The Golden Land crumbled into salt, and no man remembered those who once lived there.
By the Shield of Khored, whispered through her thoughts, by the memory of my mother, by everything holy and by all that is unholy if need be, I swear that Gelon will pay.
Chapter 16
ON the morning of the Long Ride, the sun spread across a perfect, cloudless sky. Dew still clung to the grasses, but by the time Shannivar had finished saddling Eriu, the ground was almost dry. It would be a hot day, a final lashing of summer before the seasons turned, and that would make for a grueling race.
Shannivar had risen well before first light and eaten a cold meal of bha, spiced meat cakes. It would keep her going for a long time without overly filling her stomach. She carried more of the concentrated food in her saddlebags, as well as skins of water and honey-grain cakes for Eriu. They both would need all their strength for the last distance.
“You will win for me, my Eriu,” she murmured, stroking the black’s muzzle. He regarded her calmly, his eyes pools of glossy darkness, and swished his tail at the flies. She checked the girth again, took a double handful of mane, and swung herself lightly up on his back.
A good portion of the gathering had come to see them off. Bennorakh was there, along with two other shamans. One held the age-scoured brass gong that would signal the start of the race. Tenoshinakh waved the winner’s banner, a length of white silk, and tied it to a pole at the finishing-place.
Everyone from the Golden Eagle contingent stood to the forefront, cheering as Shannivar approached. Ythrae waved to her and even Dharvarath, who had been desolate and sullen since the death of his brother and sister, smiled.
Shannivar could not count the number of riders. There must be more than a hundred, she thought, although only a few were women. Kharemikhar was already there, mounted on a big silver roan. Not a bad horse, Shannivar thought. Well coupled with good bone below the knee.
Kharemikhar wheeled the horse as he boasted to the other riders. A cluster of young women watched him with admiration. Shannivar thought that if Kharemikhar were looking for a wife, he would have no trouble winning one.
Rhuzenjin nudged his horse into place beside her. “A fair morning to you, Shannivar daughter of Ardellis. May your day be lucky.”
Politely, Shannivar returned his greeting. “Let the promise of the dawn be fulfilled in the glory of the evening.” Rhuzenjin had said nothing of his intention to enter the Long Ride, but if he was willing to behave properly, she would do her best to treat him as a clansman.
A stir in the crowd caught her eye. Zevaron and Danar had joined the onlookers. They looked relaxed and at ease with one another, with no trace of lingering tension from the conversation she had overheard.
Kharemikhar, following the custom of taunting the other riders, swerved his silver roan closer to Eriu. Like many of the others, he brandished a short whip of braided camel leather. He snapped it in the air.
“So Golden Eagle clan is to have a champion today, after all,” he cried. “Two of you, in place of Alsanobal! Pah! I had hoped for a real race!”
“Look to your own dust,” Shannivar replied in a loud voice. “I will win this day! Eriu is the fastest horse of all the Golden Eagle clan, and I am the best rider!”
The riders brought their horses to face east, for the Long Ride customarily began facing the dawn and ended facing the sunset. Eriu arched his neck. Through pad and saddle, Shannivar felt the long, powerful muscles of his back flex, the rise of his ribcage.
They will see how well I ride, as they try to catch me!
The gong sounded, and the horses leaped forward. Riders whooped and flailed at their mounts with whips and sticks. They broke into a trot for a few steps and then a full-out gallop.
Hooves churned the ground and threw up clods of hard-packed dirt. The galloping sounds filled the air like thunder. Black and bay, sorrel and dun and gray, the bodies of the horses rippled like a multi-hued river.
Kharemikhar passed Shannivar, shouting insults and slashing the silver roan with his whip. Something in his expression, that arrogant, triumphant gloat, stung Shannivar. She had never used a whip on Eriu, had never needed one.
“Go! Go! Go!” Yelling, she dug her heels into Eriu’s sides.
The black sprang forward like an arrow. He was smaller than many of the other horses, but within a few moments, he had passed them.
Suddenly a horse diagonally in front of Shannivar went down. She could not see what happened, if it had stepped into a marmot burrow, been knocked off balance by another horse, or maybe broken a leg. Clinging to Eriu’s mane, she twisted around for a better view, but the poor horse was already lost to view.
The horses rushed forward, jostling each other, their riders struggling to maneuver them into the best position.
Another horse fell, and two more dropped aside.
Shannivar kept her eyes ahead and her hands quiet on the reins. The slightest lapse might throw Eriu off his stride. He drew even with the pair of horses just in front. Lather had already broken out on their necks. She could hear the hoarse sound of their breathing, could almost touch their straining bodies. Kharemikhar’s silver roan was still ahead, but now not so far.
Eriu raced on, fighting to pass the leaders. Streaks of sweat appeared on his shoulders. Shannivar knew his temper. He would not give up until he was ahead, even if it meant bursting his heart. Only last night, one of the chieftains had chanted a song-poem about how such a horse had run unto death to save its rider.
The thought shocked Shannivar out of the madness of the race. No horse alive, not even Eriu, could maintain such a breakneck pace. What had she been thinking, to risk him in this way? Was winning worth the cost of his life?
The Long Ride was a race like none other, a test not only of speed but of endurance, of patience, of steadfastness. Of cunning.
Shannivar hauled on the reins, guiding Eriu to the edge of the mass of horses. He fought her, but not as much as if she had tried to stop him outright. He still wanted to run.
Once free from the main body of the race, Shannivar was able to slow Eriu from a gallop to a trot. He danced sideways, wringing his tail in frustration and tugging at the bit.
Shannivar stroked his hot, wet neck as she forced him to a walk. “Save yourself, my beauty, my Eriu. The time will come. We will fly, you and I together. Soon, soon. You will need all your strength for later.”
She was not the only one to let the headlong rush pass by. A handful of riders, Rhuzenjin among them, had held their horses back. One of the few women, a stocky, cheerful girl from Badger clan, circled her restive horse at a walk. She waved at Shannivar, in no apparent hurry to get on with the race. Rhuzenjin seemed far more interested in staying close to Shannivar than in keeping up with the others.
When the dust had settled, and Shannivar judged the mass of riders to be sufficiently far off, she loosened the reins and gave Eriu the signal to go forward. After a few minutes of shaking his head and jittering, he settled into an easy trot, the gait used in long journeys. After a short time, she felt him relax.
The ground swept by, shifting from beaten earth to tufted grasses. The sun rose higher, heating Shannivar’s shoulders. She drew Eriu to a walk and let him recover his breath and drink from the water skins. She hoped she had not sapped too much of his strength by letting him gallop so hard.
After a time, a couple of other horses caught up with them, ridden by older, experienced men who had known better than to get caught up in the frenzy of the beginning of the race. One such rider walked beside her for a time. The faded embroidery on his vest depicted a stylized Skylark. He rode a mottled sorrel, thin and gangly in the manner of young horses, yet moving with a long rein and an easy stride.
The rider gestured a greeting and wished Shannivar a lucky race.
“You were wiser than I, to stay behind while the others galloped their
horses,” Shannivar said ruefully.
“My grandfather taught me, as his father taught him, the best way to train horses for the Long Ride.”
Shannivar saw now that the man was older than she had first thought. His face was weathered like dark leather, crinkled around the eyes, and he spoke slowly, as if there were no cause for hurry under Tabilit’s wide sky.
“That is a fine, spirited horse you have. Do not force him to walk too early,” he advised her. “He will build up too much rancor. When I am training a young horse like this one, I allow him to trot for the distance that is safe for his strength. Only then do I ask him to walk. If I cannot achieve this, if there is still too much fire in his blood, then I dismount, and we walk together. All my horses are taught in this manner.”
“Do you mean to win the race on that horse?” Shannivar asked. The sorrel had the makings of a good horse, but she thought it would be some years yet before the animal came into his full strength and balance. Some horses were slower to mature than others, and could be ruined by asking too much of them too soon.
The old man grinned and bent to stroke the sorrel neck. The young horse cocked one ear back, listening to his voice. “I have already won.”
Shannivar thanked him, feeling more hopeful about the outcome of the race. Once Eriu recovered his breathing, she allowed him to trot again. He kept his head low, his stride easy.
After a time, they began to pass other horses that were trailing the main group. She continued to alternate walking and trotting, just as the old man had suggested. Eriu settled into the rhythm, no longer pulling on the bit.
By the time the sun was directly overhead, Shannivar judged that she had passed over half the main pack. Eriu did not seem overly tired yet, although Rhuzenjin’s mare was flagging. They stopped to give the horses water and honey-grain cakes. Rhuzenjin’s horse would not eat, but stood with her head lowered, her eyes dull.
“You must not go on, for the sake of your horse.” To her surprise, Shannivar felt a little regretful. Rhuzenjin had said very little so far, even when they walked their horses. Clearly, he had no aspirations toward winning the race, but had come only to be near her. For a moment, she wished she could return his devotion.
* * *
The half-way point of the Long Ride was a spring at the base of a huge rock. The rock was shaped like a camel, making it easy to spot from a distance. A grove of trees cast a welcoming shade. Eriu, scenting the moister air, nickered.
A representative of the Council met Shannivar at the edge of the oasis. He handed her a strip of blue-dyed cloth to prove that she had completed the outward journey. She tied it around her upper arm and dismounted. Eriu was warm, but not too hot, and he was breathing easily. She checked his feet and legs, then led him to drink. He thrust his muzzle into the water and gulped noisily, but did not stomp about in the mud or sully the water.
Beside the spring, Kharemikhar and some of his friends took their ease, sprawled against the trunks of the largest trees. Their horses, coats still dark with sweat, tore at the few remaining clumps of grass.
“So you’ve caught up with me at last.” Kharemikhar did not rise from where he sat, his back against the largest tree. He seemed so confident of his lead that he could afford to rest in this pleasant place. “Where’s your shadow gone?”
Shannivar refused to be taunted. “His horse was not strong enough, so he returned to the khural-lak. When you have finished with your nap, I will see you there.” Seeing that Eriu had drunk his fill, she swung up on his back.
Behind, she heard Kharemikhar’s bitten-off curse and then the commotion as he and his friends scrambled to tighten their girths and jump into their saddles. Clearly, they had expected her to need time to recover, just as they had. They’d been counting on bursts of speed to put them far ahead of the rest. Now they whipped their horses into a gallop and quickly passed Shannivar. Smiling to herself, she made no attempt to match their pace. Eriu shook his head, jingling the bridle rings, and kept on at his even, ground-covering pace. His willingness to let them pass was a measure of his trust in her.
The day lengthened. Shannivar passed more riders, but not Kharemikhar. He remained in the forefront. She grew anxious, wondering if there were enough time to catch him, if Eriu’s stamina would hold for a final sprint. Somehow, she must remain steady to the end. No matter what happened at the finish, she had made a good race, and she had not crippled her horse. But it was not the same as winning, and she knew it.
The rocky prominence above the khural-lak rose stark and shadowed, the setting sun behind it bright on the horizon. Crimson smeared the sky.
Shannivar nudged Eriu with her heels, and he lengthened his stride. They passed a handful of contestants; one led his badly limping mount. Only a few riders remained ahead. Squinting against the sunset glare, Shannivar recognized Kharemikhar and the Badger clan woman. She could not tell at this distance how much strength remained to the silver roan. She knew only that if she did not make her move, she would not have enough time to overtake them.
She bent over the black’s neck, feeling him respond to the shift in her weight, and whispered into his ear, “Now, Eriu!”
Gathering himself, Eriu shifted into a lope and then a gallop. Wind sang against Shannivar’s face. She clung to his mane. Her knees gripped the saddle pad. Eriu ran freely, reaching for the ground, but there was no joy left in him, only weariness and determination.
The other horses were running now, too, making their final sprint to the finish. Drained, they could not hold the pace for long. Kharemikhar and the Badger clan woman were still ahead, urging their horses on.
Shannivar passed the Badger clan woman. The finishing-place lay before them. The crowd cheered as they approached.
Eriu’s body heaved with each panting breath, but he did not falter.
Now only the silver roan was ahead. The light burnished his hide, red in the setting sun. The muscles of his hindquarters flexed and stretched. His hooves kicked up puffs of dust.
Gallantly Eriu kept on, but his strides were shorter now and rough. Shannivar felt the jarring of each footfall in her teeth.
Kharemikhar drove his horse hard, switching the whip from one hand to the other, slashing again and again. Shannivar felt a spasm of pity for the poor beast. She had never struck Eriu or any of her horses; they served her from love, and because it was their nature. In daylight, went the Song of the Horse, you are my wings.
Be my wings, Eriu!
Eriu dipped his head. He seemed to draw renewed strength from the land. As if the air itself lifted him, his stride turned silken. Like an eagle, like the Golden Eagle, he skimmed the ground.
The silver roan was failing. Yellow lather covered his neck. Foam dripped from his jaws. Blood oozed from the reddened stripes over his sides where the whip had cut him. Shannivar drew even with Kharemikhar. Exultation surged through her. In just a few more lengths, they would reach the end.
The silver roan no longer responded to the whip. His eyes had gone dull, as if blind. His gait was broken and ragged. He had nothing left to give. Kharemikhar’s face flushed a dusky red. He shifted his whip to the side nearest Shannivar, a motion so quick, a flicker only, that she had no time to react.
Thwack!
With a sound that cut the air like a lightning crack, Kharemikhar brought the whip down. The braided camel-leather tails slashed Eriu across the head.
The black staggered under the blow, missing his stride and almost going down to his knees. Shannivar caught herself, her hands braced on his withers. Her muscles responded instinctively, knees gripping hard against the saddle roll. Luck was with her. She managed not to tumble over his head.
The silver roan rushed past them.
Shannivar regained her balance as the black lurched to his feet. She bent low over his neck. “Go!”
Eriu scrambled into a gallop, but it was too late. In those few preci
ous moments, Kharemikhar had seized the winner’s banner. The white silk rippled as he waved it above his head. The gong sounded wildly. The onlookers shouted their approval. Some threw their hats into the air.
The first of the other riders arrived a few moments later. They circled the finishing-place, laughing and talking. The air filled with dust, the mingled reek of horse sweat and adrenaline.
Shannivar slowed Eriu to a walk. He fought her, tossing his head. Around her, people were cheering. Several came over to praise her. Their words passed through her like ghosts.
Eriu came to a halt. His nostrils flared, gulping air. Sweat drenched his hide, and his sides heaved like bellows. Shannivar kicked her feet free and jumped to the ground. Her legs almost gave way beneath her. Trembling, she took hold of the bridle and brought Eriu’s head around to examine him. The whip had caught him diagonally across his forehead, narrowly missing one eye. Drops of blood oozed from the welt.
Throughout the steppe, it was considered shameful to strike a horse—any horse—in front of the girth. But there were no rules in the Long Ride.
Shannivar was too furious to speak. A vision rose up behind her eyes; she saw herself rushing up to Kharemikhar, naming him coward and dishonored before the assembled gathering. She could almost feel the sword in her hand, the weight and swing and bite of the blade as she cut him down.
She looked for the silver roan, but horse and rider had disappeared in the milling throng. The Badger clan woman rode past, and as her gaze lit upon Eriu, her face turned hard. She had seen what Kharemikhar had done. Everyone at the finishing-place had seen.
Shannivar Page 17
