"If your birds don't like carrying a saddle, how can anyone ride them?” queried Maldoch.
"I said they object to being harnessed, not saddled,” corrected Bortalth.
That did nothing to lessen Maldoch's apprehension. “What's wrong with Shanks's pony?” he offered. The quizzical stares from the Elves forced him to elucidate. “A saying of the Ancients that means using one's own legs as transport."
"Why walk, when you can ride,” countered Bortalth.
"Magnificent One, you aren't afraid by any chance?"
"Of course not, queenie,” sputtered Maldoch. “I, ah, well, um..."
"Stop stalling,” Terwain accused him. “You're meant to be in a hurry. Ice hasn't got an indefinite shelf life you know."
Maldoch saw sense and muttered concededly, “Okay, let's get this show on the road. I suppose a fall from the back of an oversized chicken is preferable to plummeting from a great height down the trunk of a tree.” Scaling the fence, he hopped nimbly into the Garvian pen.
Bortalth and sons were poetry in motion rounding up a suitably timid mount for the novice rider. After a moment of consultation, the trio picked out Maldoch's ride then efficiently cut her from the skittish flock, corralling her into a corner of the pen by waving arms and uttering coaxing words. Deftly hooking the neck of the selected hen with his crook, the senior wrangler steadied the snared bird whilst his boys flung a cloth sack over her head to calm her. Struggling at first, she quickly submitted to the relaxing darkness, the gentleness of the expert handling putting her further at ease. While all this was taking place Bortalth gave Maldoch some useful pointers.
"Garvians are usually pretty jumpy, so handle them with care. They'll not normally lash out, but if you find yourself attacked lie down at once. The birds can kick only forwards, not back or down. The worse that can happen when you're flat on the ground is you'll get trodden on. A bruised rib or two, maybe a broken leg ... on the bright side, you won't get disemboweled. The big toe-claw is the main danger. Don't worry too much about the bill. It's not as sharp as it is hard."
Eggcrusher clacked his hooked beak in disagreement when clipping a clump of scrumptious grass.
Hearing that, Bortalth supplemented, “The Reypt are a different branch of leaves entirely. They'll gut you wide open and peck at your innards just for fun. Not one cock to my knowledge has ever been successfully broken. About all they're good for is servicing the ladies ... begging your pardon, my queen."
Maldoch was truly thankful not to be riding the likes of Eggcrusher.
With the hen subdued, the younger handlers set about saddling her. The wizard's lore of saddlery was confined to casual observations made over the passing centuries, when the galloping steeds of the Strantharian plains were lassoed and gentled some 200 years after the Elves tamed the Garvians in the early days of the Second Epoch. The first domesticated horses were ridden bareback before the advent of saddle blankets, and the saddle itself, a century later. Elven saddles were vaguely reminiscent of those primitive, timber-framed seats initially used by Men and accurately nicknamed ‘butt-breakers'. Far more refined than those early equine back-chairs, the lavishly padded Lothberen versions were fashioned from lighter woods, which resulted in less discomfort for both bird and rider.
"Easy, girl. Take it easy.’ Bortalth pacified the flighty Garvian as one of his boys tightened the girth strap looped behind the hen's strong legs. His twin attended to a similar belt of wide leather strung across the bird's breast that stabilized the saddle and kept it from slipping off.
The lack of stirrups intrigued Maldoch. The greatest innovation in horsemanship had been in widespread use since the late fifth century on the Anarican timescale, yet had never been adopted by Elven cavalry. “There's no bit and bridle,” he noted out loud.
Removing the hood, Bortalth explained, “A snaffle is no good for my birds. The shape of their bill is entirely unsuited to carrying a bit. Reins are just as useless. One sharp tug and you're liable to break the neck like that!” The snap of his fingers to drive home his point spooked the Garvian, compelling Bortalth to whisper more soothing words up into her earhole.
"How do you steer it then?” asked Maldoch.
"I'll show you,” said Bortalth, handing the controlling crook to his nearest son. Moving behind the hen, he vaulted agilely onto the Garvian's back and into the saddle, then signaled for her to be released. With the crook taken off she sprinted away with a happy screech, only to be firmly brought to heel by leg pressure from Bortalth. He sat with a straight back, angled slightly forward to compensate for the bird's gently sloping hindquarters, his knees bent and dangling ahead of the Garvian's own legs, hands lightly gripping the curved pommel.
"The birds are trained to respond to knee movements. Right knee heads her right, left knee she goes left.” He demonstrated, wheeling his mount to and fro. “Bringing your legs slowly together makes her stop, while a sharp squeeze prompts her to go. Simplicity itself. Even a wizard can learn it.” Dismounting with an equal degree of nimbleness, Bortalth landed lightly, barely indenting the greener-than-green grass blades, and smirked at Maldoch. “Your turn."
The spellcaster hitched up his robe and made ready to copy Bortalth's running jump at the Garvian. His emulation fell flat on its face when the grinning Elf lowered the hen to a sitting position with a timely word of command.
"I could've made the vault,” sulked Maldoch, swinging a leg over the bird's back. When she came to her feet with a sudden jolt, the deflated wizard clung to the pommel tightly with both hands.
"You've cottoned on to the first of the two rules governing Garvian riding on your own,” commended Bortalth.
"Hanging on is the obvious one,” construed the wobbling spellcaster. “What's the other?"
"Not falling off."
Three quarters of an hour later found Maldoch grasping the basics of being a Garvian jockey, but not before breaking rules one and two several times over, not to mention bruising his ego and posterior. Merainor and Terwain had the good grace not to laugh at his efforts. Bortalth took puckish delight in watching his esteemed pupil kiss the ground repeatedly. All good things must eventually come to an end and the chief Garvian handler pronounced the wizard good to go.
Perched on his mount like a party decoration, Maldoch stared questioningly at a second hen being saddled up by Bortalth's uncommunicative sons. Their father mounted the bird in his inimitable style.
"You're coming with me?” he exclaimed.
"I'm not about to let you go off riding into the sunset on one of my birds unsupervised. Do you know how much time and patience is invested in training one of them? Five minutes spent alone with a learner driver will teach her bad habits it'll take a lifetime to break. I'm tagging along to make sure that doesn't happen."
"I was thinking of supplying you with a whole company of Forester cavalry as escort,” remarked the dainty Elf Queen.
Maldoch flatly refused. “One Elf with attitude is quite enough. Don't forget to have a champion lined up for my return, Merainor. I can't afford many more delays."
"Any preferences?"
"No girls,” stipulated the wizard. “They're too much trouble."
Calling for Bortalth's attention, Merainor said, “When you pass through Janyle send word to my son that he doesn't visit his mother often enough."
"Will do, milady."
Directing his mount up to the fence, Maldoch dug through the pockets of his holdall and tossed Terwain an empty phial of costly glass. “By the way, I'm running low on elyssdar. Be a good fellow and have that refilled. Right to the top preferably."
The Queen's Counsel nearly swallowed his tongue in umbrage. “Wizard, I'm not your personal servant and elyssdar is not exactly on tap!"
Maldoch brushed him off with a scoffing laugh. “Merainor did say to provide me with anything I want. You don't intend disobeying your queen do you?” He turned and spurred his Garvian forward as the twins rushed to unlatch the gates to the pen and send their dad on his merc
y dash. “To Rift Dale, Bortalth, and don't spare the hens!"
Merainor and Terwain watched in pondering silence the pair riding off across the paddock into the forested distance. Teetering madly on his bouncy seat, Maldoch did well not to take a tumble before reaching the obscuring trees.
"I don't like the wizard,” complained Eroc, emerging from the shadowed beeches behind the queen and her indignant adviser. He had been impolitely listening in the whole time.
"You and me both, milord,” said Terwain, uncaringly flipping the phial in his hand.
"The pair of you dislike any foreigner,” Merainor slighted them, overlooking Eroc's blatant eavesdropping.
"With good reason, love,” he said, sliding his arm around her slender waist. “Outsiders are nothing but trouble and wizards doubly so. I should slip a knife into that Goblin boy and have done with this foolishness before it gets any more out of hand."
Snuggling into his embrace, Merainor admonished her lover. “We are not cold-blooded executioners."
Terwain was of the same mind. “There may be no need for us to become so. I'm betting that this Garrich will defrost and die before Maldoch gets halfway to the Dale."
"I'll take that wager, old boy,” Eroc accepted with a cruel smile. “I've always fancied your cloak."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Twenty Nine
"Bah!"
The wizard slid awkwardly off the back of his Garvian ride, using his staff to stop from keeling over as he sank into the marshy lakeside on landing. “Birds are only good for two things,” he groused. “Roasting or frying."
"That's a rotten thing to say,” returned Bortalth, kneeing his own mount to a standstill beside the cranky spellcaster. “They do have feelings,” he pointed out, patting the base of his hen's neck. She responded by dipping her head to drink, taking a beakful of crystalline lake water and arcing her serpentine neck up with delicate gracefulness to swallow. Encouraged by her flock-sister, the wizard's bird butted him aside to sip her fill of Anabrithe Waters.
Not finished bellyaching, Maldoch walked off the stiffness in his bowlegged pins along the soggy shore, snarling at more than his muddied boots. “Now I know why I never took up riding sooner. I'm sure I've got chaffing on my crutch."
"Maybe if you wore trousers rather than a frock."
Maldoch instantly pulled up the smirking Elf. “It's a smock."
"Looks like a dress to me."
Making a point of ignoring Bortalth's inability to discriminate fashion, Maldoch faced outwards to regard the mirror stillness of the lake. While hardly a patch on the far north Tarnmount for size, picturesque Anabrithe Waters surpassed the acclaimed highland loch for sheer beauty. Winter never intruded here, and neither did duck hunting season. Flocks of waterfowl nested year round, their dissonant honks filling the midmorning air with a tuneless melody. The wizard's eyes followed a flight of marbled ducks winging their way low over the lake in the westerly direction of Fendythe Ribbon, envying their ease of progress.
"How much longer to Rift Dale?” he put to Bortalth. Accurate with human walking distances and times, the tempo giant chickens set went beyond even his experience.
"Another week,” estimated the Elf. Though Garvians could outpace a racehorse they lacked stamina, needing to be rested frequently on a prolonged ride.
"What are we waiting for then,” grumped the irritable wizard, hoisting himself back into the saddle.
"For your bad mood to go away,” said Bortalth.
"Don't hold your breath,” Maldoch advised him, urging his mount into a fast walk. “I haven't had cause to be happy in the last fourteen hundred years."
—
The week went by fast. Bortalth proved a dab hand at living off the land Elf style, which meant greens morning, noon, and night. He fixed hotchpotch salads of chicory and fleshy purslane leaves, spiced up with wild onion and garlic, complemented afterwards by desserts of berries, both black and blue. Fed up with meatless uncooked meals, Maldoch took up fishing and grilled his daily catch—when he was lucky enough to hook a carp or wels catfish, or on the poorer days land a yellow eel—over flakes of kindled rock. Revolted by the wizard greedily tucking into his fish and stone chips, the Garvian handler said, “How can you stand to eat that muck?"
"Shut up and eat your greens, Bortalth. Else you won't get any pudding."
Day twelve out from Lothberen found the pair approaching Janyle. Bortalth veered his Garvian, whom he had affectionately dubbed Sheila, in the direction of the clearing that was the hub of Eroc's domain. Maldoch had not bothered naming his bird and clearly viewed Bortalth loopy for becoming attached to his.
"We're not taking any detours,” the wizard discouraged him.
"But the Queen's business..."
"Is nothing more than motherly fretting and I haven't the time to indulge her."
Scowling at Maldoch, the Elf objected. “Janyle is on our way to the Dale."
"So is the moon, but we aren't going there either."
Getting his own way as usual, Maldoch proceeded onwards through the timbered splendor of Gwilhaire Wood. Flower-bordered grass lanes rambled charmingly through the serene forestland, seemingly an extension of the wooded area rather than an intrusion, as was the case in other parts of Terrath. A constructive thought entered the wizard's mind and he mentioned it to his riding companion. “Merainor really ought to invest in paved roads to make travel easier."
"I'll make sure to put it in Terwain's suggestion box,” carped Bortalth.
"Suggest that he keep the curves. Straights roads take all the fun out of guessing what lies around the next bend."
The next afternoon saw the pair five leagues distant from Rift Dale. Leaving the timberland behind for a rolling grassy plain sporting shrub-crowned hillocks, Bortalth apprised Maldoch, “There's a party of riders coming through the Dale."
"Elves?"
"Horsemen. And there's a Troll with them."
"You certain of that?"
The birdman of Lothberen scowled at the wizard. “You've the beak of a hawk. I got its eyes."
Not doubting that, Maldoch still had to see for himself. Rummaging through the clutter of his memories, he fished out a spell for telescopic vision and nearly fell off his Garvian when giant heads blotted out his view of all else. Adjusting the incantation with a hurried mutter, the oversized figures shrunk back to being specks on the horizon before the sliding magic brought them into sharper focus. What he saw was indeed a company of baronial soldiers on horseback wending their way through scrub and in their midst a hulking Sulander weighing down a plodding Clydesdale. Maldoch scarcely believed his luck. Miraculously, the mounted Troll was J'tard. The sandstone pendant looped about his neck was incontrovertible proof of identity.
Silently thanking the Maker for this turnaround, the wizard made his big chicken run, prompting Bortalth to goad Sheila to keep pace. The poor hens soon ran out of steam, forcing the Garvian jockeys to meet their equine counterparts at a sedate walk a few hours down the track.
Rift Dale was a shallow scrubland valley hemmed in to the west by the extensive Unchained Mountains and the precipitous heel of the Southrock Splinter range angling to the northeast. The approaching horsemen were nearly out of the southern end of the vale when Maldoch pulled up in front of them, holding his staff high in greeting. A blustery, biting wind tousled the wizard's snow-white mane, reminding him that beyond Gwilhaire's sheltering magic winter was in full swing in the rest of Terrath.
The caped lead rider motioned the column to halt and looked past the grizzled spellcaster to Bortalth, giving their Garvian mounts a quick once over. If the sight amazed him, he kept it to himself. “Mister Elf, am I mighty glad to clap eyes on you. I have no hankering to step on any pointy toes by trespassing. Do I have your leave to enter Gwilhaire?"
Folding his arms, Bortalth donned the hat of customs official. “Depends. What's the purpose of your visit and have you anything to declare?"
Glancing uneasily behind at
the gagged and trussed up Troll sitting staunchly astride the draught horse, the soldier in charge said, “Special delivery."
Jumping in, Maldoch said, “This is my department. You must be Parin Olc's boys, captain."
"It's sergeant. You know the Baron?"
"He gave me a lift in his coach once."
"You're a brave man, old-timer."
"I bailed out of it."
"And a smart one too. It's more rickety than rickshaw.” The sergeant, a fresh-faced militiaman wearing a rusting pott helmet one size too big, scratched his chin thoughtfully. “You don't happen to be Mister Maldoch?"
"Last time I checked I was."
"Baron Olc spoke of you before heading off to Alberion."
"All good I hope.” A warning growl interrupted the getting-to-know-you conversation. “You better untie my big friend,” Maldoch prompted the sergeant.
"You're acquainted with this beast?"
"He's my runaway pet.” Maneuvering his bird alongside the Troll of the horse world, Maldoch made a show of scolding the tusked Sandwalker as Bortalth looked on in amusement. “Bad, bad boy, J'tard,” he started off. “How many times have I told you not to go out in the wide world on your own? You might get hurt. Judging by the state of you, that's already happened. Where did you find him?"
"While out on patrol a couple of leagues above the Dale,” the sergeant revealed. “He stumbled out of the jungle mad with fever when we were riding by, babbling something about wanting slug pellets and swinging that bat of his like a lunatic at anything that moved. I confiscated it after we finally subdued him, then had the boys tie him up for his own safety.” The black eyes and broken noses of his men were blatant testimony to the difficulty of disarming even a delirious Troll.
"And the gag?"
"To shut him up."
"I see you managed to find him a horse large enough to ride."
"We ‘borrowed’ a logging camp's draught horse."
"Baronial authority?"
"Comes in handy, Mister Maldoch. That, and brandishing a big sword is very persuasive."
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