by Alisha Basso
Through a break in the trees, she saw a group of twenty men skidding down the bluff accompanied by twice that number of yekerk, half flying, half hopping toward the river.
She kept pace with the horses as they shuffled back, her heart pummeling her ribs. Warm bodies closed around her. She clung to the mare’s mane, trying to think.
“There is no need to hide, Horsecaller,” yelled an unfamiliar masculine voice laced with false friendliness.
She stayed with the herd, catching a glimpse of the men as they uncoiled long ropes.
“Thank you for guiding us to the horses,” the man said. “Now, you will all accompany us.”
Lauren had to get to Pindar, get on him. She could see the man’s legs, and he seemed to know where she was. Without taking his dark gaze from where she hid, he gestured to his men, and they to crossed the river and began shooing the herd. The horses trotted around, raising dust. She almost laughed. What made them think a handful of them could control so many horses?
What made her think she could?
“Who are you?” she yelled, thinking to buy herself time. She had no weapons, no way of defending herself, not even shoes on her feet.
“A friend of a friend, Horsecaller. A friend who needs you and your herd, and who can reward you for your help.”
She didn’t like the way he said her title, with a caress, as if he owned it.
“As you wish,” he said, and his tone made her look. He loaded a crossbow and took aim, but not at her. “Your horse first.”
She spun in fear. Run. Run over the mountain.
The horses didn’t move, damn them. What would it take? What was the secret? She’d have to figure it out, and soon, because she’d be damned if she’d let someone take the horses from her now.
Before the man could shoot, a deep-throated horse peal came from behind her, then a shriek torn from human throat. She dove, scooted between bodies, risking a glance now and again behind her. The herd began to go the way she wanted—toward the pass through the mountains. Good, good. But bird-men flew above and landed in front, cutting off escape.
The man swore. Horses trotted in circles, reflecting her unease and confusion. Should they try to run the other way? She backed and grabbed at a tail as horses reversed, then stopped.
Men stood behind the herd unfurling ropes and swinging them toward Pindar. They were trapped. Two lassos missed, but one dropped around his neck, pulled tight. His head jerked up and swung wildly as he tried to free himself, dragging the man. Others grabbed on and one got another rope over his head. Pindar’s eyes rolled, the whites showing.
They yanked him to the ground. Yekerk closed in. She pushed horses out of her way, couldn’t see what was happening, only heard the men grunting and Pindar struggling, a hoof connecting with a man’s skull.
“No!” she screamed.
Then, a rushing sound, growling. She got free of the horses in time to see three frits tear apart two yekerk and disappear as quickly as they had come.
She flung all her weight at the nearest man, catching him in the shoulder and knocking them both off balance. She stumbled to her knees. Someone slammed her head into the ground. She blinked, fighting to stay conscious. The man she had hit came into focus, murder in his eyes. He pinned her arms.She kicked with both legs, catching him in the knee and groin. He howled and his face contorted with anger, but he leaned close, drew a knife.
For a moment, she froze, her gaze riveted by the flashing blade. They still hadn’t gotten her legs. She flailed and twisted, got one arm free, scrabbled toward her horse. The ropes were too tight around his neck. He couldn’t breathe. Her assailant grabbed her foot as she got her hand on a sword. He hauled her back, flipped her over, slid the knife toward her throat.
She raised the sword. With a thud, her attacker fell away. A bruising hand wrapped her upper arm and jerked her to her feet. The leader kicked the others aside.
“Fools,” he said. “We need her.”
With his face dark with dirt and rage, she registered only his full lips under a neat mustache. Humor might have formed the lines around his eyes, but it was a cruel humor, the brown eyes themselves cold and flat.
He pointed the loaded crossbow at Pindar, but kept his gaze on her. “Northwest,” he said.
Northwest. Tinnis. King Rast and his sage, Rezol.
Not on her life. “No,” she said.
He yelled orders, and the men holding Pindar moved, loosing their hold as the leader took his shot. She shoved his arms. The arrow went high, skimming the heavy muscle of Pindar’s hip. She threw herself at the big gray. Horses started running. But all she could see was Pindar, on the ground, struggling, bleeding. Men rushed by her, except one still trying to hold her horse. Lauren chopped at the ropes with the sword, but Pindar caught his breath, jumped up, and bolted with the rest of the herd.
Lauren tried to keep up, but she tripped and fell, curled into a ball, and covered her head, screaming inwardly.
How could this be happening? Horses thundered by and over her, the ground shook, and dust clogged her nostrils. She realized they weren’t going to hurt her, so she rolled to her feet and shot after them. Soon, the last of them passed her, entering one of the canyons on the other side of the valley. Alone, she stopped and tried to think. Where were the men? Surely, the yekerk had flown ahead with the horses, she could still hear their cries, and she remembered Leinos saying they had a taste for horse blood.
The group’s leader ran along the river bank until two of the flying bird-men picked him up. They lifted him off the ground and flew on toward the horses.
Then she saw something that made her skin crawl.
“Holy hell.”
One pair flew straight at her.
Chapter 32
LAUREN wheeled and ran, blind with panic. But that direction took her from the horses—from Pindar. The fastest way to reach them was with the revolting creatures. Could she let them take her?
The stench of burning tires choked her as they got closer. She tried to remain still, but as they closed in, her heart ceased beating, and she threw herself on the ground, yelling no no no. Feathers brushed her skin, talons grabbed at her, orange eyes glowed. She squeezed her lids shut against the sight.
A squishy, ratchety sound made her open her eyes. One bird had retracted its wings and brought out its spindly arms. It stood on her knees and held her shoulders while the other wrapped its long toes around her upper arm. The first one’s wings came out again and it, too, got hold of her arm. Her breath gusted in and out on a harsh whine. She gritted her teeth, and they lifted her off the ground.
They flapped their wings once, twice, again.
A blur of golden fur and snarling growls erupted out of the dusty haze. Three frits slammed into the yekerk, and ruddy feathers exploded into the air. They brought the birds down in a whoosh. The drop knocked the wind out of her, and she wrapped her arms around her head against the sound of breaking bones and dying shrieks and the pounding of her own heart.
Moments later, only the faint whistle of her breath and the panting of the frits. One sniffed her chin, then licked her cheek. She opened her eyes. It pricked its ears and wagged its stubby tail, but she wasn’t ready to smile. Around them lay the smelly remains of the two yekerk. Their vile stink made her retch.
The dry heaves wrung her out. She flopped onto her back, the nearest frit bathing her face with a moist cloud of only marginally better smelling air. She raised her hand and patted the beast’s shoulder. Its golden coat was surprisingly soft. She let her fingers comb the stiffer rough around its neck. She should be afraid, but they were so friendly, so dog-like, and she really didn’t have the energy to dredge up fear at this point.
“Good job,” she said. “Thanks.”
It nudged her side.
“No, I’m done,” she said to the sky, or the frit, or whoever might be listening. “Really done this time. I tried, I failed. Not the first time. But maybe the last.”
The other two frits s
at nearby. One scratched its neck. The other got up and urinated on a dead yekerk. The one nearest her poked its nose into her hip and swung its big head around to its side. It wanted her to get on?
“Nope. No way.”
The bile of utter failure stung her throat. She released a blustery sigh, her heart finally slowing to a more steady tempo, and considered the frit’s humped back. It watched her expectantly.
Leinos’s words from their first day returned to her. What if Cirq truly was her home? Had she been born in the wrong place? No, she had to live where she had, for how else would she have learned what she needed to know about horses?
The horses needed her help. Reluctantly, resignedly, she reached for the creature’s mane and pulled herself up. If nothing else, she had to find Pindar.
Without urging, the frit leapt forward. Its stubby legs and steep shoulders made for a gait that was like riding a runaway sewing machine. The other two fell in alongside. She sought the beast’s rhythm, kept her fingers twined in its rough, and tried to see ahead.
They slowed as they approached the narrow entrance to a canyon. She slid off to climb up onto a ledge where she could see better, adrenaline making her legs shake. The frits scaled the steep, crumbling rock face like mountain goats, continuing to the top. Sharp stones cut into the tender bottoms of her feet, but she ignored it, drawing strength and comfort from knowing the frits were nearby. Were there more? She hoped so.
Below, the horses churned up a choking cloud of dust. She could barely make out Pindar. He stood with his back left leg off the ground, the arrow wound seeping blood. One rope still hung around his neck. When one of Rast’s men walked close, Pindar bit him on the shoulder. His unflagging spirit lifted her heart. Relief washed through her.
She tried to think. Men chased the horses toward the far side of the canyon. A tiny cleft opened at the west end.
Don’t go. Fight back.
In response to her silent plea, horses returned to the canyon opening beneath her, but bird-men flew into the entrance, so the herd trotted in a circle.
A scraping sound made her whip around.
She met the menacing eyes of the attackers’ leader. He stood at the other end of the ledge, a few short feet away, and looked even bigger and more dangerous than he had down on the plain. She took in more details of his appearance. A yellow and orange kilt had been smudged to brown and his leather vest and boots were scuffed. His hair lay plastered to his forehead with sweat and dirt. He leaned against the rock, smiled, and waved a sword at her.
“Who are you?” she asked again with more defiance then she felt.
“What matters,” he said, “is who I represent—someone with a keen interest in the great strength of these horses. You value their lives, if not your own, so I know you will do what you must to direct them the way I order.”
He moved close enough to touch her cheek with the sword point. She pulled back and felt her lip curl into a snarl. This man had shot her horse. But her effort was wasted. His attention was taken by the scene below, where bird-men howled, and horses dodged back and forth, eyes wide with fear.
Their power reverberated through the surrounding rock, their sacred hooves making the earth tremble. Stones and dirt clattered around Lauren’s head. Shouts drifted up. The yekerk might frighten the horses into moving, but the men couldn’t control the herd.
Could she? Maybe not. But this man didn’t need to know that. He didn’t need to know how close she’d just come to giving up. And he didn’t know the power contained within the horses, the power to make a land live or die, to draw water from dust, or to make a mountain shake.
“I won’t direct the horses anywhere but Cirq.”
He tilted his head to one side, returning his gaze to her, then stepped closer. “I think you will.”
The mountain vibrated. Cracks formed where ledge and canyon wall met. Better to be gutted where she stood, than give up the horses. Without her, he had nothing. Cirq wouldn’t have them, but neither would Tinnis.
She backed away, feeling for anything to grab if the ground gave way. What to do? Her thoughts were as chaotic as the scene below. Then, her hand found Jana’s knife tucked into the side of her pants. She forced herself to meet her assailant’s cold eyes with a curious look.
“I don’t know your name,” she said, hoping he thought she considered his offer.
“I am Cadell.” He inclined his head in a courtly bow. “Well met, Lauren Horsecaller.”
Unnerving as it was that he knew her name, she gave it scant notice, and didn’t return the nicety. From below, growling and snapping preceded a strangled scream. More yells, warnings to watch out, a yelp. Either her frits had climbed down to help the horses, or others had come. More would be good. They would die along with her trying to save the horses. Bird-men swooped overhead and screamed.
“Call off your monsters and direct the horses to the western end of the canyon, Horsecaller, or I will begin shooting.” As if he had all the time in the world, Cadell sheathed the sword and loaded his crossbow, but let it hang at his belt.
“I don’t control the frits,” she said. “They protect the horses. You should call off your monsters before—”
“I have no need of them as long as I have you.”
The horses were circling now, a dizzying mass of rumbling flesh and bone, nearly obscured by the dust. Circling as they had circled her after she fell down the cliff. She understood now. They had healed her just as they would heal Cirq.
The ledge they stood on lurched. Cadell grabbed her.
Her feet started to slip. His hands closed around her throat and slammed her against the wall. She fought him, but he squeezed harder, and her breath stuck in her chest. Pressure built behind her eyes, her arms dropped. Dizzy blackness closed on all sides.
Through the fog of her pain, a whinny pierced the air. Cadell eased his grip. Her vision cleared. The dark-bay mare stood at the mouth of the canyon, twenty feet below.
A sooty cloud appeared over Cadell’s shoulder.
“Call them,” Sebira’s voice hissed. “By the Goddess, open your heart and call them.”
Lauren’s mental fog ripped away like a thunderstorm cleansing a humid beach. This whole situation was her fault. She had found the horses, but not called them. She whipped out the knife and plunged it toward Cadell’s neck. Uncertainty crossed his features, and he jumped away, losing his balance as another lurch shook the ledge. The knife grazed his throat and clattered down the cliff.
Sebira’s shadow dissipated, swept into the air by a sudden updraft.
“I am the Horsecaller,” Lauren said, undaunted by her failed attempt to stab him. She had only a few heartbeats before the ledge gave way.
Her voice echoed around the canyon. The horses stopped moving. Lauren emptied her mind as she had before with Pindar, and imagined the heat she had felt, the love that had swelled her heart. Stillness. She remembered. The ultimate discipline.
Conscious thought fled, and she felt the insistent yearning that had nagged her since arriving in Cirq, the longing that emerged from the depths of her soul. She closed her eyes and flung aside everything she thought she knew and believed.
Come to me, her heart cried.
A heavy rumble rolled up as the horses moved toward the plain.
Clearly sensing a shift in the herd, Cadell demanded, “What are you doing?”
Summoning her loudest riding instructor’s voice, and ignoring Cadell, Lauren called, “Come to me.”
From below, a glimmer of light, growing brighter, emanating from the horses, turning the dust into an incandescent, billowing mantle.
Cadell lunged. Lauren leapt just as the ledge slid away, and his arms swept empty air.
She closed her eyes, said a prayer, and dropped into nothingness with a roar of falling rock and dust. She landed hard on her rear, straddling the dark-bay mare's broad back. Hundreds of horses pounded behind them. She grabbed a hunk of mane, and they galloped out of the canyon and onto a plain turn
ed dark orange with the setting sun. The beat of thundering hooves resonated through her being. Beyond this, shouting, and shrieks of flying bird-men.
Too close.
The birds screamed and plunged. The broad plain offered no cover.
“Damn it. Faster!” She kicked the mare’s sides. The horse jolted forward.
The bird-men were equally swift. Even the pairs carrying men gained on the herd. Behind her and to either side, the horses ran hard and close, forming an undulating ocean of color and foaming mane. Yekerk swooped like giant seagulls picking fish from a storm-tossed sea. Horses’ squeals echoed in her ears, and she bent lower over the mare’s neck, urging her on.
They dove into the river and heaved up the steep bluff. She wove her fingers tightly into the mare’s mane, closed her eyes, envisioned the pass over the mountains, and held on, letting the herd and a new, raw, faith carry her forward. They wove through the pine forest, yekerk screaming above the canopy, unable to penetrate the thick boughs. To either side, the dark shadows of frits.
Was Pindar keeping up? There was nothing she could do but ride this torrent of flesh forward and try to get her herd to safety. Neither the mare nor any of the others faltered as they broke from the forest, climbed the ridge and dashed beneath trees again.
They couldn’t maintain this pace. Even if they made the next ridge, the tight, rock-strewn pass would hinder them. They swept across a shallow trough and up the next hill without slowing. When she looked back, she realized she could no longer hear the flying creature’s shrieks, and began to relax. The mare checked her stride, then slowed even more as they descended toward the dry lake.
A rest would be good, and well deserved, but they needed to keep moving. As if reading her mind, the mare eased into trot. The trail funneled them into a column, five and six abreast skipping over and around the dead trees. She would stop them for a drink when they reached the dried-up lake—for surely they could pull water from the ground as easily as Pindar—and she would find her horse.
