by Gwynn White
A sense of foreboding cast an even darker pall into the darkened hovel where Ceara’s body way waiting to be tended. Ellora refused to acknowledge it, shutting her mind against both the Goddess’ call and her gifts. She rose from the cot and straightening her shoulders, tossed back her hair, and spoke a word of blessing and warding over the body. “Ceara, the Goddess guard you and protect you until you see her in the Mountains of Eshalon. May she gather you to her home and may you find your peace and contentment there.”
Anger at leaving a body unsupervised was easier to accept than sorrow over another needless death, and more comfortable to manage than her foreseeing as she strode through Haiwood to the Goddess’ temple, her priestess gown trailing on the dusty cobbles. Their blue silk edges turning to a shade of cloudy skies that were not nearly as dark as her thoughts as she mentally rehearsed the tongue-lashing both Riesa and the Groundskeeper were going to get once she found them. They both know better than this. What in the name of the Goddess could be more important than seeing her children safely home!
It might have been the constant jolting that awoken him, or it might have been the throbbing pain in the back of his skull. Or, it might have been the extreme discomfort of being unable to move his hands and arms. Whatever it was, Christol, the farrier and blacksmith of Haiwood, knew by the scent of the animal that he lay strapped across, and by the sounds of the forest that he was a long way from the township where he lived, worked, and that had been his home from the day of his birth. What he didn’t know is exactly which way he was, and in his current face down position, he had no way of finding out. His view was limited to the horse’s belly and ground beneath its feet.
The ache in his skull made thinking difficult, but as far as he could determine, which wasn’t much, none of this made sense. He had obviously been assaulted, kidnapped and was tied across a horse’s back. But the who and the why, eluded him. Years of working with horses had given Christol the ability to quickly and calmly assess any situation where immediate action was needed, and then to identify what needed to be done first. In this case, he decided, getting free was the first priority. The who and the why could wait.
He pulled against the rough fibrous rope that held him. He shifted his weight forward and back, up and down, and was able to determine that the rope that secured him ran beneath the horse’s belly and up the backside. He wasn’t sure where the knot was, but he figured it would be somewhere behind him on the upper side of the horse’s left flank. Well out of his reach, or at least that is where he would have put it. He was going to assume that his kidnappers had a modicum of sense and would do the same. That being the case he needed a way to reach that knot, but the how escaped him.
The farrier relaxed his pull against the ropes that bound him across the horse and laid his check against her flank, thinking. With his mind emptied of his own frantic thoughts of escape, the thoughts of the animals around him slowly penetrated his own frustrations and anger. The rabbit in the meadow felt content with its grassy breakfast, alarm and wariness kept a doe guarding her fawn as she caught scent of a predator, and the big cat thoughts were simply hungry. The mare beneath him, though, was in pain.
It never occurred to Christol to wonder why he could feel what an animal felt, see the world through their eyes, or why the responded to his voice and touch with complete trust. His first memory was of a starling eating his toast from his outstretched hand, and laughing with joy as it did so. He had also been unaware that his mom, Marey, had kept his gifts hidden from others until he was old enough to understand the danger they presented. However, when an animal was injured or needed healing, Christol always put their needs before his own. And, he this mare needed his help, and quickly.
With his ear against her flank, he could easily hear two heartbeats, hers and her foal’s. He could also feel the powerful contractions that were beginning to surge through her. She was in labor, and she had no business carrying a 15-cobblestone man on her back.
“Hey, hey,” he shouted, or tried to, but his throat was closed with thirst and nothing but a croak escaped.
Another ripple of pain coursed through the mare, and with his mind open to hers, he felt her fear and her overwhelming need to lay her heavy burden down, and lay down and give birth to her son. He could also hear the thoughts from all the horses around him, and the closest seemed to be about an arm’s length from his head. He had always spoken to the horses in his care. Verbally calming them with his voice and his hands, but the mare’s desperate need motivated him to try something else. He knew, of course, that he could have done this at any time, but magic frightened him. More than that. Magic in Mithlonde was an almost sure death sentence.
This time the mare groaned and all the horses responded to her needs. Rearing up they threw their unprepared riders, and ignoring their angry commands, they formed a circle around her. Angry shouts and the crack of whips, filled the air, but Christol’s thoughts overrode their training and the threats. The horses moved closer to the laboring mare, protecting her and keeping their riders away with targeted kicks and snapping jaws.
Keep her still. Do not let anyone near her.
White Socks what is your name? Christol directed his thoughts toward feet of the only horse he could see from his prone position - a bay horse with white socks.
I am called, Dancer.
Dancer come close to me, do you see something like this? Christol held the picture of a knot in his mind, and shared it Dancer, forming the image like a painting hanging on a wall and filling in each stroke line by line until the horse could clearly see what Christol needed it to understand.
Yes, I see it.
Chew on it until it is gone.
Christol could feel the velvet softness of the horse’s lips against his wrists as the horse chewed through the knots, but never once did its sharp teeth even scrape his flesh. He pulled against the ropes and the horse worked on the knots, and in less time than it takes to spark a flame to life, he had his hands free.
Whoever tied me up didn’t know much about trussing up game, or prisoners, he thought with wry irony as he quickly freed himself from the rest of his binding. He'd been tied up with one long rope, wrapped around him, the saddle horn and the mare’s belly, and once the main knot had been loosened, the rest of the cordage practically fell off. Freed, he flipped over and slid off the laboring mare’s back. He removed her saddle, bit and bridle, and then ran a hand up her neck, and speaking softly.
“Aw, little mother, it is time, isn’t it? Won’t be long now. Just lay down and your herd mates will protect you, and I will stay until your little one arrives. You will be fine and so will your son.”
Her sigh of relief was audible even to the angry escort who still could not come near their prisoner. Arrows were useless in the tight confines of the mountainous trail, and the horses’ kicks effectively blocked any attempted sword or spear thrust. Outside the tight circle, Jogli watched with interest his glass eye whirling as Wizard Vail also observed Christol’s control over the animals. And, even as Jogli’s eye tracked Christol’s every move, Vail was assessing Christol’s abilities and how best to put them to use.
The wizard leaned over the crystalline ball where Jogli’s reflected visions appeared, gripping the edges of the round, wooden table where it sat with hands that where shaking with excitement. The vestige of tight smile played at the corner of his mouth. “At last,” he murmured.
And then, as if saying it aloud had made it truth, he stood straight, threw back his shoulders to unkink the perpetual tightness his lifelong frustration had caused, and howled, “At last!”
Chapter Three
Once the initial shock wore off, only the mind-numbing, unrelenting pain remained. Riesa could think again, a little. She could almost come up with the reason why she had needed to see the Groundskeeper, but for all the Goddess’ gifts, she could not figure out what Stephye was palavering about. Something about Christol, but all she knew was she needed him to get the Healer.
“Stephye, please be quiet! Go get me the healer now and then you can tell me about Christol and whatever it is he has gotten himself into.” She sighed back into the Groundskeeper’s arms where she had lain while struggling to regain some control over her senses.
“But, Christol…”he began to protest.
“Stephye, I can’t help him until I can think clearly again, and I can’t do that until the Healer gets her. She can’t heal me, I know only the Goddess or her high priestess can do that, but she can help me manage the pain. Once that happens, I can think clearly enough to puzzle out whatever it is you're babbling on about. Now, please go get her!”
Stephye’s rather prominent Adam’s apple bobbed several times as he began swallowing large gulps of air trying to regain his composure. He couldn’t remember being more frustrated or more worried. Christol was in trouble, and nobody was listening, and he had no proof anyway, just a gut feeling that his best friend would have not run off like this. It would never happen. He loved those flaming horses beyond all common sense and he would have never missed their morning feeding. Besides, he thought to himself, who the blazes is going to get them back in the stable. They are always anxious to get out in the morning, but it will take me two bell chimes to get them back in. He shrugged his shoulders not in disregard, but in surrender, and said, “Okay, be back as soon as I can," he said, turning away to find his horse, and hoping it was still tied to the bushes where he had left it.
Riesa watched him leave and another sigh escaped her. She might be stuck with a broken leg for a couple of months, but at least the pain would ease. The Goddess had bestowed that skill upon healers even if it took a priestess to actually mend bones, heal wounds or calm a fever. Another wave of blinding pain tore through her and her mind solved her coping problem for her sending her into the deep, unknowing peace of unconsciousness.
She awoke to find the Healer’s hands on her leg and a soothing warmth, like the kind you get from wrapping your hand around a warm mug of kaveh on a cold day spreading around the break. She looked down at it, to find that it had already been set and a heavy layer of plaster and white wash applied on the break.
“I’m sorry, dear, I am afraid the bone setting woke you. I was hoping you would sleep through this. But, the worse is over.” The Healer’s voice was deep, low, and soothing kind of like the mummer that comes from a wide shallow river. The kind that calls you to wade in its waters and partake of its peace. Riesa fought back the mental urge to do just that as her clearing mind finally remembered what she had come to the temple for in the first place. And, as the temple bell chimed once after the noonday service, she winced at the thought of how angry Ellora must be by now. “She is going to roast me alive in the Goddess’ fires,” she muttered as she struggled to sit up.
The Healer was gently, but persistently forcing her back into a prone position as Ellora’s angry voice thrummed down the passage causing even the bushes to quiver as her temper unconsciously released the Goddess’ gifts. “Riesa, where in the name of Her that we serve are you, and where is the Groundskeeper!”
“We’re over here,” Stephye hollered back, and Riesa realized she hadn’t even noticed him where in stood in silent, loyal guardianship over her injured body.
Even the shaking foliage and the Ellora’s swirling robes seemed to jerk to a standstill as the sight of her friend lying bandaged immobilized the usually self-possessed and confident high priestess. “What….”
“I’m fine, Ellora. I tripped in a gopher hole.”
If Stephye was a painter, he would have liked to have painted and framed the look on Ellora’s face as the most powerful woman in the land of Mithlonde rolled her eyes and fought to hide the giggling laughter that threatened to crack her composed façade. The younger man knew both relief and amusement warred within the beautiful priestess as well as the desire not to offend her injured friend. “She was hurrying to find the Groundskeeper so as not to keep you waiting,” Stephye offered, coming to both their rescue.”
Ellora knelt beside Riesa ignoring the grasses and mud that were sure to stain her robes. "Do you want me to heal you?”
It was Riesa’s turn to be shocked into breathlessness. Ellora hated her magical gifts. To Mithonde’s high priestess, the Goddess’ gifts were a curse not a blessing. They would bring her to Wizard Vale’s attention, and that was never a good thing. No one was sure what happened after Vale took you because no one had ever returned, but everyone was sure it was not a good thing.
However, drawing the wizard’s attention was not a major worry for Ellora as she bent over her Riesa. Her waist-length hair now trailing on the ground next to her robes as she laid her hands on her companion, disciple and best friend. Riesa’s hunched shoulders relaxed against the Healer in whose are she still lay, and the Goddess’ healing warmth spread through the broken bones and began knitting them together. It sort of felt as if her leg was bathed in mineral waters where the salts both irritated and soothed you at the same time. There was no outward sign of the Goddess’ power at work except for the slight play of fire along the tips of Ellora’s fingers.
The high priestess withdrew her hands, and sat back on her heels. “There,” she smiled.
“Get up,” she said, with a quick, commanding jerk of her head. “Stand on it and tell me how you feel.”
Riesa did as Ellora commanded, stood, felt no pain, and the twirled, skipped and jumped into her friend’s arms. “It’s like nothing ever happened. I don’t feel a thing.”
She turned to Stephye. “It’s all better!”
“Good,” he said, giving her a quick squeeze and a pleased smile that quickly faded to frown, “Could we please talk about Christol, now?”
Both women’s heads turned immediately toward Stephye at the rising timbre of barely contained hysteria in his voice.
“What is it? Where’s is he? What’s wrong,” And, once again the high priestess of Mithlonde found the solid foundation of her world crumbling beneath her. “First my hunting, then Riesa, and now Christol. What more will the Goddess want from me?” She physically shook herself, her shoulders hunching forward and back, her long hair waving across her body as she gathered her thoughts. She looked somewhat like a wet cat, trying to shake off an unwanted dunking as she shed her self-centered thoughts. “Stephye,” she commanded, “tell us what is wrong.”
From this smile on Christol’s face, you would have thought he had given birth to his own son or rather than helping give birth to a young stallion. As the little colt wobble to its feet Christol watched in the pleasure as the mare gently began licking her foal. Around him, the herd formed a protective circle. They held off his captors by charging, kicking and biting anyone that came close. The narrow passage was too tight for arrows and motivated by spirit-deep protective instincts, they viciously attacked anyone that could possibly threaten the newborn and its mother.
Assured that the foal and its mother were now safe, Christol stood and looked over the backs of the herd that formed a living wall around him. He reached out to Dancer sending him thought images as well as words.
I must escape, and he sent an image of the horse running free from its stall.
I need to return to town without these men, he thought forming a picture of the cobbled streets of Haiwood and of the protective ring that surrounded him.
I will need a mount, and he knew he did not need to visualize that one.
I understand, and I will go, came Dancer’s reply, and the large stallion with the white socks backed slowly out of the protective barricade. He picked his way carefully past the mother and child to Christol’s side with a daintiness that belied his giant size.
I do not want anyone getting hurt, Christol sent with an image of giant cat claws, thrusting spears and swords, and flying arrows.
Dancer looked over his shoulder as Christol began to mount him, and his large almond eyes met Christol’s. The depth of understanding, compassion and sacrifice that the farrier found there caused him to pause, and setting his foot
back on the ground, he reached up to stroke the animal’s muzzle.
Are you sure?
The large chestnut head nodded once and Christol again stroked the horse’s face with loving gratitude. Giving Dancer a final pat, he mounted up, and the herd moved as a single entity opening a pathway to the far side of the gorge, and then closing ranks once again, blocking off both Christol’s retreat and the mother and foal. Over the pounding of Dancer’s hooves on the hard packed earthen trail, the screams of the horses in pain and anger, pierced his heart as surely as the swords and lances pierced the sides and flanks of those who had rescued him, and now were giving their lives to aid his escape. He bent low over back of the racing stallion sending a vow to the Goddess and an image to the animal.
With my last breath, they will never again be used in battle, he vowed, sending an image of herds roaming free in mountain fields and meadows. Dancer snorted with pleasure at the promise of lush fields and freedom, and Christol felt the beast’s flanks heave with exertion. The sacred word to the Goddess proving a catalyst that fueled them both toward their goals. The battle cries grew dim as they rushed through the canyon, Christol’s leather breeches scrapping rock walls, and his head brushing overhanging limbs. At least twice, he found himself gripping the saddle horn and simply hanging on. Allowing, Dancer his head with the confidence that the horse knew the way home, and was sufficiently motivated to ensure they both arrived safely.
As the narrow mountain gorge opened up into the flat meadows and forestlands that ringed Haiwood, Dancer’s pace finally slowed. The stallion’s sides heaved with exertion and sweat lathered his sides and withers. Christol risked a backwards glance, but nothing and no one followed. However, when he looked back up, the sight of Ellora, Riesa and Stephye galloping toward him nearly unsaddled him. It was the last thing he ever expected to see, and the reason for the unlikely gathering lay beyond his reasoning. But, he was soon to find out for Stephye’s voice rang clearly across the meadow, and he didn’t sound at all pleased.
