ERAK'S RANSOM

by John Flanagan

  Or we'll lose it on the back leg, Will thought. But he didn't speak the thought aloud in case it put negative concepts in Tug's mind. He hoped that the second four kilometres would give Tug the chance to make up the distance he'd lose on the first half of the race. Then, when they drew level with the Arridi horse and rider, another contest would begin.

  Horses like Tug and Sandstorm hated to lose, hated to have another horse ahead of them. As Tug drew alongside Sandstorm, Will knew, the Arridi horse would dig deep for a greater effort — to put the little foreigner back in his place. Tug, meanwhile, would be straining for extra speed to pass the Arridi horse. It was then a matter of judgement for the two riders, to pick the point where they should let the horses' have their heads.

  Too soon and the energy and speed would peter out before the finish line. Too late and there wouldn't be time to overtake. Each rider would do his best to force his opponent into going too early. The moment had to be just right or the result would be failure. Will frowned thoughtfully. He'd watched as Hassan had put Sandstorm through his paces. But he was sure the Arridi rider was holding something back.

  As they walked back towards the oasis Tug's head butted him in the shoulder, sending him staggering.

  Stop worrying, the horse seemed to say. I know what I'm doing, even if you don't.

  'Just don't go too soon, that's all,' Will cautioned him. Again, Tug tossed his head disdainfully.

  They walked slowly back into the oasis. Unlike Hassan, Will had no need to familiarise himself with his mount's little peculiarities. He and Tug knew each other's ways back to front and inside out. A curious crowd of Bedullin watched them as they entered the camp. It was early morning and the race was set for late that same afternoon, when the full heat of day had passed.

  He knew that there had been a lot of betting on the race. It was impossible not to hear conversations in the camp, even though he tried to appear aloof to such matters. He also knew that most of the betting wasn't about the actual outcome of the race. It was about the margin by which Sandstorm would win. The Bedullin were familiar with the beautifully formed Arridi stallion that Hassan would be riding. It seemed that none of them gave the shaggy little barrel-shaped horse from the north any chance of winning.

  Even though Will had the utmost faith in Tug, faced with such universal disbelief, he found it hard to keep his spirits up. Yet he had to believe they could win — that they would win. The prospect of losing was just too awful to contemplate. He had been too impulsive, he thought, to risk losing Tug in such a way. Yet time and again throughout the day, when he racked his brains to think of what else he could have done, he came up with no answer. If he were to get Tug back, he would have to risk losing him.

  The thought tortured him through the long, heavy hours of the middle of the day. Then, as the sun began to slant down, and the shadows of the palms stretched out further and further, it was time.

  His face was grim and set as he led Tug through the oasis to the start line. Hassan was waiting, mounted on the beautiful palomino, by the line that had been gouged in the sand. Like Will, who had discarded his cloak for the race, he wore shirt, trousers and boots, and a kheffiyeh. The headgear would protect the riders' faces from flying sand and dust during the race. He nodded a greeting as Will and Tug moved towards the starting line. Will nodded back. He didn't speak. He couldn't bring himself to wish Hassan good luck. He didn't want Hassan to have anything but bad luck. If Hassan managed to fall off Sandstorm in the first fifty metres and break a leg, Will wouldn't mind in the slightest. Yet looking at the Bedullin youth's easy seat on the horse, as Sandstorm moved nervously, prancing slightly, ears pricked with eagerness for the coming contest, it didn't seem likely. Hassan seemed glued to the saddle, an integral part of the horse.

  Will put his foot in the stirrup and swung up astride Tug.

  'This is it, boy,' he whispered. The horse tossed his head. Will drew one end of the kheffiyeh across his face, and twisted the other end over it to hold it in place. Now only his eyes showed, through a narrow slit. The rest of his face was covered. Beside him, Hassan did the same.

  Sandstorm pawed the ground eagerly, kicking up small clouds of dust. Beside him, Tug stood stolidly, all four feet planted firmly. The difference between the two horses was all too obvious: one prancing, eager and light-footed, his coat groomed till he gleamed; the other solid, barrel-chested and shaggy. More money changed hands as last-minute bets were made.

  'Riders, are you ready?' Umar stepped forward as he called them.

  Hassan waved one arm. 'Ready, Aseikh!' he called. The Bedullin cheered and he waved to the watching crowd.

  'Ready,' Will said. His voice was muffled behind the kheffiyeh and he had to force the word out through a throat constricted by anxiety. There was no cheer this time. As far as he knew, nobody had bet on him — only the distance by which he'd lose.

  And that was hardly something they were going to cheer about.

  'Move to the line. But remember, if you cross it before the start signal, you will have to turn and go back to cross it again.'

  Hassan edged Sandstorm forward, crabbing him sideways. This was a tricky moment for him. With the horse prancing and excited, he had to hold back a metre or two from the line to make sure he didn't cross prematurely. Will nudged Tug and the little horse moved quietly to the line.

  'Hold there, boy,' Will said quietly. Tug's ears twitched in response and he stopped, his forehooves only centimetres from the line. One of the Bedullin, who had been assigned the task of monitoring the start line, crouched and peered closely at the horse's hooves, then straightened as he realised Tug wasn't infringing. But he kept his eyes riveted on the line and Tug's feet. Seeing it, Will touched Tug with one toe.

  'Back up, boy,' he said. He wasn't willing to take the risk that the judge might be overeager to penalise him. Tug obediently retreated one pace. A few of the Bedullin frowned thoughtfully. The horse was well trained. Was there more they should know about?

  'There will be no interference between the riders. If either of you interferes with the other, he will automatically lose.'

  The two riders, now intent on the course that stretched out before them through the desert, nodded their acknowledgement. There were marshals stationed along the course to make sure neither of them cheated.

  'Ride straight to the marker, round it and ride back again. The start line is also the finish line,' Umar said. Neither rider nodded this time. They knew the course. Both had been over it during the day.

  'The starting signal will be a blast on Tarlq's horn. The minute you hear it, you may start.'

  Tariq, an elder of the tribe, stepped forward with a large brass horn. He brandished it so they could both see it. Earlier in the day, Will had been made familiar with the note of the horn.

  'In your hands, Tariq, and in God's will,' Umar intoned. It was the official notice that the next sound to be heard would be the starter's horn. An expectant silence fell over the crowd. Somewhere, a child started to ask a question. Umar looked round angrily and the mother quickly silenced her offspring. Umar gestured to Tariq and the older man raised the large, bell-mouthed horn to his lips.

  Will watched him intensely. He saw the Bedullin's chest swell as he took a deep breath. Beside him and slightly behind him, he knew, Hassan would be watching like a hawk.

  He tightened his grip on the reins, forced himself to relax his legs around Tug's body. He didn't want to send any inadvertent signal to the horse before it was time.

  Now!

  The horn brayed its metallic baritone note and he squeezed Tug with his knees. Dimly, he heard Hassan's yelled Yaaah! as he urged Sandstorm forward. The crowd roared with one huge voice. Then the sound cut off in shock.

  Tug shot away from his stiff-legged stance like an arrow, going from stock-still to full gallop in the space of a few metres. Sandstorm, excited and prancing, was left behind, curvetting and tossing his head for the first few paces. Then Hassan clapped his heels into the palomino's side
s and he stretched out in a gallop after Tug.

  The crowd, silenced momentarily by Tug's incredible acceleration from a standing start, began yelling again, screaming for Hassan and Sandstorm to run him down.

  Even Will, who was aware of Tug's phenomenal ability to accelerate, was a little surprised at the lead they had established already. He knew that Sandstorm would overhaul them before long. Once he was in stride, the Arridi was definitely faster than Tug over a kilometre or two. But now he hoped the shock of being left behind at the start would force Hassan to overstretch his mount, using up some of the precious energy reserves that would become so important in the last few kilometres.

  Behind him, vaguely, he could hear the yelling tribesmen. Closer to, he heard the rolling thunder of Sandstorm's hooves on the rocky ground. Tug's ears were up and his legs were churning, throwing a plume of sand and dust into the air behind them.

  Will touched his neck.

  'Take it easy, boy. Pace yourself.'

  Tug's head tossed fractionally in response. Not too much as he didn't want to lose stride or balance as he did so. Will felt him ease a little and nodded. Sandstorm's hooves were closer behind him now. The Arridi horse was as fast as lightning, he thought.

  Hassan, a few metres behind them, was worried. He had no idea how fast the foreign horse would be. The horse's lines and configuration gave no hint of his startling off-the-mark speed. And even now that Sandstorm was gaining, he was doing so much more slowly than Hassan would have liked. He urged the horse to give a little more and heaved a sigh of relief as he began to draw alongside the foreigner and the shaggy little grey. The other rider didn't turn his head to look at them but Hassan saw the horse's eye rolling to view them as they came alongside.

  Fast horses hate being led in a race. And this was definitely a fast horse — not as fast as Sandstorm but faster than he had expected. In Hassan's experience, once a horse found itself overtaken and led by another, it would often give in — or overextend itself, trying desperately to regain the lead. Hassan knew it was time to establish his horse's superiority. He flicked the reins against Sandstorm's neck and the palomino found another few metres of speed. He surged forward, away from Tug.

  Will felt Tug begin to respond and for the first time he could remember, he checked him firmly with the rein. Tug snorted angrily. He wanted to show this flashy Arridi horse what racing was all about. But he obeyed Will's touch, and denied his own instinctive urge to go all out.

  'Not yet, boy,' he heard Will's voice. 'Long way to go.'

  They flashed past the two-kilometre mark, hearing the cheers of the marshals stationed there as they went. The cheers were all for Sandstorm, who was now leading Tug by nearly forty metres. The Arridi horse ran beautifully, Will thought grimly, with a long, powerful stride and perfect rhythm. Forty metres was far enough, he thought. He signalled Tug to increase his pace a little and Tug responded. Will felt a surge of affection for the horse under him. Tug would keep running like this all day, he knew. He wondered if Sandstorm could do the same.

  He estimated that they had picked up five to ten metres when Hassan and Sandstorm rounded the halfway marker. Comfortably in the lead, Hassan had eased his horse's pace a little, knowing that his best turn of speed was behind them now.

  He waved as they passed the other rider and horse. There was no response from Will, and Hassan grinned behind his kheffiyeh. He wouldn't wave if he were losing, either, he thought.

  Round the halfway marker, Tug's hooves clattered on the stony ground, skidding slightly as they turned and set out after Sandstorm. They'd picked up a little distance when Sandstorm turned, lost it again when they followed suit. Maybe less than thirty metres between them now.

  'Go now, Tug!' Will yelled and the horse dug deep into his reserves of strength and endurance and courage and accelerated under him. Will could see Sandstorm through the cloud of dust and sand he was kicking up — appropriate name, he thought grimly. The palomino's flanks were streaked with sweat and his sides heaving with exertion. Slowly, Tug narrowed the gap to the Arridi horse. With two kilometres to go, he moved alongside, the two horses plunging side by side, each head alternately taking the lead, losing it, taking it again as they raced stride for stride, neither gaining on the other.

  There would be a moment, Will knew, when it was time for the final sprint. Both horses and both riders were aware of it. It was a matter of perfect timing. Too soon and the horse would be exhausted before the finish line. Too late and the race would be lost.

  The horses, side by side, glared at each other, their eyes rolling in their heads, whites showing so each could view the enemy. Then Tug surged ahead and Will couldn't check him — to do so now would be to lose speed and Tug had cast the dice for them, sensing the moment. He moved a neck length, then a body length, ahead of Sandstorm, moving faster than Will could ever remember him doing. The drumming of the horses' hooves filled his consciousness. Then he heard Hassan yelling encouragement to Sandstorm and, turning his head slightly, he saw the Arridi horse begin to regain ground on them. Unbelievably, he was overhauling Tug yet again.

  Then Tug faltered.

  It was the slightest break in rhythm and pace but Will felt it and knew it was all over. Sandstorm saw it too and lunged ahead of them, a metre ... two ... five ... the clods of dirt and sand flew up in Will's face, stinging the small area of skin exposed around his eyes, forcing him to grit his eyes almost shut.

  There were three hundred metres to go and Sandstorm was fifteen metres ahead of them. Tears blurred Will's vision as he realised he had lost the race — and his horse.

  He knew he could ask Tug for more. He could urge him to try to catch up. And he knew the little horse would respond until the effort killed him. Tug had already hit the wall. Sandstorm's pace had been too much. The early lead it had given him had been too great. He was twenty metres ahead of them.

  And then he faltered.

  Will saw the slight stagger in his step, the loss of rhythm, the slackening in the blinding speed. If only they'd waited, he thought bitterly. Tug had been too eager. But now the twenty-metre lead would be enough to carry the exhausted Sandstorm across the finish line ahead of his equally exhausted opponent.

  He had barely had the thought when he felt Tug accelerate beneath him.

  All the power, all the certainty, all the balance was back in his stride as he went to another level of performance, a level Will had never seen before. Tug stretched out and reeled in Sandstorm as if the taller horse were standing still. An amazed Will crouched low over Tug's neck, little more than a passenger. He realised that he had never had any idea of how fast Tug could run. It seemed there was no upper limit. Tug would simply run as fast as the situation demanded.

  He realised that Tug had controlled the race, pretending to falter when he did to goad Sandstorm into a final spurt. The loss of stride and balance had been a feint and Sandstorm had swallowed the bait, accelerating away and exhausting his last reserves just thirty metres too soon. That was the gap between them when Tug rocketed over the finish line.

  Will had already dismounted, and was hugging the little horse's neck when Sandstorm, now slowed to a canter, sweat-streaked and blowing, staggered wearily over the line behind him. And now the Bedullin did cheer for the foreign horse. Because they loved good horses and they realised they had just seen one of the best. And besides, since none of the bets were predicated on Tug's winning, nobody had lost any money to anyone else — although those who had bet on a thirty-metre margin were tempted to claim their winnings.

  Umar took Sandstorm's rein when Hassan slid down from the saddle. Before the young man could speak, the Aseikh slapped him on the shoulder.

  'You did your best,' he said. 'Good race.'

  Others were echoing the sentiment when Hassan pushed his way through the crowd to offer his hand to Will. He shook his head admiringly.

  'I was never going to win, was I?' he asked. 'You knew that.'

  Will, grinning widely, shook his hand. 'Actua
lly, I didn't know it,' he said. He jerked his head at Tug. 'He did.'

  * * *

  Chapter 34

  * * *

  Halt estimated that there were approximately thirty men riding down the slope towards them. 'They're coming this side too,' Evanlyn said behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder showed a similar number of riders sweeping down behind them, fanning out to encircle the waiting Arridi troops. Halt faced front again. He and Gilan took a moment to read the approaching speed of the riders. Then they moved as one.

  'Now,' said Halt quietly and they both drew and shot once, then twice, then three and four times, lowering the elevation each time to compensate for the rapidly reducing range. After four devastating two-arrow volleys, Evanlyn called out behind them:

  'Fifty metres at the back!'

  The two archers pivoted one hundred and eighty degrees and sent more arrows ripping into the charging Tualaghi behind them. Already, half a dozen riderless horses were running wildly with the group charging from the front, their riders lying in crumpled heaps in the sand behind them. Now another five joined them from the rear group before they drew so close to the shield wall that Halt and Gilan had to cease fire. Evanlyn marvelled at the highspeed accuracy of the two Rangers. Eleven enemy troopers out of the fight in a matter of seconds! That was an attrition rate no commander could hope to sustain for long.

  Now it was the turn of the waiting men in the shield wall as the riders crashed into it.

  But few of the horses made direct, head-on contact. The bristling fence of lances, their sharpened heads gleaming in the sun, forced most of them to swerve aside at the last moment, in spite of their riders' urging and whipping them to continue their head-long charge. The riders rapidly lost momentum and found themselves at a disadvantage as the Arridis' long lances thrust up at them. Most of them dismounted, leaving their horses with comrades detailed for the task, and joined the fight on foot. The battle became a heaving, shoving, hand-to-hand melee, with curved swords rising and falling, hacking and stabbing along the line. Men cried out in pain on both sides as they went down. Then cried out again as comrades and foes trod them down in their efforts to reach the enemy.