mortals such as they. However, before she could speak, another trumpet call rang out, followed by the pounding of hooves. Grace and Durge turned to see a horse leap over the bushes from which the stag had burst moments ago.
The horse was every bit as beautiful as the stag, though in an entirely different way. It was short of stature—no larger than a pony—its legs delicate, its coat pure jet. A silver star marked its forehead.
Riding the horse, without benefit of either saddle or bridle, was a boy. He appeared to be ten or eleven years old, and he was lean and lanky, with a shock of red hair that stuck up from his head. A bow was slung on his back, along with a quiver of arrows fletched with green feathers. Despite the cold, he wore only a pair of leather breeches, leaving his chest and feet bare. His skin was brown as maddok.
In the boy's hand was a small silver trumpet. He blew it again, then called out in a piping voice, “This way! The king has come this way!” He touched his horse's neck, and the beast spun around, ready to lunge into a gallop.
Grace and Durge stood in its path. Before they could leap out of the way, the horse skittered to a halt. Its rider glared down with malachite eyes, and only then did Grace see the stubby horns that protruded from his brow. This was no boy.
“What is this?” the rider said,