The spring crop of blood-sucking insects had been particularly bad this year, not unexpected, given the relatively warm winter.
“Them what’s tryin’ t’ snatch the women and kiddies.” Petril stood tall and swished the sword-branch again. “Pirates ’n such.”
Tinnie shrieked and her eyes went wide. She covered her mouth with her hands, then broke into a fit of giggles that sent tears running down her cheeks. Before Petril could grumble at her, she turned and raced back toward the longhouses.
Sisters.
Petril shook his head, swatting the wiry grass that somehow managed to grow between the stones with his sword-branch as he headed down to the lake. He had eight siblings, and Tinnie was the youngest of the lot, having just turned five. Petril was three years older, but Tinnie always found ways to make him feel foolish. His other brothers and sisters—even his mum and da—said that Petril was imaginative, but Tinnie . . .
He let the encounter fade, fighting off imaginary pirates as he wandered along the shore, dancing from stone to stone, jabbing left with his sword-branch, then right, driving the raiders back from the village.
He kept his eyes sharp as he fought imaginary foes, hoping to catch sight of something different, something special. There was magic hidden around the lake, if a body believed the stories and songs, as Petril did. Magic created by the Cataclysm—just as the lake itself was—and disguised as artifacts. He didn’t know what these artifacts looked like, but he was going to find one, and then he’d be someone important. Someone who mattered. Someone who could make a difference.
A tern’s haunting cry echoed overhead, the black and white bird’s elegant wings slicing an arc across the pewter gray sky. As night closed in, light from the village fires would slowly start to twinkle, adding their light to the stars overhead. On a windless night, the lake waters became smooth as ice, mirroring the stars and turning the world into a sparkling wonder.
He liked being outside at night, with the stars overhead and the wind in his face. Being outside was better than sleeping.
He heard the screams of dying fish when he slept, felt the searing pain of the harpoon.
Better not to sleep.
Mum didn’t get after him for going out at night. She seemed to understand that a man needed his freedom. She always saved him a little something when he missed the evening meal, something that became even littler after the dog got Petril’s fish.
He took a vicious swipe at a stubborn clump of wiry grass sticking out from between two stones the size of a man’s head, then paused, listening.
The unmistakable sound of voices drifted across the rock-strewn beach.
Strangers had come to his forest. Foreigners, by the sound of it.
Petril scowled down at the branch in his hand, then tossed it aside, trading in his soldier identity for that of a spy.
A spy who could help keep the village safe.
He needed to find out who the strangers were and then tell Mum. That would be the responsible thing to do.
Petril hunched over slightly to make himself a little smaller, then crept toward the tree line, hopping from stone to stone, barely making a sound.
Leaves rustled as he left the rocky shore behind, slipping into the forest like a creature of the woods. Even though he was a bit big for his age, he could be quiet as an owl hunting in the night, quiet enough to sneak up on folks and give them a good scare.
He loved the look of shock when he managed to surprise his sisters and brothers. He’d even managed, once, to sneak up on Da while he was napping, something Petril had promised never to do again.
He never thought he’d actually need to sneak up on someone, though. It just confirmed his belief that you never could tell when a particular skill would come in handy.
Maybe I will be a spy someday, Petril mused as he eased around a tree trunk as big around as five men. He’d travel to Haven, seek an audience with the King himself, or maybe the King’s Own . . .
He slid between the branches of a particularly thorny bush, imagining meeting the King’s Own. There were always spies in the stories about kings and queens—
He froze.
He’d come to the edge of a small clearing. Three men stood in the clearing, but it wasn’t the men who gave Petril pause.
It was the creature tied to a stake near the men.
At first, he thought it was a boggle, a monster that haunted the darkest night, whose sole purpose was to scare kiddies into staying in their longhouses and not go wandering about in the dark. The creature looked like a horse, but it was hard to tell in the fading light. It was enormous, with an oversized head, a neck as thick as a barrel, and a blotchy hide that could have been dirty gray.
Couldn’t be a boggle though. Boggles had glowing red eyes and belched smoke. This creature’s eyes didn’t glow, and, so far, Petril hadn’t seen any smoke. Not from it, anyway.
The men stood an arm’s length or two away from the creature. The tallest one, lean as a fisher, kept running his hands through dark, shoulder-length hair.
The man nearest the horselike creature was shorter, though just as lean as the tall man, with close-cropped hair and a dark complexion that practically shouted “pirate,” at least to Petril’s mind.
The third man made Petril’s blood run cold. A man who, judging by his girth and round cheeks, should be the lord of a grand manor, sitting by a warm hearth instead of standing in a forest clearing. Even in the dimness, Petril could tell the man’s trousers clung snugly to his legs without any of the bag that came from wearing something over and over. Even his cloak looked to be fresh from the tailor.
He could have been someone’s gramps, looking all friendly and jovial like.
Except the feeling Petril got every time he looked at the man wasn’t friendly or jovial. More like the feeling one would get being out on the lake in a one-man skiff with bad weather coming on and realizing you’d lost your paddle.
The creature snorted and tried to look over its shoulder.
That’s when Petril noticed what looked like a delivery wagon with four sides topped by a roof high enough to allow a man to haul crates inside without ducking his head and a rear door latched shut. The wagon had been tucked back among the trees on the far side of the clearing.
Something thumped in the wagon, a rhythmic, drumlike sound that set Petril’s teeth on edge.
A wave of concern, followed by a sense of desolation, washed over him. Whatever was in that wagon was important, though he wasn’t sure how he knew that.
He studied the creature with a growing sense of alarm.
The light was too dim. He had to get closer. Figure out what the creature was. And maybe, just maybe, figure out a way to help.
He eased back out of the bush and wound his way closer, mindful of the branches and leaves beneath his feet, the scent of damp soil in his nose. He turned when he thought he was close enough and followed a small animal path under a section of bramble brush, finally reaching a point where he could study the clearing once more.
The creature was a horse, he could see that now. A very big, very powerful horse. With intelligent brown eyes that seemed to see him through the broad bramble brush leaves.
The three men approached the horse, partially cutting off Petril’s view. The tall man had a whip curled at his belt.
“It’s time you learned some manners,” the lordly man said, glaring at the horse. He stepped back, and the tall man unhooked his whip, letting the lash flow onto the ground.
Petril’s breath caught in his throat.
He’d always had an affinity for animals. The village goats and dogs, the wild animals of the lake and forest, all were his friends. He’d volunteered to help with the horses when the carters arrived, men hired to haul dried fish and sturgeon roe north to Zoë for trade. The carters had welcomed his help, taking him in hand and teaching him how to ca
re for the cart horses.
Until Da put a stop to it. “Ye’ll be spendin’ all yer wakin’ hours on a boat soon ’nuf,” he’d said, in that voice that sounded like thunder rumbling off in the distance. “No sense wastin’ time learnin’ somethin’ ye’ll naught use.”
That had been before Petril heard the cries of the fish.
Now he watched the horse in the clearing as the tall man lay on the whip, feeling helpless and wishing he’d learned more about horses. A strange thundering filled the clearing, and it took a moment before he realized the sound was coming from inside the wagon. A high-pitched whinny split the air . . . and the enormous horse went mad.
It reared, yanking rope and stake free of the ground. The tall man snapped his whip, the crack of the long lash loud in the night air. At the same time, the lordly man reached beneath his cloak and pulled a long, dark object free. Then he stepped forward and whipped the object through the air with a deadly overhand swing.
Pain burst through Petril’s head as a dull thud sounded in the air. He collapsed on the ground, knowing he wasn’t the one who’d been hurt, but unable to stand the pain.
It was happening again.
First with the bluegill and the sturgeon. Now with an enormous horse.
Was he going out of his mind?
• • •
Petril didn’t know how long he’d been on the ground. The pain gradually faded, but it was full on night before he rolled to his knees and checked the clearing.
He was surprised to see a fire burning in the center of the clearing and the horse tied to a stake. He’d half expected to find it stretched out dead on the ground. The animal stood quietly, head hanging low, as if still in pain.
Two of the men were in bedrolls on the far side of the fire. The tall man sat on a rock facing the fire, his back to the horse. He looked to be nodding off.
Petril could see by the light of the fire that the horse’s nose was dripping, a dark, thick liquid that could only be blood. His heart skipped a beat.
One of the carters had told him if a horse was standing, it was still alive. And this horse was still standing.
But how much blood could a horse lose before it dropped over dead?
He crawled as close as he dared, hoping she’d be able to hear him. He wondered dully how he knew the horse was a she, then decided it didn’t matter.
“Heyla,” Petril whispered, struggling to remember how the carters talked to their horses. It felt strange talking to the animal, though he wasn’t sure why. He talked to the dog all the time. And the fish. And the birds. And practically anything else that flew, crawled, or ran around on four legs. In fact, he did more talking to animals than he did to his own siblings.
Animals didn’t talk back. They didn’t tease, and they didn’t say hurtful things.
But they could be hurt.
“Yer still livin’ anyway. That’s a good sign. I dunno what they’re doing wi’ ye, but I’ll bring hep. I promise.”
The mare didn’t move.
It seemed as though he should say more, do more, but he didn’t know what. He faded back between the trees and ran.
• • •
Petril woke his mum when he got home and told her about the horse and the men. And he felt like a widdle in diapers when Mum didn’t think he’d seen anything important.
“Is this another one o’ yer daydreams, then?” she asked.
Petril shook his head. “She’s real as the ’air on me ’ead.”
“Ye expect me ta believe ye? After tha last prank ye pulled?”
“’Tisn’t a prank, Mum. I swear it.”
His mum sighed. “Ye said there’s only the three?”
He nodded.
“Right, then. I’ll let the others know first thing in the mornin’. We’ll be on the lookout for anythin’ strange. Three men passin’ through ain’t much cause for worryin’, though, and yer Da’ll be home in a day or two.”
“But wha’ about the ’orse? She’s a special one, I jus’ know it. And they be hurtin’ ’er.”
“Ye ken what a Companion is?” Mum asked, reaching out to ruffle Petril’s hair. He nodded.
“Men like yer talkin’ about wouldna be stealin’ a horse o’ the Heralds. And if’n it ain’t a Companion, the likes o’ us got no call ta interfere.”
Petril bowed his head. “She’s not a Companion, Mum. She’s—” He stopped. He didn’t really know what kind of horse it was. “Could be a battle steed,” he said in a rush, then felt his face grow warm. He didn’t even know what a battle steed looked like, though he’d heard stories about them. The stories also said that no one put their hands on a Shin’a’in battle steed and lived to tell about it.
Mum gave him that look. “There’s nowhat more ta be said. Off ta bed wi ye.”
Petril shut his mouth and went to bed, settling into his place on the floor. With the other boys gone, Ani and Tinnie got to sleep on the cot. But he didn’t envy them. Not really. More than likely he wouldn’t sleep a wink. Only this time when he started to drift off, instead of hearing sturgeon cries, he heard a dull thump and remembered the pain.
No one—man or beast, Companion or battle steed or carter’s horse—deserved to be treated like that.
He tossed and turned, then tossed and turned some more, feeling like a man caught in the throes of a fever. Then he finally kicked off his blanket and tiptoed out of the longhouse into the night.
• • •
A new moon lit the way, the tiny sliver reflected in gently undulating waves. Normally, Petril would stop and watch the way the waves caught the light and threw it back, but tonight he was on a mission.
He was used to getting about in the dark, used to seeing without added light. On a night like this, with stars and a new moon, his surroundings were visible enough. It was only on nights that were blanketed with clouds that he had trouble.
Feeling exposed, he traded open sky for the shadowed shelter of looming trees, leaving the shoreline and staying just inside the tree line as he worked his way toward the mare.
What would he do when he reached the clearing?
Petril tried to think it through, but thinking wasn’t really his strong suit. Imagining was.
So he imagined what he would do.
He’d sneak through the bushes, quiet as you please, and walk right up to the horse, who would immediately know he was there to help. He’d untie the poor thing quick as a white bass snapping a line, then lead her into the bushes and back to the village.
Easy peasy, bluegill breezy.
Right. Petril almost snorted. He was young, but he wasn’t stupid. Imagining something was one thing; doing that thing was another.
He couldn’t just do nothing, though. And he couldn’t go back to the longhouse. He’d never sleep, never get the sight and sound of those men beating that poor horse out of his head—
A shout caught his attention.
Petril looked around. He was almost to the clearing. And judging from the intensity of the curses coming from that clearing, not only was the horse still alive, she was kicking.
He ghosted from tree to tree, staying as hidden as possible. The stench of sweat and blood mingled with the scent of trampled earth clogged his nose. He pressed his lips together, wormed his way through the bramble brush again, and peered into the clearing through a small gap between leaves.
The wagon had been pulled from the trees and now sat to the left of a blazing cook fire. The wagon’s rear door had been opened and fastened flush to the side facing the fire.
The mare stood near the wagon. Her shadow—made monstrously huge by the flickering firelight—dominated the wagon’s side.
As Petril watched, the mare reared and lashed out with her front hooves, striking a man-size lump crumpled on the ground at her feet. The lordly man stood nearby, left arm held at an odd angle.
The tall man dodged the mare’s hind feet as she delivered a kick that would have broken bones if it had connected. The tall man shouted and cracked his whip, laying the lash across the mare’s bloodied back.
The lordly man moved, disappearing around the back of the wagon. He reappeared a moment later, leading something the size of a temple dog.
With everything that was going on, it took a moment for Petril to realize the newcomer was a baby horse, a newborn foal with spindly legs and eyes gone wide in fright.
The inside of Petril’s head erupted as the mare let loose a scream filled with rage and terror. He crumpled to the ground, drowning in emotions so intense he could barely breathe.
The mare was furious. She was also terrified.
He curled into himself, frantically trying to move beneath the weight of her emotions. An overwhelming urge to stand up and run washed over him. He should have stayed in his bed, left the horse to take care of herself.
Instead, he’d pretended to be a spy. But the only way a spy could help was if’n someone believed that spy and sent in an army or something.
He couldn’t even get his mum to believe him. She thought he was imagining things.
Just as he’d imagined cries coming from the bluegill and crappies and bass captured in their nets and by their lines.
Just as he’d imagined screams coming from the sturgeons when they’d been harpooned last fall.
But Petril knew now he hadn’t imagined those things. They were real.
A line of reason fell into his pool of self-pity.
He grabbed the line and pulled himself up out of the pool, thinking frantically.
A Herald-Mage was the horse’s best hope, of course.
What would a Herald-Mage do?
A Herald-Mage wouldn’t hide from danger, that’s for certain. A Herald-Mage would figure out a way to use magic to free the horse from her captors.
But magic couldn’t be imagined into existence.
The thought chased the breath from his lungs and left his chest feeling as if a net filled with fish had just fallen on him.
He wasn’t a Herald-Mage .
He was only an eight-year-old boy.
Pathways Page 25
