Empires of Sand

Chapter One France, 1866 "The children! Hold fire!" It was too late. The gun roared and kicked back against the huntsman's shoulder. It was a long shot, a hundred and fifty meters or more. He had almost not seen the boar, nearly swallowed as it was by the shadows and the sunlight dancing on the leaves of a distant thicket. Everyone else's eyes had been on the sky, on the count's hawk, but the huntsman had seen a movement, and there it was, scrounging for acorns: a huge boar, a prize boar, a malevolent devil of a boar. Rare in this forest. He decided at once to take it. Another man would have advanced for a better shot, to avoid the possibility of missing or, worse, merely wounding the animal. The extreme distance made the difference between a good shot and a spectacular shot, a shot all the more exciting because of its uncertainty, a shot to ensure tavern bragging rights for months. He knew he could do it because he knew his weapon. It was new, a bolt-action military rifle. The long barrel gave it a degree of accuracy never before known. He'd honed the sights to perfection through a thousand rounds of practice. He raised the weapon and found his mark. The shout from the count startled him, but only for an instant. He steadied his aim and fired. Even then, even before the bullet left the gun, he knew he'd done it. He didn't need to see or to hear the impact, he just knew. A second later his certainty was justified as he heard a smack and a mad squeal of pain. There was a flurry of motion, and the animal disappeared into the brush. The huntsman whooped in excitement. To hell with the count! By God, he'd bagged it! A boar! He would have his trophy, and it would not be some piddling grouse. Without turning to see the others, and particularly not wanting to face the count, he raced forward through the clearing. Count Henri deVries was hosting a group from the Societe Geographique, there to observe the ancient art of falconry. The count's family had kept hawks for generations. They were hunting on land adjoining his estate. Henri had seen the boar even before the huntsman did. He had reacted with disbelief as he watched the man raise his rifle. Didn't the fool realize the children played nearby? When he heard the pig squeal and saw it move, his worst fears were realized. Now there was death on the run. Without a word he left the hunting partyand his own hawk in the air-and dashed for his horse. A wild boar was always dangerous, but a wounded one was unpredictable, lethal. No one was safe, not even an armed man on horseback. Not while a boar was alive and hurt. He swung up onto his horse, which knew its rider and felt the danger and surged forward even before the count was fully mounted. They took off at a right angle to where the boar had disappeared and raced for a distant clearing. Rider and horse thundered through the forest, under the golden oaks and elms of the great Bois de Boulogne that had once been the hunting grounds of the Valois kings. Henri's wife, Serena, sat in the shade of a large tree. She had been paying no attention to her surroundings, none at all. Normally she would have been hunting with Henri. But she was Tuareg, a woman of the desert, and had secretly begun learning to read French, her husband's native tongue. She had not yet told him. On her own she had found a tutor, a teacher at the Lycee in Paris, with whom she had spent long secret hours, followed by more hours of practice alone. Gradually, a newfound love had awakened inside her. Each story had increased her enchantment. The subjects didn't matter. Henri's library was rich with scientific journals. The words and meanings in most of those eluded her, but there were also novels and articles and essays. The words were music and brought her an almost mystical pleasure as new worlds opened to her. She had an inspiration. Henri would have a bBall, David is the author of 'Empires of Sand' with ISBN 9780440236689 and ISBN 0440236681.