A Tapestry of Magics

by Brian Daley

  It was as if the plain had been covered with a vast throw rug of shaggy brown, eaten through in places so that some patches of yellow-brown grass could be seen. The carpet was alive, composed of individual creatures that moved along slowly, grazing and snorting, shaking weighty, horned, thick-maned heads and flicking thick tails at clouds of flies. They raised dust that obscured vision. The herd stretched away across the plain as far as the eye could see. Sandur had told Crassmor vivid tales of these creatures and had himself hunted them here in the Beyonds.

  “Bison,” Crassmor said with certainty, though he’d never seen any before. “Buffalo.”

  The Outrider had chased these beasts in the hard-won companionship of the unexcelled warrior-hunters who lived almost exclusively off the enormous herds and who ruled these plains as horseback lords. Sandur had told a wide-eyed Crassmor how it was done, as the two brothers had sat before the hearth at House Tarrant.

  The knight looked now at the buffalo that were nearest. Bearded, humpbacked, with brown, nappy pelts and curling horns, they lazed along. Calves bleated; tails swished endlessly. Crassmor wondered at the power implicit in the massive forequarters. Sandur had told him how the things were hunted, and told him something else about them. Something else…

  The meat I love best, had said the Trickster, Saynday, whom Crassmor had seen wearing the shape of Coyote. Crassmor’s concept of a good idea was one that averted danger or hardship, not one that exposed him to it. Still, an idea had came to him in stark simplicity; he could see no means of amending it to accommodate his personal preferences. Here was a way in which he might be able to summon the sort of help he needed.

  They had all three drawn up, taking in the remarkable view. Bint was caught off guard when Crassmor suddenly turned and held out his shield. The younger man took it, and his cousin’s lance as well.

  “Wait here, both,” Crassmor instructed as he drew off his armor. “Keep sharp watch. Don’t venture out onto the plain; the herd will stay away from the trees—or so Sandur told me.”

  Arananth watched, amazed, understanding what the knight intended, thrilling to it. Bint sputtered protests. “We’ve enough food, surely, and the Singularity is not so far.” In bewilderment, he added, “Meseems ’tis dangerous, Sir Cousin.”

  Crassmor’s mouth twisted in half amusement. Bint still had trouble ascribing any risk-taking ability to him. Naked from the waist up, he threw his gambeson and armor coat across Arananth’s saddle. He thought about leaving Shhing behind. Those men ride lightly, unencumbered, Sandur had said. A reflex that was virtually an instinct made him put the baldric back on, though.

  “It’s not for provisions,” Crassmor explained as he loosened the ties of his baggage and water skin. His un-caparisoned horse pranced nervously, smelling the strange scents of the buffalo and the plains, sensing a coming test. Crassmor passed his things over to the others. He was perspiring, trying to recall all that his brother had recounted over cups of mulled wine of the hunting techniques of the painted red men. Crassmor recalled leaping orange flames from the hearth illuminating Sandur’s handsome face.

  “I need… an offering,” he finished. Bint was dubious, but the word silenced him, speaking as it did of some esoteric purpose. Crassmor lofted his steel cap and liner to Arananth, who caught them with a certain excitement. He knotted Willow’s scarf through his belt for luck. The white one, which he’d been wearing at his throat, he tied around his forehead to keep his long red hair out of his eyes. Then he accepted his lance back from Bint. His horse cross-stepped a little, unsure of what it was to be called upon to do.

  Crassmor took up the reins. Leaving the other two, he eased down the hill at a gentle walk, aware from Sandur’s tales that these mighty plains engines, the buffalo, were usually hunted at dawn. A single blessing was that the wind was coming up the slope toward him, off the herd. They seemed to be moving along, grazing without concern, contrary to what Sandur had said about their quickness to stampede at the first sign of danger.

  He took his horse down through a fold in a ridge in order to draw closer to the herd without being seen or scented. He was guided only by imperfect memories of stories heard long ago. He knew the herd was moving slowly away to his right and came out of the ridge fold traveling in that direction. If the beasts behind him panicked, it wouldn’t matter, he hoped; he would still have some chance of bearing down on the ones that were ahead. He crossed the rise.

  Sandur had said that those horse lords, particularly those among them that were young and vainglorious, competed to slay the biggest of the herds’ bulls. Crassmor studied the ominous forward curve of the bulls’ horns; the largest among them weighed twice what he and his horse did together. He immediately began casting about for a sick cow or a wandering calf, or perhaps an elder citizen of the community who might oblige him by keeling over from heart failure. He spied none.

  Lower lip between his teeth, hemp-wound lance held resolutely in his right hand, he eased his skittish horse down into the never-settling dust cloud raised by the boundless herd. He’d started out on this mad venture on impulse, with little forethought. According to Sandur’s account, these creatures should have bolted by now, leaving him, since a horse could outrun buffalo, to follow and do as best he could. But they seemed not to register his presence. Then he recalled Sandur’s flame-lit face as a backdrop to the phrase, You can never tell what they’ll do.

  Perhaps this wouldn’t be as difficult as he’d feared. A simple thrust of the lance, a scattering of any bystanders, a slice of his parrying dagger, and it would all be over. So Sir Crassmor thought, just as the ground began to vibrate so that the dust was shaken loose from the blades of parched grass.

  He saw with crawling skin that every animal around him understood what it meant—stampede. It seemed in an instant that he was inside a drum upon which the hooves of the world beat. His horse’s eyes rolled to show their whites.

  He hadn’t entered the herd far behind its leaders. He saw at once that the creatures didn’t move by column or flanking maneuvers in this sort of turnabout. Instead, each beast came around—a confused milling. A ridge crowned with massed, frightened, colliding bison hid from his view whatever had scared them.

  Huge bulls came end-for-end and cows whirled as best they could, heads hung over some other animal’s flanks in the close quarters, to turn back. Calves shifted for themselves; some were trodden under, squealing pitifully. Crassmor’s horse whinnied and dodged sideways, avoiding a murderous pair of horns. Then the mount went with the flood of bison, sensible and adaptable as any good Beyonds horse should be. In seconds, Crassmor was being borne along at breakneck speed in the herd, his lance forgotten.

  Cursing all inspirations, he concentrated on staying alive. I can see now as much buffalo meat as I could wish, he told himself. Unfortunately, it is all attached to a living flash flood.

  The animals shook the ground, hemming him in, heads down. Even in the grip of the stampede panic, the huge bulls sought to interpose themselves between the horseman and the cows and calves. The bulls’ tongues lolled and their heads were lowered, increasing the danger from the horns. Their nostrils dripped and their eyes bulged red; their hooves flung up a cloud that threatened to choke the knight. He lacked the time and the extra hand to pull the white scarf from his forehead and down over his mouth.

  The buffalo were not as fast as his horse, though, and he was still galloping somewhat parallel to the tree line. He began to edge over that way, thinking about a kill once more. You come in close on their left side, you see, Sandur had told him, and strike deep for the heart. The Outrider had owned a buffalo-tail quirt to prove that he’d done it.

  The small bull at whom Crassmor aimed somehow sensed his approach and veered away sharply. Crassmor swore and let the beast keep his life, unwilling to cut deeper into the herd. From the right an elderly bull, his hide all matted and layered with brambles and caked soil, raced at horse and rider. The knight might have avoided the horn tips by reining up sharply, but
had more faith in speed. He roweled; the horse was more than willing to run all-out. He looked down once more and saw a calf bawling and running awkwardly along a short distance ahead. Crassmor brought the lance into line with a crisp, practiced motion, addressing his target. The calf began to cut back deeper into the herd toward a lumbering, somehow plaintive creature who could only be its mother. By reminding himself of the increased risk and telling himself that immature meat would be of no use to him, he found an excuse for lifting his lance head. He watched the two creatures, battle carrack and tender ship, vanish into the yellow, dusty twilight.

  The herd was well aware of him now. Before he knew it, they’d found room to dodge away to all sides. In seconds, members of the rearguard were swinging away to avoid him, traveling quickly because they’d been the herd’s leaders and were among the strongest. Crassmor was able to slow up as he considered his options. Hasty-thought, hasty-gone-wrong, he chided himself. He coughed, and spit yellow saliva. Then he headed for the nearest rise to find out how far he’d come and try to locate his companions. From there he saw that one kill, at least, had been made that day. He also knew what had caused the stampede.

  The hunter had somehow sensed his approach before Crassmor had topped the rise, though the thunder of the stampede must, he thought, surely have masked his trembling horse’s hoofbeats. Too, Crassmor was riding cross-wind through the remaining dust cloud. Nevertheless, the hunter was staring up at the spot when the knight got there.

  The man was the red-brown color Saynday had been, his entire body inured to the touch of sun, wind, and weather. He was tall, holding a posture at once graceful and relaxed, yet tense as a wound spring. Well-defined muscle and sinew broadened a lean, limber body. The hunter wore only moccasins and a soft-tanned breechclout trimmed with metallic beads and human hair, tucked through a narrow belt of braided hide.

  On his wrist was an archer’s brace; a leather band held a quiver-bowcase, skillfully crafted from a white wolf’s pelt, at his back. His face was high-cheekboned, fine-featured, reserved, and full-lipped. Bands of black paint circled his eyes; his gleaming, sable hair was drawn back tightly against his head and gathered in a long scalp lock decked with a raven’s feather. He watched Crassmor emotionlessly, unblinking. In his hand glittered a skinning knife.

  At the hunter’s feet lay his prey, a behemoth bull of the herd, losing the last of its life, kicking in minute spasms which came to a halt even as the knight rode downslope. Nearby, a lithe, glossy pony, the color of its rider’s hair, waited, trailing reins that must have been twenty feet long. It bore no saddle, no cincture. There was a single rawhide loop braided into its mane; Crassmor, seeing that, thought what a fearless and skillful rider this man must be.

  As the knight approached, the hunter sheathed his knife at his belt. A quirt hanging from his wrist made a snaking motion in response. He turned aside to his pony, showing a profile any artist might have admired. “Quietly, Night,” he told the pony, and it became still.

  Crassmor leaned his unbloodied lance against his shoulder as he drew close, keeping it at a conspicuously casual cant. He hoped he’d made no trespass on forbidden hunting ground. He stopped well away from the hunter, who gave him silent attention. Crassmor set the lance in its rest and slid from his saddle carefully. Dozens of times before, he’d met people in the Beyonds in this unknown-quantity fashion. It was easy to offend someone else’s protocols in the Beyonds. He kept his hands well in sight, away from his body, but in such a manner that his right one was only a split second from Shhing’s waiting hilt. He brought his left hand up to indicate himself. “Crassmor.”

  The other relaxed a little. The knight did then, too. “Wanderer,” the hunter responded, fingertips gesturing to his heart.

  “A hero’s kill, Wanderer,” Crassmor complimented, and meant it. They both looked for a moment to the mountainous buffalo and the red-banded arrow sticking out of its side. “I was not so—” He’d almost said “lucky,” which might or might not have been an insult. “Skillful,” the knight finished truthfully.

  Wanderer waited.

  “Would you sell, would you trade some of your kill?” Crassmor asked. The hunter tilted his head slightly, a tacit inquiry. Crassmor was making an inventory of his possessions and trappings at that point, wondering what he might offer. Then he saw Wanderer’s eyes gauging the hilt of his sword. Their eyes met. Crassmor gave his head the barest shake, vowing, “I’d rather take up the hunt once more.” The herd was no more than a distant dust cloud now; Wanderer very nearly smiled at the comment. Tension left them both.

  The knight whipped off the white scarf from his forehead. Risking the few steps between them, he held it out. It was a lovely piece of work, with threads of gold woven in and raised embroidery. “The meat is for a friend,” Crassmor explained. “It’s the meat he loves best.”

  Wanderer looked from the scarf to Crassmor, then turned and bent to the carcass. His skinning knife was in his hand as quickly as ever Shhing had found Crassmor’s. When Wanderer straightened again, he held the thick, meaty tongue of the buffalo high for inspection, droplets of blood and saliva streaming from it.

  “I believe I know who your… friend is,” Wanderer declared with a hint of amusement. “This is the best part of the meat he loves best.” He held forth the tongue.

  Crassmor accepted it with his left hand and bowed low. Something in him made him wish to make a more personal payment. He took a step back; his right hand darted and Shhing, held high, threw back the dusty light. Wanderer hadn’t reacted; he waited. The knights’ respect for the hunter grew. Wanderer’s eyes followed the reflections along the sword’s blade, then sought Crassmor’s once more. Crassmor took the blade through a meticulous salute, then sheathed it at his back one-handedly. Wanderer raised his hand in acknowledgment, smiling fully now.

  Crassmor told him, “In the place they call the Singularity, Wanderer, you have friendship and a home, always.”

  Wanderer drew the silken scarf over his fingertips, delighting in its texture and delicate patterning. Then there was the sound of other riders, coming from the distance. The knight saw several horsewomen, dressed in fringed, beaded buckskins, singing and waving, calling out to Wanderer. “It’s best I go,” the knight said. He remounted, the bloody tongue in hand.

  The hunter told him, “You have friendship and a fire among the Comanche.” Crassmor grinned, and reined his horse around. He quickly topped the rise once more. Wanderer stroked Night’s gleaming neck and watched Crassmor until he’d gone from sight.

  The tongue now rested before Crassmor’s pommel, wafting a pleasant pungency back to him. Crassmor kept the flies from it with flicks of a horsehair whisk. He was once more attired in armor; the group had swung away from the stretch of plains and was quite close now to the Singularity. Bint and Arananth rode behind; Crassmor was content to go alone before, to let them ride stirrup to stirrup. He wondered if he should pause long enough to smoke the tongue in order to preserve it, or to cut it into strips.

  Now he threw his head back, watching light slant across leaves, picking out green murals in the canopy of trees over the trail. “You’re not going to sing that dreadful song again, are you?” Arananth teased from the rearguard.

  Crassmor turned in the saddle in high indignation. “Mark well my every rendition, my beauty; your children will undoubtedly want to hear each detail.”

  She blushed at the reference to offspring, but gave a grudging snicker. Bint let forth a brief laugh until Arananth back-knuckled his arm in pretended anger. Crassmor closed his eyes and sang, as well as he could remember it, the chant taught him so long ago by Sandur, the chant he’d been singing since he’d been given the tongue by Wanderer. He started out with a yelp.

  Hey!

  Shape-shifter, Prankster!

  Here is the meat you love best!

  Not long ago it ran the plains,

  under the sun that you threw into the sky!

  Hey! Saynday!

  Here is the meat
you discovered

  and gave to the people,

  the buffalo you brought up

  from under the earth!

  Here is the meat you love best!

  They were leaving the Beyonds behind in subtle, rapid gradations that only Bint and Crassmor perceived, her in-sensitivity to them vexing Arananth. Now they were passing along comfortably worn tracks, not terribly far from Tarrant lands and House Tarrant itself. Crassmor still had the feeling that Mooncollar lurked somewhere behind. The trio had met few other travelers, and no Tarrant wardens or Royal Borderers, or anyone else who might agree to trace their trail back to search out anyone who followed it.

  Crassmor sang his last note downheartedly, wondering if he should abandon the effort. All I’m doing, he chastised himself, is scaring the birds out of the trees.

  Save for one, he saw; a noisy raven perched on an oak limb that overhung the way. Crassmor took a closer look at the bird, then reined up sharply. Bint and Arananth, nearly ramming him from the rear, began their questioning. The raven examined Crassmor first with one eye, then the other.

  “Careless Saynday!” the knight mock-scolded. “You still haven’t learned!”

  The raven guiltily eyed the limp mustache adorning its beak, then gave a ludicrous shrug of its black wings. Arananth’s questions turned to a little gasp of surprise as the bird began changing, the lines of its shape running off in different directions, its black plumage turning red-brown. In another moment, the Trickster sat on the tree branch.

  “Well, that buffalo tongue smells pretty good,” Saynday admitted in his nasal, cracking voice. “It got me to hungerin’ and forgettin’ to be careful.”

  “I brought it for a friend of mine,” Crassmor said in a mannered dismissal.

  Skinny, balloon-muscled Saynday licked his lips and mustache. Eyeing the tongue, he failed to repress his curiosity. “I wouldn’t mind knowin’ who your friend is,” he confessed.