Swallowtail & Sword: The Scholar's Book of Story & Song (Tails from the Upper Kingdom 4)

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “You love her?”

  “She will make a fine wife.”

  “But do you love her?”

  Liam looked up at him.

  “I think I do, Kirin. By Ho’s flaming choli, I think I do.”

  Now it was Kirin’s turn to smile at the ground. Liam al’Massay-Carr was engaged to be married, becoming a man. Would likely be a father soon enough with kittens of his own. Life happened all too quickly and never looked back.

  “Ah, Captain Wynegarde-Grey,” sang a reed-thin voice. “Middle Captain al’Massay-Carr. So good to see you this morning. So very good.”

  They turned to see Master Yeo Tang-St. John, Minister of Horses, moving like water towards them. Tang-St. John was also a lion, his mane shot with silver and pulled back into an elaborate top-knot. Customarily, he wore robes of Imperial gold but today, and from the beginning of their trek, he had exchanged them for a thick kosode and rough woolen sash. He wore a rabbit pelt cap tied under his chin and his boots were tooled yak hide. Not at all the slip of a figure he presented in the courts.

  They bowed at his approach, fists to cupped palms and he did the same. Although considerably senior than they, courtesy was one of the many things that separated cats from animals.

  “We should break fast,” he said. “And soon. The dungchen master is ready and the sherpi are preparing their ponies.”

  “Yes sir,” said Kirin. “Is Major Laenskaya awake?”

  “Oh most certainly she is,” sang the Master of Horses. “She has been up since sunrise, performing the Sun Salute. She is a graceful creature, if not entirely pleasant.”

  There was little to break the fast with so they contented themselves on tea and rice cakes, for this was a dangerous game they were playing. In the Kingdom, horses were the most feared of all predators and these even more so. Imperial colts bred in Dharamshallah and foaled in the lush pastures of Dharpurthan, they were allowed six months with their dams. During these six months, they were handled and brushed, led by halters and trained to the bells, all by sherpi working for the Ministry of Horses. Then, at six months, the colts were driven deep into the Léi Shēng Imperial Preserve. In the mountains between Dhowla’girih and Anna’purananna, they were left for a year to fend for themselves, to grow, to hunt, to become strong. The Preserve was filled with yak and mountain bucks, rabbits and grouse, plentiful during most of the year but now, at the end of winter, even the scent of a roasting pigeon could have the Thunder and Avalanche rain down upon their heads.

  And so they ate quietly, quickly, hoping the wind didn’t change and blow their scent in dangerous directions. There were twelve Imperial soldiers in need of horses and a herd of perhaps thirty, unless the mountains had taken them. It was impossible to know how many were left from the original band. According to Master Tang-St. John, every year it was different. Some years, most survived, other years were not so lucky.

  Kirin looked up as Major Ursa Laenskaya came down from the rocks, wrapped in the hide of a white bear and looking as fierce as one. The leopards shifted their eyes, and their positions.

  He held out a rice cake.

  “Eat,” he said.

  She snorted.

  “I will eat when I have an Imperial horse,” she said. “I will feed it two dead rabbits, then I will feed myself the third. Not a rice cake. Never a rice cake.”

  “Not a good plan, Major,” said Liam. “When you’re hungry, you’re weak. The horse will crush you like a banana.”

  “Not if I crush him first.”

  “You won’t sit well on a crushed horse.”

  “His spirit, idiot. I’m glad I didn’t choose you.”

  “By Ho’s jeweled underthings, such a tongue on you! How do you stand this insolence, Kirin?” laughed the Middle Captain when suddenly, a figure rose over the rocks.

  “The dungchen master is ready,” the man called. “The sherpi have been sent out and the sky is clear. We move now.”

  The soldiers rose to their feet, followed Tang-St. John toward a pile of packs. They formed a circle around him as he passed a satchel to each man. Kirin didn’t need to look inside. He knew what they contained - a rope, a yak bell, three honeycombs and three dead rabbits. He had been reading the protocols for weeks.

  Next, Tang-St. John motioned to the leopards carrying spears and shields. The Master of Horses passed a set to each soldier.

  “You have your swords still?” he asked each one. “Your swords and your daggers? Although if it comes to your daggers, you are dead men. Or women. Dead women. Woman. Only one.”

  Ursa growled.

  The Master turned to them.

  “The Avalanche is hungry and wild, so do not let your heads be filled with thoughts of bonding, imprinting or love. They will eat you as soon as choose you, so be wary and do not trust your heart. Trust your instincts, trust your mind. You will see clues as to their disposition and temperament. You will be led by your feline intuition to follow one with your eyes and if he follows back, then he is destined to be yours. But it is not always so simple. We have to kill those that refuse to submit because they will present a threat to next year’s colts. But for the most part, they will remember their times in the pastures of Dharpurthan and will allow themselves to be subdued. It is a testament to feline intellect and will.”

  The soldiers murmured at that. It was good to know that horses could be swayed by feline intellect and will. Cats are, after all, a willful people.

  “They must submit,” he continued. “No matter how powerful, no matter how majestic, for if a horse does not submit his will to a cat’s, he is unpredictable and therefore dangerous. There would be no trusting him on the battlefield.”

  “Are there no mares?” asked Ursa and all eyes turned to her. “In the Avalanche, stallions all?”

  “Stallions all,” said the Master. “As in an Imperial stable or troop. You may as well throw their training out with the dung the moment a mare goes into season. They become worse than dogs.”

  She grunted but said nothing more. Tang-St. John continued.

  “We have three physicians as well.” At the campfire, three tigers raised their hands. “They will tend any injuries the Avalanche may cause but they are also military physicians. If the damage is extensive or too severe, they will aid any man who chooses the Last Road. Last year, we lost six in to Avalanche. Believe me when I say it is best to stay with the group until your horse has selected you, and even then, there is a danger.”

  There was silence as his words sank in.

  “Very well. Take a moment, make peace with your gods and then, follow me to the Valley of Thunder.”

  Kirin took a cleansing breath. It was all so filled with superstition, with myth and legend and no one really knew what was real and what was story. The Thunder and Avalanche, dream of every soldier, nightmare of all.

  “Ready, Kirin?” And Liam grinned at him.

  “I am. You?”

  “Always. But I do miss Kaballah.”

  “Your Marwari?”

  “Yes, he was a good horse.”

  “A horse is a horse,” said Kirin. “They’re useful but honestly, I can’t see how you can form an attachment.”

  “You will. I’m sure of it.”

  Together, the two men followed the Master of Horses, in the company of the others. Hanging behind, Ursa took a moment to study the cannons mounted on the ridge but she soon followed as they made their way down into the Valley of Thunder.

  The group of twelve assembled in a huddle, satchels roped to their waists, shields forming a protective wall around them, spears pointing to the sky. They had been drilled for weeks on the protocol and even then, nothing was assured. Every year was different. Every year, soldiers died and horses were killed. Not all the Avalanche remembered their summer in the pastures of Dharpurthan, or if they did, some not fondly. Time and the Mountains changed everything.

  On the flat of the glacial river now, in a tight group of soldiers, Kirin’s world shrank to snow and rock, pines and sky
. A lone eagle cried overhead but disappeared as the low, mournful sound of the dungchen sang out over the gorge.

  A second blast from the horn and then a third and the valley echoed until it died away, leaving only the sound of the wind in the pines and then nothing.

  They waited.

  They waited.

  For an hour, they waited, attentive at first but gradually, spears and shields lowered with boredom and fatigue. One of the soldiers hummed an old war song but in all that time, no one said a word, no one made a move to leave. The Master of Horses had made his way back up the rocks to the campsite and Kirin was only moderately comforted by the silhouettes of the archers and cannons high above them. The archers he could understand but cannon-fire routinely killed more soldiers than it protected. He hoped there would be no need for rockets and fireworks today. Or archers, if he was honest.

  It wasn’t for another hour before he felt a tremor beneath his boots.

  “Thunder,” said one soldier, a jaguar on-loan from KhaBhull.

  “Steady,” said Kirin and together, each soldier raised their spears, lifted their shields to form the wall.

  Tiny stones shook across the snowy plateau as a sound rose in the valley where the riverbed disappeared around the mountain. The Thunder, he thought. Aptly named. It was very much like a summer storm rolling in from the north.

  Trees trembled now, branches snapping and falling to the ground. Higher up, rocks shook loose and began to spill, their progress impeded by the snowbanks still covering the hills. And then the spray, like a rain cloud bearing down upon them and suddenly, around the bend in the river, they came.

  A herd of stampeding stallions, whipped into a frenzy by the mounted sherpi driving them forward, an avalanche of horseflesh thundered between the slopes and the pines. He tried to count but his heart was thudding in his throat, his blood hot, brow sweating and the horses charging with the motions of a great dragon. The ground shook like an earthquake and Kirin could barely keep his footing as fifteen – no twenty – massive, lean, hungry predators barreled down the riverbed toward them.

  The Avalanche moved like a wall, not splitting, not swerving, but heading toward them like an arrowhead. At the tip of the arrow was a lean grey and from the conformation and bone-structure, Kirin could have sworn it was a mare.

  “Steady!” he shouted and they hiked their shields, lowered their spears, bracing themselves for the impact. They knew, however, that none would survive if the Avalanche hit.

  Suddenly the Avalanche split, flowing around the soldier-wall like a river raging around a rock. Cats swung to follow, forming a circle as the Avalanche thundered past, spears pointed out above the shields. As it went, one horse snapped at a spear and a leopard was yanked out of the circle with a cry. He was trampled in an instant by the horses behind and the snow grew pink under their hoofs.

  The Avalanche slowed as the horses separated, most wheeling back onto the circle of soldiers but three continuing on at full gallop down the river. High overhead, the cannons boomed and the three were blasted into a rain of pulp in a heartbeat.

  It was a bloody but fleeting image as Kirin drew his eyes back to the Avalanche, prancing in dizzying circles around them. They were a fearsome sight. Snorting, squealing, tossing their massive heads and for the first time Kirin saw horses in their natural state. Manes tangled and spilling down their shoulders, tails dragging along the ground. Hair like spikes on their jaws and like scales over their hooves, eyes wild like demons and mouths dripping foam. Their fangs were unfiled and protruded from their jaws like dragon teeth. Massive feet left ruts in the hard ground and still, the earth rumbled beneath them.

  The Avalanche.

  “No!” shouted a man and from the corner of his eye, Kirin could see the jaguar from KhaBhull rush from the circle. “Abomination!”

  One of the horses had snatched the body of the trampled soldier as he thundered past and the jaguar was trying to stop him but in vain. Horses were pack hunters and within a heartbeat, a second stallion cantered up behind the man, knocking him to the ground with its powerful shoulder. The pair fell upon him, began tearing him to pieces when arrows hissed through the air, thudding into necks and flanks and backs. The horses squealed and bolted, abandoning the bodies but themselves riddled with arrows and trailing blood. Soon, they collapsed, thrashing in the snow of the riverbed.

  Two soldiers and five horses already, thought Kirin darkly. The Avalanche killed like its namesake.

  “Do not break the circle!” shouted Liam from somewhere on his left.

  “Shields and spears!” cried Ursa from his right. “Keep alert!”

  “The bells!” shouted Kirin. “Now is the time for the bells! They will remember!”

  It was precarious work, gripping the spear and shield in one hand and digging in the satchel for the yak bells, especially with the Avalanche circling like wasps, snapping and thundering ever closer. But soon the air was filled with the low tinny din of bells, rising up from the circle of soldiers and the chi of the very air changed with it.

  Yak bells, used by the sherpi when feeding the foals in the pastures of Dharpurthan. Yak bells, rung with every grooming, with every tender lesson, with every gift of rabbit and honeycomb. Yak bells were the key to the latent memory of the horse, granting the Upper Kingdom supremacy because of centuries of feline intellect and will and yak bells.

  A massive stallion trotted past his line of sight, spun on its haunches, tossed its wild head. A fine animal, thought Kirin, with a most pleasing colour. Bright bay, almost golden coat with the promise of dapples at the haunch and barrel. Black mane, tail, legs and muzzle. Large eye, slightly Roman nose, small ears. Yes, he thought to himself, a very fine animal indeed.

  He kept his eye on the horse as others thundered around the circle, some at a canter, others moving at a forceful trot. Kirin marveled at the length of their strides, how they covered the earth and for a brief moment, hung suspended above it only to have hoofs strike the earth like hard rain. There was a frostbitten roan that was the largest horse he had ever seen, dwarfing the others as he moved across the valley. He saw a handsome black with a white star, and that grey – smaller, leaner with fine bones. He was certain it was a mare but they were moving so fast and there were so many. Fifteen, he counted. Fifteen hungry horses for now ten soldiers. This would quickly become problematic and he realized he had not seen a protocol for this.

  The bright bay stallion thundered past again and he let his eye remain on it, wishing it would slow and look at him. He would be happy if this horse chose him.

  A large chestnut rushed the circle and all the shields shuddered at the impact. A leopard stabbed with his spear and the horse wheeled away, pike dragging from the thickly-muscled neck.

  Fourteen.

  To the sound of the bells, the whirling, prancing, snorting Thunder slowed to an agitated walk, still circling but controlled. Some horses pawed the ground, other lifted their great heads to breathe the scent of rabbits on the air.

  There, the bright bay again, walking shoulder in, tossing his head, lashing his tail like a serpent. How like dragons they were, thought Kirin, with the fangs and the tails, the rolling haunches and spiky manes. If any creature could truly breathe fire, it would be the horse.

  The bay swung its head, made eye contact and Kirin felt a charge rush down the length of his body. The stallion reared back onto iron legs, pawed at the air. The ground thundered when he came down, tossing his head, snorting. Caught his eye again before spinning on his haunch as if ready to bolt.

  Kirin lowered the spear, transferred the bell to his shield hand and dug in the satchel for the first rabbit.

  “Come, come, you fine creature,” he said.

  The horse swung around to face him, nostrils flared and ears pricked.

  He speared the rabbit and held it out to the great beast, still swinging the yak bell slowly, rhythmically with his shield hand.

  The horse grumbled, tossed its head, took several steps back.
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br />   “Come, come,” he said again, keeping his voice soft and deep. “You are hungry and this rabbit is filled with mare’s milk paste. It will bring back lovely memories for you, and fill your belly at the same time. Come, come, my fine friend.”

  And the rabbit-tipped spear edged ever closer.

  The horse’s eye was large, round and quick and it darted from the lion to the rabbit and back again. Suddenly, he snatched the rabbit from the pike and shook it violently, breaking all the bones. He tossed it to the ground, planted a hoof and began to tear at the flesh to the soft, steady chimes of the yak bells.

  Kirin risked a glance around. The circle had grown like spokes of a wheel as cats moved outwards toward horses and he realized that there was no Thunder, there was no Avalanche. There were only cats and horses and rabbits and yak bells. Liam was feeding the black with the star and Ursa the grey. Most definitely a mare, Kirin realized, and he wondered how Tang-St. John could possibly have been wrong.

  On the outskirts of the circle, four horses still snorted and pawed. Outsiders. They had not made connections with the cats and he threw a quick glance at the archers. Best to shoot them now, he thought. They were hungry and there weren’t enough rabbits.

  His great horse made a rumbling sound in his chest, tossed his head. The rabbit was gone and the horse was still hungry. Protocol had it to offer the honeycomb next, then another rabbit, then another honeycomb, all to the music of the bells. It had worked for generations. Cats were wise that way.

  He lowered the shield and pulled back the spear, found the first honeycomb and shoved it onto the tip. The horse champed its mouth, either smelling or remembering, he didn’t know which, but the spear went slowly outwards and the horse eagerly accepted.

  He wanted to touch it. He wanted to run his hand down the massive neck, over the rippling shoulder, across the flat cheek. He breathed in the scent of it, heavy and musky and wild like the earth. He wanted to brush the sticks out of the creature’s tail, shave the tangled man, rub the loose winter coat from the body and make it shine like dappled gold.