by Sandra Kopp
Edwin still looked dubious. “And Hans rides this beast?”
“Hans—his top half—has been joined into Parsius.” Charles swallowed. “He is now half man and half horse, with a beast’s mind. I can only imagine his torment.
“He’s completely mad.” This from Bertrand. “Death would prove a kindness.”
“Yet he knew me!” Charles looked about the group. “I saw recognition in his eyes. Indeed, his whole countenance changed. He calmed, and when I offered my hand he reached back. But something spooked him, maybe some memory or—I don’t know. And then the arrows flew.” Charles frowned. “I wonder how badly he’s hurt.”
“How could we know?” Bertrand demanded. “He sounded like Baugonril thrashing through the trees, and when at last he appeared he came at us like a—” Bertrand broke off and waved an exasperated hand. “Maybe we could have bound him. . .”
“He tore a full-grown cougar in half.” Charles rubbed his brow. “You cannot bind him.”
Edwin sighed and absently kicked a pine cone, sending it scuttling across the rocks and under a nearby bush. “Poor devil. We should help, but what aid could we possibly render?”
“He’s under some enchantment, probably by Nedra’s hand, so we can do nothing.” Marcos bobbed his head toward the forest. “Davon and many of my people remain unaccounted for. We must go on. If we encounter Hans again we can only act as circumstances dictate.”
Charles morosely chewed his lip. “Hardly a fitting end for one so noble and brave.”
Marcos hung his head. “I feel as you, but we’ve neither the time nor the resources to deal with him. He possesses supernatural strength, and bestial instincts may compel him to attack us. If we find your Nimbian friend, perhaps he can summon his brother to Hans’ aid.”
Bertrand leaned an arm on a low branch and pursed his lips. “I have fought many wars, and one thing I learned is that you cannot possibly save every friend or confederate, however diligent your efforts. At times you must choose whom you will rescue. That choice is never easy.” He paused and then continued quietly, “This is such a time. I agree with Marcos: We must seek the Nimbian and Marcos’ people.”
“Aye, you’re right.” Charles turned and fastened his bow and quiver to Vitimihovna’s saddle. “Only a sorcerer or Arganian can break Hans’ chains. Maybe only death itself.”
Marcos walked to him and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “I grieve for Hans also,” he said quietly. “But consider all we have endured before and have faith. If he indeed recognized you, at least a semblance of the man remains. He’s cunning and resourceful. Surely he resolves to live, for vengeance, if nothing else.”
“Aye, he’s tough.” Charles managed a weak smile. “You give me hope. Thank you.”
Marcos smiled back, patted Charles’ shoulder, and returned to his horse.
Bertrand squinted at the sun, now low in the western sky. “It’ll be dark soon and I’ve no wish to overnight here. If ever a place harbored evil incarnate, this one does.”
“You’ll get no complaint from us,” Benno growled. “Let’s get out of here.”
Twilight plunged the forest into purple gloom as the Red Horse plodded to the Lost River. Crimson streaks ran down from the cruel shafts protruding from his right shoulder, right wither, both buttocks, and the gash along his cheek where an arrowhead had grazed it. Pain twisted his face. Wrenching sobs wracked shoulders heavily caked with mud, blood and sweat. His entire body felt aflame and so weak and tired he could hardly stand. But since that dreadful night at that dreadful castle rest had evaded him. Sleep fled. His tortured mind, awhirl with confusion and disjointed thoughts, held only a vague remembrance of his former self. He had a name—once. What was it?
And that man. The Red Horse collected himself and put his hands to his face, wincing as his claw-like nails raked his torn cheek. That man: Who was he? He had held out his hand. In friendship? Rage contorted his features. Ha! Ages ago another entity emerging through fog and mist had offered a hand. Ignorant and seeking solace, the Red Horse had seized it, only to incur excruciation beyond what he felt even hell itself could have delivered. Would this man have punished him thus?
Yes! Perhaps worse. No! He might have freed you from this hell! He was a demon! He was an angel! You should have killed him! No, he would have helped you. . .
The mocking voices argued back and forth, louder and faster until he could scarcely distinguish one from the other. His pulsating brain throbbed unbearably and with an agonized howl the Red Horse clutched his ears. “I should have killed him!” he roared.
Yet something inside rejoiced that the man had escaped.
After a while—he knew not how long, for time had lost all meaning—enough of his reason returned to realize anew the reality of his miserable fate. The Red Horse raised his swollen, tear-stained face to the indifferent sky and uttered a heart-rending cry. Merciful God, grant me peace, I beseech you!
Several minutes passed. Gradually the voices quieted. His confusion ebbed. The Red Horse dropped his arms and for the first time felt the stabbing pain of the arrows lodged in his flesh. Glimpsing something in his shoulder, he grabbed it and yanked. Searing heat raced down his arm as the barbed tip, enwrapped with pieces of muscle, pulled free. The creature’s tortured roar reverberated throughout the forest.
For a moment he stood, staring at the gory arrowhead, ignoring the blood coursing down his arm. Anguish changed to fury. That man with his extended hand intended, not friendship, but torment. His minions had fired that volley. Maybe he had brought this curse.
Well, I shall hunt him down and kill him! I shall relish every scream and the terror on his face, for he shall not die quickly! He shall feel all my pain—and more!
His face burned with fever, his parched throat felt scratchy and raw. The Red Horse waded into the river and, releasing the arrow to the current, scooped his cupped hands full and drank. The draught soothed his throat but did nothing to calm the tempest within. His mind roiled with a single thought: The land abounds with witches casting spells! Anyone, anyone, making any gesture or casting so much as a glance toward the Red Horse must die!
The river’s flow against his flesh calmed him somewhat. The Red Horse threw back his head, savoring this bit of respite; but as he waded into deeper water, the arrow shafts flexed in the rushing stream. Grimacing, he retreated to shallower water, then washed his face and torso and took another drink.
Those cruel missiles must come out somehow, but just thinking how to extract them filled him with angst. Already he suffered unendurably and had lost much blood. He stared dolefully at the river coursing relentlessly on to its plunge into Gonor Canyon. He need only stretch himself upon that liquid highway and let it carry him into sweet oblivion where pain and misery would cease and his enemies would never find him. The Red Horse and his memory would simply disappear. . .
That man! He wills this! He wishes me to die! But he will die! He will die!
Defiance replaced despair. The Red Horse took several breaths, bracing for the impending ordeal. Finally he inhaled deeply and held it. Gritting his teeth he grasped, with both hands, the shaft protruding from his wither and pulled. The wound made a slight sucking sound as grudging flesh yielded and the tip emerged. A crimson pool spread itself upon the current and disappeared among the ripples.
Trembling, his chest heaving, the Red Horse waded to the bank and tossed the arrow into the grass. Using handfuls of mud, he plastered his injuries and hauled himself out of the river.
He had removed two arrows; but his posterior, hard to see and even harder to reach, posed a greater dilemma. The Red Horse twisted and turned, clutching vainly at the missiles embedded in his throbbing hindquarters, but succeeded only in turning in circles. Finally, dizzy and despondent, he gave up and plodded to a nearby aspen, folded his arms atop a low thick branch, and laid his head on his arms. His enervated body cried for sleep; but the raging storm inside his brain granted no respite and no relief. He groaned, trying to bl
ot out all except the river noises that he hoped would lull him into welcome slumber.
Wind sighed through the treetops and caressed his skin with airy fingertips. Its tender whisper soothed him. Amid the steady chirps of singing crickets he heard the occasional plip plop of a jumping fish. He did not, however, detect the stealthy padding of approaching deerskin boots or notice the evergreen boughs drawing back behind him. . .
A heavy net fell over him. The Red Horse snorted and spun around, but his legs crumpled under the leaden weight, sending him crashing to the ground. Struggling only increased his entanglement and drained his remaining strength.
A horde of Rauths brandishing spears flocked around him. The Red Horse closed his eyes and prayed for death.
“There you are, my wayward steed.” Nedra’s low, seductive voice floated to his ears. “I feared we had lost you.” She knelt and reached through the mesh to stroke the matted hair and beard. The Red Horse gritted his teeth but otherwise lay still, glaring through smoldering, hate-filled eyes.
“Such brutal wounds,” she crooned. “Who would have done such a thing, dearest?” She clicked her tongue. “Pity. But don’t worry, love. We’ve come to take you home. You’ll not suffer long.”
She withdrew her hand, smiling as the Red Horse cringed, and rose. “Be gentle with him,” she instructed her host and walked away.
One of the Rauths opened a pouch filled with pungent liquid, dipped the point of his knife, and pricked one of the Red Horse’s arms. The Red Horse raised his head but, feeling dizzy, lay back down. Welcome slumber washed over him, and for the first time in weeks his tortured body relaxed.
Using leather thongs, some of the Rauths bound his legs and arms; the rest began constructing a make-shift gurney out of branches.
“Why trouble yourselves?” a weathered Rauth with a scarred cheek rasped. “Let’s just drag the blighter.”
“Sachi!” Nedra peered around a nearby fir, eyeing him reproachfully. “I’ll not treat my dear husband like that and neither will you.” She stepped from behind the tree, motioned to the gurney crew—now standing idle—and clapped her hands. “Come along, get on with it. Make him as comfortable as you can. Hurry up now.”
The men grunted and resumed their task, cutting several long poles which they lashed together with thongs and covered with foliage-laden branches. The result was a crude but adequate transport capable of carrying the creature’s weight over miles of rough terrain.
Their task finished, the Rauths used two horses to drag the Red Horse onto the gurney and then tied the horses to the gurney.
“Ready, mistress,” one of the Rauths growled.
“Well done.” Nedra surveyed the fruit of their efforts and nodded approval. “Now let us return home and see to the creature’s wounds. I have much more for him to do.”
The company mounted their horses and, with Nedra leading, headed north. The sun had long set. Only a faint orangeish blush, the last vestige of daylight, tinged the cooling air. The Lost River whispered past, pausing occasionally to lap the shoreline before hurrying on. A great owl circled overhead. Upon his woody bier, the Red Horse lay motionless.
A quarter mile ahead the river curved first west and then north, forming a gentle S. A row of willows lined the bank, their cascading fronds trailing in the stream. Nedra guided her palomino away from the willows and onto a narrow path meandering among the firs and pines. She scanned the forest. All remained quiet, but she sensed a presence lurking beyond a thicket just ahead. She cocked her head and sat straighter, her gaze riveted to the spot. Her hand slipped to the boche tucked in her waistband. A few steps further her keen eyes glimpsed a movement behind a nearby tree. She drew her boche. “Show yourself.”
A gaunt horseman, barely visible in the evening gloom, emerged and stopped in the path. Nedra noted his oversized coat and the large floppy hat obscuring his face.
“Remove your hat and state your business, knave.”
The horseman held up a hand. “You’ve no need for weapons, milady. I come peaceably.”
Nedra slipped her boche back into her waistband but kept hold of its hilt. The horseman took off his hat and approached a few steps, stopping when each could distinguish the other. Placing his hat over his heart then, he bowed shortly. “I would speak with you, milady—alone.”
Cool air brushed Davon’s cheek. He opened his eyes. He lay on his side on his makeshift bed, facing away from the pond frequented by Akira and Chemille for their tenderer moments. Twilight had cast a purple pall over the forest. Davon wondered at the uncanny stillness. The usual night sounds of chirping crickets, croaking frogs, and hooting owls, along with others to which he had grown accustomed were eerily absent. Even when a breeze arose it seemed the leaves dared not rustle, as if the trees held their breath for fear of punishment. If the forest shared his trepidation concerning his ghoulish captors, Davon thought, then its silence was truly warranted.
Cautiously he raised his head. One or both of the shapeshifters usually perched nearby watching and listening, Davon surmised, for any twitch, word, change in his color, or other sign that might betray his true mental state. Their probing stares seemed able to ferret out his innermost secrets and he feared to sleep in their presence, lest in his dreams he pronounce some damning utterance. This constant vigilance, along with his struggle to maintain feigned amnesia wearied him more than the most arduous exertion. Worse yet, at his smallest stirrings Chemille darted to his side, crooning and comforting while stroking his face and hair. Davon loathed her touch. The icy clamminess of her skin felt like worms writhing across his flesh. Just thinking of it made him shudder.
Thus far his movements had elicited no reaction. Davon warily glanced around then, sensing himself quite alone, slowly sat up. If he could determine their location, he might make a run for it.
From beyond the pond came Chemille’s little laughs and shrieks. Davon snorted in disgust. Her appetite seemed insatiable. He thanked Providence for Akira’s presence, and even more for his jealousy, for it curbed whatever affections she might otherwise bestow upon Davon.
He caught his breath. Their present occupation might allow his escape—but how long could he elude them? Hell itself indwelt them. They would find him wherever he fled. Yet he must try, for another moment in this wretched place would drive him mad.
Heart pounding, he cautiously rose. He might slip out of camp easily enough, but somewhere in this wilderness lurked the monster Chirubach who, in his beastly guise inspired all the terror of Baugonril and more.
Davon gulped. As an Arganian, Arris might have withstood him. Davon, however, felt woefully inadequate.
You possess Arganian traits, Davon. Thus had Arris spoken.
Traits, perhaps. But power? Davon sniffed.
You could perhaps outwit them, which in itself constitutes power. But why do you stand here, man? Run!
“Ah, you’re awake.”
Davon’s heart plummeted. Locked in his internal debate, he had not noticed when the squeals fell silent. Now Chemille’s silky voice sounded like a death knell. He had lost his chance, however small.
“Come, sit with us.” Chemille seated herself on a nearby log and gracefully crossed her spindly legs. She flashed him a beguiling smile and patted the spot beside her.
Davon hesitated, shaking his head as she continued to beckon.
“Yes, come.” Akira perched beside her, crooking an abnormally long index finger invitingly. “We’ve really had no chance to talk. You seem alert enough now. What say we at least try?” He smiled smugly and rubbed Chemille’s knee. “Don’t be shy. Come and sit.”
“I’d really like to stand a while. I’ve moved so little. It might do me good.”
Akira shrugged. “So stand.”
Davon hesitated. “I must discover who I am. If I could walk about a little. . .” He searched their faces with pleading eyes.
“We will find you out soon enough.” Akira sounded almost bored. “Now sit.”
Davon blinked, conf
used. “What do you mean?”
“Sit!” Akira slapped a hand to his thigh and leaned forward, glowering.
“Akira!” Chemille cradled her arm in Akira’s elbow, put her mouth to his ear and whispered, “We shall learn his identity ere long, as you said, and then acquire wealth and power beyond all imagination. Think about that, and don’t distress him needlessly.”
“Quite right, my love.” Akira’s contorted features relaxed, although his eyes retained their steely glint. Again he motioned Davon to join them. “Let us enjoy pleasant conversation for a change. Consider yourself our guest. Come. Perhaps we will chance upon a topic that revives your memory.”
Davon slouched to a tall rock facing the pair and sat, hesitantly moistening his lips as he pondered his next move. Something, either dust or an eyelash, irritated one eye. He hung his head and carefully wiped it away and then blinked several times before looking up again. His breath caught and an icy chill crept up his spine.
Chemille was leaning forward, eyes gleaming, her lips parted into a wide, lurid smile. Even in human form she looked more like a cat ready to pounce.
Davon tensed. His mind raced as he stared, expecting her to assume a feline shape and fly at him. He imagined impacting the unforgiving, rock-strewn ground, and Chemille on top of him, clawing, biting, licking, writhing.
The color drained from his face. Davon turned sick with dread. He had dropped his façade. His actions, demeanor, everything declared full possession of his faculties. Sweat beaded his forehead. What do I do now?
Chemille’s smile abruptly vanished. Concern flooded her face. “Your pain has returned.” She leaped to her feet but Akira clasped her wrist and pulled her back. With a defiant snarl, Chemille tried to wrest free. “Let me go!”
“I have no pain.” Davon held up both hands as if warding her off. “Please. I am well enough.”
“But you turned so pale.”
“Remaining abed so long has weakened me. I should have moved around a bit.” Davon’s tension eased. Perhaps he had not betrayed himself, after all.
