“Up!” There was a tone to the count’s voice that suggested he did not tolerate disobedience from his vassals. Sorrow heaved himself up and with a cursory tug at the chain tried to reach his master, then gave up.
“Get up!” said the count.
Alain suddenly realized that Count Lavastine was addressing him. He scrambled to his feet and barely had time to jump out of the way as the driver tugged the oxen forward and the wagon jolted on across the yard.
Alain found himself staring straight at Count Lavastine. The count was a slight man, not as tall as Alain. But he was no one to be trifled with. He examined Alain for a moment and then his gaze flicked away, seeking more important sights. The two mauled soldiers were carried away. Lord Geoffrey and the two clerics approached, pausing at a respectable distance. The hound, ears brushing Lavastine’s fingertips, growled at them, but it seemed to Alain the growl now sounded more dutiful than heartfelt.
“Take Rage to the kennels as well,” said the count, grasping the hound’s broken chain and handing it without further ado to Alain. The broken links felt cold, their iron seaming rough, in Alain’s hands. Lavastine turned away and walked over to Lord Geoffrey, and then, as if nothing untoward had happened, he returned to his chatelaine and they vanished into the hall.
Alain stared down at Rage. Rage snuffled at Alain’s feet, then at his knees. Then the hound took Alain’s hand between her teeth and held it there, and whined.
By this time, those few people who had not fled from the yard stared at him, safe in doorways or behind fencing, or protected by weapons, even if only a pitchfork. Rage wagged her whipcord tail, thumping it hard against Alain’s thigh. Gingerly, Alain pulled his hand out of the hound’s mouth. Red marks showed where Rage’s teeth had pressed into but not broken the skin. Alain grasped the chain a little more tightly and took in a deep breath.
“Come, girl,” he said and began to walk even as he braced for the hound’s resistance. But Rage padded alongside obediently enough, pausing only to snarl and bare her teeth at anyone who moved toward them. On the steps, Frater Agius stared somberly at them, hand poised to draw a Circle at his breast. Alain shuddered. It was like that first moment in the old ruins, on Midsummer’s Eve, when he had realized he had somehow stepped outside the world as he knew it. It was bad enough to have everyone staring at him, to know that everyone would be talking of this incident for days, but to have Agius mark him …
Alain had never cared for the militant gleam in Frater Agius’ eyes, one so at odds with the peaceful serenity that had invested Brother Gilles’ expression and, indeed, his entire being.
He passed around the corner of the hall, leading the hound past a knot of soldiers, who stepped away from him although they were not particularly close by. They drew the Circle at their breasts as though to avert evil. He heard them muttering.
“It’s uncanny, it is.”
“Not even Master Rodlin can handle them hounds. None but his lordship can, or his heir, if he had one.”
“I thought he’d kill them all after what they did to his child—”
“Hush. Don’t go speaking of that.”
“It’s unholy. Devil’s blood, it is. My papa told me that those hounds will only tolerate the count or his heir, or those in whom they can smell devil’s blood. Them hounds were bred by elvish kind.”
Alain fixed his gaze on the ground and pretended not to hear. A furious chorus of barking splintered his thoughts. He passed through a palisade and came to the low stockade that enclosed the kennels.
Dirt swirled under the feet of the hounds chained to the wagon. They yanked at their chains and nipped at Master Rodlin and his two assistants, who wore padding bound around their arms and legs. The Eika prince, blood still weeping from his torn thigh, watched the spectacle with cool scorn.
“Go,” said Alain in what he hoped was an authoritative voice, shoving the hound toward the gate that led into the enclosure. But the wagon had not yet gone in, though the oxen had been unharnessed and led away, and Rage dragged against Alain, pulling the wrong way, eager to fling herself into the fray. The knot of soldiers had drifted after Alain. Evidently they were the Eika prince’s ostensible guards, although they were clearly more interested in watching the efforts of Rodlin and his dog-handlers as they attempted to unchain the hounds and get them into the kennel without being torn to bits.
Alain sighed and tugged the ungrateful Rage to the gate. “Go! Go in!” Rage went, whimpering an apology. Alain hurried back to the wagon. Sorrow had gotten hold of the leg of one of the handlers and was worrying at the padding, trying to rip through it to the tender flesh beneath.
