Arkady shook his head, trying to imagine all the attributes he could wish in a warhorse. And then he felt himself rise, his legs bowed out by the enormous red sorrel with flaxen mane and tail that formed out of nothing. The stallion lifted a polished black hoof, showing flaxen feathering. He was the most perfect warhorse Arkady had ever seen. Every line of his body showed strength and stamina, his head, properly bowed over his arched neck, showed how totally he devoted himself to the will of his master. His saddle and bridle were of tooled leather and studded with silver and brass. Arkady almost grinned as he couched his lance.
The dragon gave another roar, and smoke billowed out with the flames. It half rose on its hind legs and extended its talons toward Arkady, as if seeking to grasp him and rend him.
“He is your dragon, Arkady my champion,” Surata said with the lance. “You have the right to defeat him.”
“Then I will,” Arkady promised, gathering up the reins in his left hand and preparing to spur his warhorse toward the monster.
The dragon bounded with uncanny lightness to a nearer crag, where its shadow loomed over Arkady and his stallion. It lashed its huge tail and breathed out streams of fire. The light glinted off the scales so that the dragon was almost as blinding as the rising sun.
Arkady’s warhorse reared and pivoted on his hind legs, forehooves striking out toward the dragon. It whinnied out a challenge, unafraid of the hideous thing it confronted. Without effort, it sprang after the dragon as the enormous beast leaped to another promontory.
“Follow it, Arkady my champion. Do not let it escape you,” Surata told him in the lance.
He did not need her urging, for the audacity of conflict had got hold of him, and he felt the terrible jubilation that he had known at the start of battle. It was good to ride after the raging dragon, to scorn the risk of its claws and teeth and fire! He almost laughed as the chase went on.
The dragon fled into a chasm, and Arkady hesitated only a moment, then spurred his horse, plunging down the rocky defile, lance poised for the fight to come.
At last the dragon could go no further, and it turned on Arkady, fire pouring out of its gaping mouth, its eyes glowing like coals in its massive head.
“Strike!” Surata called out to him.
An instant later, the great red warhorse charged the dragon, and Arkady, after one heartbeat of paralyzing terror, steadied himself for the fray.
The lance pierced the armored side of the beast, pressing deep into the monster’s body, impaling its heart while the dragon writhed and howled, fire spurting from its mouth and nostrils.
Dizzy with victory, Arkady tugged the lance out of the dying monster, reining his warhorse back from the creature.
Gouts of vile-colored blood spattered from the dragon’s wound, and where they touched, the earth sizzled. The dragon moaned and thrashed its head, growing steadily weaker.
The lance in Arkady’s hand faded and became a long, shining sword. “Cut off the head, Arkady my champion.”
Arkady dismounted and walked carefully toward the dragon, which seemed to grow larger with every step he took toward it. Once a few drops of its blood struck his unprotected hand, and at once the weal of a burn appeared. Arkady grew more cautious. Though the dragon was almost dead, it was still capable of wounding or killing him.
“I will not let that happen,” Surata told him from the sword in his hand. Of its own volition, the sword rose high over his head as he came near the dragon and remained poised there until Arkady brought it down to sever the monster’s neck.
At once the whole scene faded, leaving only the sword and the warhorse alone with Arkady in the many-colored darkness.
“What now, Arkady my champion?”
“I…” He looked about in amazement, certain that the dragon was not far. “What…?”
“This place changes quickly,” Surata reminded him. “What do you want to battle now? A Turk? Another dragon?”
A forest sprung up around them, filled with massive trees rising high above them, blocking all but a few shafts of preternaturally bright sunlight from the path where Arkady stood beside his warhorse. The air was still, not even the call of birds disturbed them, and the sough of wind through the branches was softer than prayers for the dying. The scent of green things and the bark of trees was heavy on the quiet, very nearly palpable.
The sword Arkady carried shifted in his hand, adjusting more perfectly to his grip. “What will you find here, Arkady my champion?”
“I don’t know yet, but there must be something,” he said, feeling a coldness seep through him. There was something about this place that made him more uneasy than all the rocks where the dragon lurked could. Yet he had grown up near forests, and trees had been his playground for much of his childhood.
“The root of your fear is in this place,” Surata told him gently. “You have come here to settle things once and for all.”
“But…I don’t know what it is,” Arkady said slowly, reaching back for his horse’s reins so that he could lead the splendid animal along the narrow path.
“You will know it when you come upon it,” Surata said.
Arkady did not respond. He gave his attention to the vastness of the forest and the strangeness of its silence. He went slowly, hearing the steady beat of his warhorse’s hooves on the trail behind him.
After a while, Surata asked, “Why don’t you ride?”
“I don’t know,” Arkady answered.
The shadows grew deeper, denser, and what light could reach them faded to an anemic shade of yellow. In the dimness now there were rustlings and sounds that might have been words whispered in angry snarls.
“Do you know it yet, Arkady my champion?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No.”
“Then we must go on.”
“You…” he began, feeling shame come over him again.
“I must go with you, Arkady my champion, We must go together or not at all.” The sword thrummed in his hand. “You may have fear, but I do not. Your arm may falter, but I shall not.”
Arkady managed a weak smile. “You don’t know what you may have to face, Surata.”
“It doesn’t matter what it is,” she said serenely.
“But…” He let his protest fade.
The forest was closing in on them, shutting out the light and narrowing the path so that leaves and fronds brushed against them with every step. The smell of the place was overpowering, rich and green; it might have been cloying if it were sweet.
The warhorse walked steadily, mincing his way on the path. Only once did he toss his head and snort in protest, and that was when an unknown and furry creature darted across the trail directly in his path.
Arkady stopped, holding the reins close to the bit while he peered into the foliage to see what the thing might have been. He saw the movement of low-lying branches and heard a curious sound, but nothing more. “I wish I could see better,” Arkady said, then felt like a fool.
“Seeing is not important,” Surata said. “You will find your way with or without your sight.”
He wanted to ask her what she would do, but he was not able to make himself speak. He put his hands to his temples and drew in a deep breath, chiding himself for his growing unease. It would have been less worrisome if there had been birds calling in the trees, or the snorts and snuffles of badgers and wild pigs. He knew that boar were very dangerous, but he had faced them before and had survived. What bothered him here was that he did not know what he would have to face and what it would do when he faced it. Or what they would do, if there were more than one of them. His skin felt clammy at this thought and he could not shake it off, though he urged his horse to walk faster and he made himself stride along confidently, going toward the heart of the gloom. He tried to sing one of the marching songs he had bawled out with his soldiers, but his single voice, thin and shaky in the enormity of the forest, was more disheartening than the quiet had been. He lifted his jaw. “That’s enough of that,”
he said, to his horse and himself.
Among the branches and leaves now there were vines—slim, dainty hanging things that dangled here and there like long tails of green rats. The sight of them made Arkady queasy, and he very nearly raised his sword to cut them down, but it seemed silly and useless.
“Why do the vines trouble you, Arkady my champion?” Surata asked the second time he hefted his sword a little way at the sight of the trailing vegetation.
“I don’t know,” he confessed. “But they are…wrong.”
“Then you must be on guard against them,” she said in a matter-of-fact way.
“They’re just vines,” he insisted, wishing he could be rid of his chill.
A wind ruffled through the trees, making the leaves and branches rattle against each other like fingers plucking at prison bars. Arkady looked up, his eyes narrowed as he tried to search out the danger he sensed surrounding them.
“What is it, Arkady my champion?”
He shook his head, unwilling to say again that he did not know. His hand ached where he held the sword.
“Arkady, Arkady, there is nothing you will have to do alone. While you are here, you are not alone. We are linked, Arkady my champion, in many, many ways.”
He could say nothing in response, though he felt another surge of her presence in his body. His arm, his heart, the center of him was filled with her. He strode along with a touch more confidence as he let himself know her. “How do you do this?”
“When two are linked, transcendence can happen. The link must be total.” This time it was Surata who hesitated. “That is why you are my champion and I am your weapon.”
This was more than he could understand, and he shied away from it. With the excuse that he needed to watch the forest—which was steadily becoming more of a jungle than a forest—he searched the wide-leaved plants for some trace of life.
A thing that might have been a wyvern flapped away through the green twilight, calling in a harsh and plaintive voice to something that could not be heard answering.
“Is that what you fear, Arkady my champion?”
“No.” He stared after the wyvern, wishing he had seen the thing more clearly. When he was a child, he had been told fabulous tales of the great, winged serpents that possessed all the wisdom of the ages and held everything but eternity and God in contempt.
“There is a clearing ahead, Arkady my champion.”
Arkady wanted to feel relieved as she said this but could not. “A clearing,” he mused aloud. Why should a clearing bother him more than a narrow, unlit path did?
His red sorrel snorted, trying to toss his head free of Arkady’s restraining hand on the rein. He moved more restlessly, lifting his feathered hooves higher off the ground with each step. White showed around his eye and the smell of his sweat was stronger.
“What bothers the horse?” Surata asked.
“Probably the same thing that bothers me,” Arkady said, intending to make a jest of it, but realizing as he spoke that it was true.
“Then be on guard. That stallion is part of yourself, Arkady my champion, and he knows all that you know.” The sword twitched, as if searching the clearing.
“There are more vines,” Arkady said, trying not to be nervous at this announcement.
“Lianas. It is similar to the lands to the far south of my home, where the heat turns every leaf into an umbrella.” There was a pause. “If you have not seen the jungle before, then this you have learned from me. It is part of the link.”
“It’s not my favorite part.” He hoped that his casual lechery would improve his state of mind, but it did not. With every step he took, his thoughts became more disordered, and he had to resist the strong urge to turn and run from the place, to plunge through the green in mad and heedless flight.
“What is it?” Surata asked, her voice more commanding than it had felt before.
“I don’t know!” he insisted, his breath coming faster. He crouched down, ready to fend off any attack.
Yet when it came, it surprised him, and he very nearly fell victim to it. He had been near the center of the clearing, testing the ground underfoot as if he expected it to open and swallow him up. He saw the vines, thick as his wrist around the clearing, but thought that where he was, he was beyond their reach. The first brush of one had seemed nothing more than the nudge of his warhorse’s nose, and since the red sorrel had given an unhappy whicker, Arkady had not looked around.
In the next instant, he was wrapped around with vines heavy as cables, and they were rapidly drawing him upward, tightening around him like a cage. If Surata had not been his sword, he would have dropped his weapon and been helpless. As it was, he had a brief and vivid recollection from the dimmest part of his childhood, when he had stared in horror at rotting corpses hanging outside the city’s walls in cages only slightly larger than the carrion within. Arkady screamed even as the vines fell harmlessly away from him and he dropped slowly down onto the rolled saddle blanket that served him for a pillow. Around him, the wind still howled and the blankets flapped and he could hear the stamp of his gelding’s hooves not far from their shelter.
Surata sighed with pleasure and regret. “One day, you will come to trust me, and we will manage better.”
“Are you disappointed?” Arkady demanded, his body and mind still wrung with fulfillment and fear.
“Not with you, Arkady-champion.” She lifted her head and took his lower lip between both of hers. Her kiss, deliberate and sensual, stirred his loins briefly. “You see? How could I be disappointed?”
“Then what?” He propped himself on his elbows and looked down into her face, sorry that here he could not see her eyes as he had that once in the other place.
“We have much to learn of one another, and there isn’t much time to learn it.” Her frown faded and became a smile. “It will be lovely to learn.”
“You’re shameless,” he teased her, then heard the note of accusation in his voice.
“Certainly by your standards. Why should I feel shame for learning to love you, to link my earthly body and my Subtle Body to yours?” She clearly did not intend to argue with him; she kissed him once more, very lightly at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m sorry, Surata. I shouldn’t have said that.” He loved the feel of her body under his, and he thought fleetingly that he might want to try to join with her again, for the sheer pleasure of it.
Surata chuckled, and the movement in her flesh sent ripples of desire through him. “Arkady-champion, first we both must rest. For it is as tiring to fight in the other place as it is to fight here. Later tonight, when you have slept and eaten, then if you wish it, we could begin again.” She nudged him, and obediantly he moved aside but held her close so that he would not lose the joy of his contact with her.
“And you? Will you be tired tonight?” He let his lips linger at her ear as he asked.
“Undoubtedly,” she said. “But perhaps not too tired. When the storm has passed, tell me what you wish.” She had closed her eyes as she spoke and her voice faded quickly.
“Surata?” he said, nudging her shoulder gently.
“I regret, Arkady-champion, that I am…very tired.” She had pillowed her head on her arm, but she braced herself on her elbow. “In that other place, it takes strength to act, just as it does here. To transcend is…an accomplishment, but not so difficult. To be as malleable as the other place and still yourself is…another matter. We both fought a dragon and the…other. Now it is good to rest, to restore ourselves.”
Arkady nodded. “Yes.” He often enjoyed sleep after lovemaking, but this had been so unlike anything he had ever done, there were many questions in his thoughts and they kept him from resting. “I hadn’t realized that…”
“What?” she asked when he did not go on. “What is it, Arkady-champion?”
He leaned back, staring up at the roof of their makeshift tent. “The dead men in the cages,” he said distantly. “I’d forgot them, until…”
&
nbsp; Surata fended off her exhaustion. “No, Arkady-champion, you never forgot them; and for that, you made yourself one of them, a dead man hanging in an iron cage outside the city walls.”
Arkady lifted his hand to cross himself, then hesitated. “Do you—”
“Why should it trouble me if you protect yourself?” Surata asked with a gentle half-smile.
“But you don’t do this,” he said, hastily moving his hand in the blessing.
“I do other things,” she reminded him. “What about the men in the cages? Who were they?”
It was difficult for Arkady to speak; he had to clear his throat before he began. “They were traitors, ungrateful to the King and God. They had betrayed their trusts and…” He broke off, scowling as he tried to remember.
“But what did they do?” Surata prompted him. “For such disgrace, they must have done great wrong.”
“I…”—he ground his teeth—“my father said that they had been paid by another nobleman, one in…I can’t remember where, to reveal…to reveal what our King’s wife brought as dowry.” He turned to Surata in his astonishment. “Could it be that? Could it be such a little thing as that?”
“Is it a little thing?” Surata inquired. “How great a matter is a noblewoman’s dowry?”
Arkady made a noise between a cough and a laugh. “They betrayed the King’s trust. That made them traitors. They gained from their betrayal. My father told me that they were not worthy of the favor the King had shown them and had disgraced themselves forever.” He snorted. “What would he think of me, I wonder.”
“Oh, Arkady-champion, no.” She leaned over and kissed him softly. “That’s wrong of you, to think that because of your dispute with the Margrave, that you deserve to hang in a cage.” She put her hand over his Center of Fears. “But that is what you think, isn’t it? Every time you have done a thing that shamed you or brought you chastisement, you put yourself in one of those cages, didn’t you?” She let her head rest over his heart where she could hear it beat. “Arkady?”
“But not champion?” he asked with false lightness.
To the High Redoubt Page 13
