Tobiano tossed his head toward the amber sky. “Because Patchi believes this band of tchaka can prove useful.”
“And you believe him?”
“Aye, I believe him.”
The rogue nodded. For years, they had been recruiting allies for a united rebellion against Velagray, their numbers swelling from a couple dozen to a little over one thousand. It wasn’t nearly the force they needed to take King Shadow’s stronghold, but few wanted to join what seemed like an impossible cause. “I suppose all wars have their compromises.”
Several figures emerged from the circle of caravans, their attention drawn toward the pair on top of the hill. The tchaka shared the same dark skin and raven hair of other rahee native to the southern region. However, that wasn’t their only distinguishing feature.
Where the northern gypsies favored colored scarves and sashes, the tchaka fancied gold and silver. It dangled in their ears, shimmered around their wrists and fingers, and even painted their caravans. Most of the pieces were trophies, and judging from the looks of this band they had plenty to boast about.
Jaspur counted twenty-eight; then thirty-two; then thirty-four as more kept emerging from the circle of caravans. He glanced at Tobiano who remained unconcerned. The re’shahna was deadly enough in his two-legged form. On four hooves with magic to aid him, he would defend himself against the entire caravan without a second thought.
“Shall we go say hello then?” the rogue urged Diego onward at a trot and Tobiano fell in step beside him. Jaspur called out a friendly greeting. Twelve gypsies responded by raising their bows, while others dropped their hands toward their swords. Jaspur raised his hands disarmingly above his waist as he approached their camp, then slowly dismounted about ten yards from the first caravan.
“That is close enough, stranger.” A final gypsy exited from the center caravan to join his people, making Jaspur's total head count forty-three. This one was average in height with tight black curls bound in a small ponytail. His face was narrow and long, his squinted eyes bright yellow to match the many gold studs in his ears. Black and red paint ran across his nose, eyes, and cheeks, marking him for war.
“Well met,” the rogue greeted again and Tobiano gave his two-toned mane a casual shake.
The gypsy with the face paint stepped into the rogue's personal space, his forehead coming to about Jaspur's nose. He lifted his chin to study those pale blue eyes, undeterred by the rogue's 6'4 stature.
Jaspur stood patiently and waited for the leader to finish sizing him up. The scrutiny in the gypsy's eyes spoke of a calculating mind. After a few moments, he nodded to Diego.
“That’s a fine steed,” the gypsy stepped back and rested his hand on the pommel of his scimitar. “And even finer company,” he motioned in Tobiano's direction, his thick brows arched high to match his surprise. “Who are you?”
“My name is Jaspur Clovenhoof.”
“You approached my camp uninvited, Jaspur Clovenhoof. For your sake, I hope you brought a good reason with you,” the tchaka leader cocked his head toward Tobiano, a greedy glimmer shining behind his canary eyes. “Or good recompense should you waste my time.”
Jaspur’s smile was dangerous. “Do not sour your good fortune, my friend.”
The leader gave an abrasive laugh. “I respect your courage.” He spread out his arms to acknowledge the line of archers and swordsmen behind him. “But as you can see, you are sorely outnumbered.”
“You underestimate my companions,” the rogue clicked his tongue and Diego pressed his ears back. With a rough shake of his mane, he gave a fearless snort and thrust an onyx hoof in the tchaka's direction. Tobiano raked his horn in the air, emphasizing Jaspur’s warning.
The leader grinned, thrilled by the display. “It’s a fine war horse, and the unicorn is surely a prize. However, any magic you or your friends wield will do you no good here. My people are warded against the four elements.”
“Only four?” Jaspur paused, letting his question send a quiver of doubt through the gypsy's confidence.
Tobiano reared, his forelegs reaching high to scrape across his mottled horn. Sparks flew upon contact and a wave of electricity rippled across his body, his mane waving in a static dance.
Several of the gypsies took a wary step back. Elementals typically embodied one of the four elements: fire, water, air, and earth. However, every once and awhile a new element was born from the intensity of one of nature’s torrents. Tobiano appeared to be one of them.
“Interesting,” the gypsy leader murmured with a newfound respect. “So what exactly does a rahee, a horse, and an elemental want from us?”
“I may have a proposition that could benefit us both.”
“What makes you think we would be interested?”
“Word has it you are looking for the re’shahna.”
The gypsy shrugged. “Perhaps we are. Then again, perhaps not. Rumors are unreliable things. Besides, as far as we know, the re’shahna disappeared centuries ago. What could you possibly know of them?”
“A great deal more than you do. Of that I am certain.”
The tchaka’s leader crossed his arms. “Fine. Let us entertain the idea that my people traveled hundreds of miles just to chase fables. Tell me, why on Tennakawa’s green grass would you care?”
The rogue grinned. “Because I can help you find them.”
Jaspur’s hint was enough to grant him an invitation into the camp. He along with his two equine companions were led to a pit full of embers in the middle of the caravan's circle. There, the tchaka’s leader introduced himself as Qualle. His band originated from Sarrokye where they made their living off of “trade and generous donations”, which was a pleasant way of saying robbery and blackmail. Still, Jaspur discovered a strict code of honor hidden in the details, and it surprised him.
Killing women and children was viewed as a sin among the tchaka. Any children orphaned by their actions were taken in and treated as part of the caravan. Those who suffered from their pillaging were already enemies of Qualle’s band: guilds and high merchants who wanted to dispose of the nomadic gypsies.
But Qualle was a positive sort. “Business is good,” he smiled. “The list of people who want us dead is extensive. We have no trouble finding new goods.”
“Everything I have ever heard about your people painted them as predators,” Jaspur remarked. “After hearing your story, I cannot share that sentiment.”
“Sarrokye is not for the faint of heart,” Qualle explained. “Those who are not predators are prey. There was a time once when our people tried to avoid confrontation, but we are outcasts in a kingdom of outcasts. If we do not instill fear within our enemies, we would never keep them at bay.”
Jaspur shook his head back and forth with the conviction of a man who knew the feeling all too well.
“Where do your allegiances lie, Jaspur?” Qualle asked as they slowly came to know one another.
Jaspur flicked a baffled ear against his skull. “My allegiances?”
A half-smile curved the corner of the tchaka’s lips. “Is Shadow your king or do you serve a different master?”
“I have no master but myself.”
Qualle laughed. “I know a lie when I hear one,” he glanced at the unicorn standing guard behind the rogue and his steed. “You came here because you serve some person or purpose, Jaspur. I simply have yet to place which it is.”
“And what of you?”
Qualle snorted. “What of me? I am a prince among thieves. The people you see here? They are my kingdom. My territory is wherever I care to be that day.”
The rogue was shaking his head before the gypsy even finished. “No, I mean why are you looking for the re’shahna?”
An alarmed hoot tore the pair from their mutual interrogation. Their ears pricked up and they launched to their feet just in time to see a scout cresting the hill. His palomino stallion sprinted at a full gallop, the sweat on his flanks carrying an ill message.
Qualle's expression hard
ened and he began barking orders for his band to assemble an offensive. A sharp whistle brought a gray mare to his side just as Jaspur leapt upon Diego’s back. Yanking Lumiere from his scabbard, the rogue glanced at Qualle.
“It seems I may discover your allegiances sooner than you thought, Jaspur.”
The rogue saluted with his sword. “Here is to hoping we find ourselves on the same side.”
They kicked their steeds into motion, ready to greet whatever had brought the scout fleeing back to camp. Tobiano galloped alongside the pair and several gypsies followed, their horses joining the charge. Even the scout wheeled his mount around now that he was armed with reinforcements. Jaspur gave him a once over and noted the growing crimson stain on the side of his tunic. “What happened?”
The gypsy looked at Qualle in silent question. When his leader nodded, he answered, “Night mares alongside Velagran soldiers. They are charging toward our camp in pursuit of a unicorn and its rider. I was grazed by one of the soldier’s arrows on my way here.”
Jaspur, Qualle, and Tobiano reached the top of the hill only to find yet another familiar sight. Jaspur’s shoulders sagged with his weight, causing Diego to take a step back.
Galloping toward them was a unicorn he surely recognized, two skeletal mares with fiery manes in hot pursuit. Qualle threw his sword arm out to the side and his men reined their horses to a stop behind him. “This is it, Jaspur. Where do you stand?”
Jaspur stared at the dun unicorn with familiar brown socks. It couldn’t be, but it was. There was no mistaking Siabra’s gait. Fluid and agile, she bounded like a deer across the field in their direction. “Spare the dun mare. Kill the rest.”
Qualle glanced at Tobiano. “And what of him?”
Tobiano curved his elegant neck, his two-and-a-half foot horn pointed toward his enemies.
“He can handle the night mares,” Jaspur replied. “Focus your men on the soldiers and let Lightning Dancer take care of the rest.”
An arrow zipped between Qualle and Jaspur’s shoulders, and nearly struck one of the men behind them. Another flew over their heads in return, and a Velagran soldier flew onto his back with a feathered shaft embedded in his skull. Qualle waved his sword forward and a cloud of arrows followed suit, raining down upon the Velagrans below.
From the looks on the soldiers’ faces, they had been oblivious of the tchaka’s numbers until that moment. Now they fanned out to dodge the second wave of arrows. Four more soldiers fell to the ground. Another managed to escape the volley, but his horse wasn’t so lucky. An arrow struck its shoulder, sending it tumbling to the ground. The mount’s rider went with it and was crushed beneath his horse’s weight.
Qualle shouted a battle cry, and he and Jaspur led the tchaka’s charge. Siabra darted by on Qualle’s left, using the wave of tchaka to shake off her pursuers. Jaspur wanted to turn around and follow her, but he was sandwiched between Qualle’s men and the Velagran pursuers. He fought mercilessly, lancing Lumiere through the chest of the first soldier that tried to intercept him.
Meanwhile, Tobiano clashed with one of the night mares, their horns cracking together as he raked his cloven hooves against her breast. The two tore away from one another only to wheel around and lock horns once again.
Tobiano’s horn buzzed with an electric current that shocked the mare and sent her stumbling back, her patchy coat standing on end. The demon mare shook her head, dazed, and Tobiano wasted no time. He plowed his horn through the mare’s leathery neck, then brought her down to the ground where his hooves finished the job.
Another soldier came up behind the rogue as he was finishing off a second. Qualle shouted a warning to Jaspur and the rogue jerked Diego around. He ducked at the same time, narrowly escaping the soldier’s arcing blade. The edge grazed his back and the rogue gave a low grunt as Diego came up behind the soldier’s mount. Before the Velagran could turn in his saddle, Lumiere sliced through his kidneys and out his stomach. The rider tumbled off his horse, nearly jerking Jaspur’s sword out of his hand as he fell.
Meanwhile, another soldier was overwhelmed by Qualle’s riders who made quick and vicious work of him while Tobiano had the second night mare on the defensive.
The Velagran’s numbers had thinned considerably, and it was only a matter of minutes before the whole fight would be over. Qualle and Tobiano were capable of handling the rest.
Jaspur had to find Siabra before the tchaka did. He turned his mount in circles, trying to determine where she had gone. “Come on, Siabra,” he muttered. “Where are you?”
Diego took the initiative and galloped toward a drop-off northeast of the fight. Qualle shouted for Jaspur to take control of his mount, but Diego knew what he was doing. The stallion proved it as they caught sight of a clay-colored mare sprinting toward Icar River.
“There you are,” the rogue smiled. Diego whinnied as his feathered hooves lifted off the ground.
Tobiano tried to follow Jaspur, but slowed at the edge of the drop-off, not daring to make the fifteen foot leap. Qualle skidded to a halt next to him, his mouth agape as Diego landed in a steady gallop. “Impossible,” he breathed.
Meanwhile, Diego made headway with every stride until he galloped neck-and-neck with Siabra. Jaspur didn’t know who rode upon her back, but he was about to find out.
The rogue leapt off of Diego and tackled Siabra’s rider. The pair tumbled into the grass as Diego herded Siabra to a halt. Jaspur squeezed the stranger against his chest as they rolled across the rocky ground.
The rider squeaked and grunted beneath him, her forearms pinned under his as Jaspur’s long legs locked around her. He roughly wrestled her onto her back, the edge of his pearlescent sword somehow finding its way to her neck.
The servant’s hood fell back and she stared up at her attacker, wide-eyed and panting. She was young. Her ears were long and surely elven, as was her face. Jaspur could tell by the high cheek bones and narrow jaw. Her throat bobbed in a nervous swallow as she waited for Jaspur to kill her.
“Who the hell are you?” he growled.
“Just a prisoner, sirrah,” she gasped for air like it eluded her. “Siabra and I escaped Velagray together.”
Jaspur’s blade didn’t leave the elf’s neck as he interrogated her right there on the ground. “Elves fear the unicorns, yet you are on a first name basis with this one?”
The prisoner laughed ever so slightly at the irony. “I am not picky about my allies if it leads to my freedom.”
Jaspur flicked his ears back, his expression painted with skepticism. “You have not found freedom yet, elf.” He stood and yanked the girl to her feet. “What is your name?”
The elf didn’t reply. Eyes downcast, she stared down at her bare feet, her face curtained by chocolate hair.
“I asked you a question,” Jaspur reached to grab her chin when her hands flew up to grip his palm.
The rogue matched that grasp, clinching it in a fist she couldn’t pry away from. His cold eyes studied her, then fell upon the sapphire and silver ring around her middle finger. He burst into cynical laughter. “Bloody ghosts,” he cursed the gods. “Tell me this is a joke!”
The elf stood mute, convinced the rogue was mad. But it was not a joke. She had no idea how cruel the sight of her ring was to Jaspur.
“Where did you get this?” he shook her hand before her nose, but the elf didn’t speak. Looking over her shoulder at Siabra, Jaspur raised his voice. “Where did she get the ring?!”
By then, Tobiano and the tchaka had detoured around the cliff to catch up with the rogue. The re’shahna sidled up beside Qualle, his head lifted high in concern. The rogue’s chest heaved with adrenaline, his knuckles white around the girl’s hands as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded.
“What is going on here?” Qualle demanded.
Siabra snorted and walked cautiously over to glance at Jaspur’s trembling fist. Nosing the ring, she took a good look at its design before tossing her head at the painted unicorn beside Qualle.
“By the goddess!” Qualle stumbled back a few steps and his men congregated behind him.
Tobiano gently reached for the rogue’s fist, careful not to startle him.
Jaspur’s eyes seemed lost, as if an internal battle waged violently beneath them. Tobiano stepped in between the girl and Jaspur and slowly freed her from the rogue’s grip. “Best you come with us,” he said quietly to the elf. “There is much to be explained.”
“I agree,” Qualle spoke up. He walked straight up to Tobiano, who helped the elven girl back onto Siabra’s back. “Just who and what are you?”
Tobiano sighed. “I am Tobiano Lightning Dancer, second to the chief of Bresan T'ahnya.”
“Ah,” Qualle’s aggressive demeanor turned into delight. “So we have found the re’shahna, after all.”
“No, Qualle,” Tobiano loosed a sharp whistle and one-by-one, re’shahna rose from the grass around them, fully armed. Qualle turned in a measured circle, observing the hundred plus warriors that surrounded him and his band. “T’is the re’shahna who have found you.”
* * * * *
As afternoon fell into evening, Tobiano found himself leaning against a post inside of a newly erected tent, the elven girl sitting cross-legged at his feet. It wasn’t exactly a prison for her, but she was smart enough to recognize a precarious situation when she was in one. She said nothing, her fingers stroking Siabra’s soft coat as the mare nestled beside her.
The unicorn had explained to Tobiano and Jaspur how she’d landed in Shadow’s clutches, and how the girl had provided them both a means of escape. Yet the elf was just as much of a mystery to her as she was to them, for there had been little time for introductions.
Alas, it had fallen upon Tobiano to glean her name and story. The re’shahna tipped his ear toward the tent’s flap where he could hear Jaspur pacing back and forth outside. He let out a long sigh. The rogue was too much of a mess to be of any help. He couldn’t even bare to look at the girl since their encounter in the field.
The Rogue Trilogy Page 54
