by C S Marks
“Throw down that foul whip,” she commanded, “for you are not even-tempered or skilled enough to wield it. Throw it down!”
Rogond was at her side at once, the tension in his voice obvious. “Put that away. You are in their lands now,” he urged.
“They are cruel and dirty! That animal has suffered enough—I will not stand for it to be beaten.” Gaelen kept her bow trained on the man. Her eyes narrowed, and her fingers tightened on the bow-string. “Are you deaf? Drop it!” The man did so, and only then did Gaelen lower her weapon.
“Forgive our excitable friend,” said Fima, bowing before the horse-trader. “She has been long in the wild, and knows not the proper decorum. We will explain this to her. Please, help yourselves to the water. There is more than enough for all.”
The horse-merchant stared at Gaelen, who stood before his servant with her chin in the air, as though daring him to pick up the whip again. Then, he began to laugh. “She must be stupider than she looks, to risk death for the likes of that animal.”
Several of the trader’s men had drawn their long daggers to hurl at Gaelen, not realizing that the bows of Nelwyn and Galador had been trained on them unaware. Now they sheathed their weapons again, laughing along with their master. Gaelen took no notice. She had approached the bay horse, who stood glaring with pinned ears, threatening to bite her.
“Let her do as she will,” said the trader. “On her own head be it if the wretch takes the meat from her arm.” Leaving one of their number to restrain the animals, the men went to fill their water-skins.
Rogond and Fima stood watching Gaelen, who was now trying to lay hands on the little horse. He took several vicious lunges at her with his mouth open, and she was taken aback, for he was quick. But something in his eyes told her that she would be rewarded for her persistence, and after a few moments of this hostile dance, she managed to place a hand upon his neck.
He threw his head in the air, squealing and tossing his long forelock, but as he felt the touch of her hand he seemed to calm, knowing she would not harm him. Warmth and power flowed from her hand into his scarred neck, and he dropped his head, though his eyes were still fearful at first. She broke down the last of his resistance, stroking his neck and shoulders with both hands, and he nickered at her, trembling with pleasure at her soothing touch. He had not felt such a hand in a long time.
Once he had been a proud war-animal, the favored mount of a prince. The last battle had gone ill, his master had fallen, and he had been wounded and taken by the enemy. At first they had thought to kill him, but instead they traded him off to any who would give a few coppers for him. He would not suffer himself to be ridden, and was beaten nearly to death a number of times as he passed from one set of hands to the next. He learned to hate men and everything about them, for they had taken his prince from him, and treated him cruelly ever after.
Gaelen was not a man. She neither smelled like one, nor sounded like one, nor acted like one. She was kind, but proud and skilled, like his lost prince. He sensed no evil in her heart. The little horse, whose name had once been “Rama,” had been battling demons for a long time. He longed to have peace again, and even more he longed for his lost prince to take him and ride him into battle once more. Perhaps then he would fall with honor, and his misery would end. He looked into Gaelen’s eyes and nickered softly. Will you take me there?
Gaelen knew that he had once been a fine animal despite his poor condition. He was made to be swift and strong, and to turn on a hair. Such battles he must have seen! Large eye…deep and soft, and wide nostrils—good for stamina. Refined, chiseled face that speaks of good breeding. His coat is terrible, but that can be changed…
He was quite lame, and as Gaelen examined him she did not know if she could make him sound again, but she wanted to try. She would free him if she could.
The caravan spent the remainder of the sunlit hours sheltering among the rocks, though the horses were made to stand in the heat of the sun. They were apparently on their way to a market held many days west. Gaelen overheard Rogond asking if the Company could or should follow them, for he might gain news there. The response of the horse-merchants, apparently, was not encouraging, and Gaelen felt a brief pang of guilt—perhaps her actions had ensured that they were not welcome.
She shook it off, taking water to the small bay horse, that she had called “Finan” in honor of his beautiful, long forelock. When she offered him a full water-skin he took the small end in his mouth, sucking with care, for he knew to waste not a drop of it. He drank about half, then stood dozing with his head down as Gaelen lay in the shade created by his body. The men all thought her mad.
As the sun went down, the men of the caravan prepared to move on. Gaelen stood by, trying to catch as much of their conversation as she could. Their eyes darted toward her, and they forsook their own tongue, speaking so that she could understand.
“There’s only one fate awaiting that scrawny devil. The meat buyers will give a few pennies for him, though he will be tough and stringy.”
Gaelen was horrified. Finan sold for meat? That must not happen! She ran to Rogond and Fima, nearly breathless, so agitated that she had lapsed back into her own tongue. “Are they speaking the truth? Will they sell him for meat? It’s unthinkable. Horses should not be eaten, especially…especially that one.”
Rogond tried to calm her. “They probably just said that to upset you. You did not endear yourself when you drew your bow on them,” he said gently. “Look at how thin that animal is. They would get very little out of him from a meat buyer.”
“They will get nothing for him from anyone else,” Fima countered. “I’ll wager that the only use he has left to him is for meat. Don’t worry, Gaelen. At least he’ll be out of his suffering then. He is not destined for a pleasant ending, but his life has been hard for a long time, from the look of things.”
The bells on the harness began to jingle as the horse dealer’s strange mount rose to its feet, signaling their departure. Gaelen watched as they turned westward, filing slowly away from her, Finan limping dispiritedly at the end of the line.
Gaelen could not let them take him. She called for Siva, and before her friends could stop her she had ridden out to intercept the slow-moving trader. Rogond and Fima rode up behind her on Eros, for they knew how foolhardy she could be.
As she approached him, the horse trader regarded her with a smug expression—he knew why she had come. His voice was silky as he addressed her:
“How may I serve you, little archer?”
“That horse…the bay at the end of the line...I wish to buy him from you,” she said, before Rogond and Fima could stop her.
“Ah! That was a fine animal once—a war-horse, the favorite of a prince, I was told,” said the trader, rubbing his hands together before commanding his tall mount to kneel so that he could dismount from it. “I’m afraid he will need to bring a dear price.”
Fima laughed. “You refer to the scrawny, lame bag of bones at the end of the line? The one you said would go only for meat? There’s hardly any meat on him. Let us be clear!”
The trader looked down at his hands. “Ah, yes, he may very well go for meat, unless…” He looked sidelong at Gaelen through half-lidded eyes. “...Unless someone skilled enough to heal him should acquire him. That would be his only hope, I’m afraid. Alas that no such person sees his hidden potential.” Then he regarded Gaelen as though seeing her for the first time. “Of course, if this worthy person should buy him, he might have the chance to be whole again, but I don’t know what she has to offer.” His eyes wandered to Siva. “Will you trade that mare for him?”
Gaelen snorted. “I think not,” she said. “Your animal is so weak that I would not get far trying to ride him. Siva is not for sale.”
“A pity,” sighed the trader with a dramatic shake of his head.
“That animal is practically worthless,” said Rogond. “Whatever price he would bring for meat—which cannot be much—we might give. It would sa
ve you the trouble of dealing with him.”
The trader looked into Gaelen’s wide eyes. He knew she would give anything to save the animal; he could read it in her face. “You have some fine weapons…will you trade them?”
“I need them. I dare not part with any of them,” she replied. Gaelen had very few possessions of worth, and she knew it.
“This is ridiculous!” said Fima, his blue eyes blazing. “You are trying to take advantage of her. Take your nag and go. Rogond’s offer is more than reasonable. We turn our backs to you! Come on, Gaelen,” he muttered. “We don’t need this animal. You will forget about him soon enough. Walk away.”
Gaelen’s ears reddened and her face flushed. She had nothing else to give for Finan.
“That is an interesting trinket you are wearing on your cloak,” said the trader, eyeing the silver brooch Gaelen wore always. It had belonged to Ri-Elathan, and was given by the Lady Arialde herself. “Will you trade it for the animal?” His greedy eyes rested on the beautiful piece of silver with its pattern of stars. “I will trade even for that brooch. What say you?”
Gaelen’s hand flew to her cloak, fingers covering the small silver token. She could never part with it. “May you lie forever in darkness,” she muttered, turning Siva and riding back to where Nelwyn waited anxiously for her. Fima and Rogond tried once more to bargain for the horse, but the trader merely looked at them with a smug smile.
“I know what is in her heart,” he said. “She will come to me, and I will own whatever she has to give. Wait and see!”
Fima was dangerously close to drawing his axe, but he took a deep breath and mastered his anger. “Here are five pieces of silver,” he said, drawing them from his purse, “which is an absurdly high price to pay for an animal that you yourself admitted is worthless! Just take it and go.”
Rogond was amazed at Fima’s offer, as it is not in the nature of dwarves to part with riches for worthless, broken-down war horses.
“I would let him go for eight gold pieces, my good dwarf,” said the trader. I’d reckon your foolish little friend’s sword is worth that, and she will give it to me...wait and see.”
Fima reached for his axe, but Rogond stayed him—they could not shed blood over such matters. “Come on, Fima,” he growled, throwing a disgusted look at the trader. “I hope you receive a princely price for that animal from the meat buyers, for it is all you will receive.”
“I am just a humble man trying to earn an honest living,” he called to their backs, as he and his men burst out laughing before going on their way.
Gaelen was being comforted by Nelwyn, who knew well what she was feeling, when Rogond and Fima returned. “I’m sorry, little Wood-elf,” said Fima, patting her shoulder. “They just wouldn’t be reasonable. We should make ready to leave, and never look back.”
Gaelen looked over her shoulder at Fima, and nodded. She packed up her gear and swung aboard Siva, trying not to look at the long line of dark figures diminishing against the western sky. Then she heard the sound of Finan as he called to her—one clear, loud whinny that said all that needed to be said.
Gaelen rode up to Rogond. “I can’t let this happen,” she said, eyes blazing, jaw set. “If I let them take him, I will regret it for the rest of my days.”
“But, Gaelen…you can spare no weapon! You have nothing to give for him,” said Rogond. “And you don’t need a broken-down animal to burden us and slow our progress. Think about what you’re doing!”
“I am,” she replied. “I’m thinking quite clearly. Dona is not the only burdensome soul in need of healing.” She touched Ri-Elathan’s brooch, pain in her eyes. “This is only a piece of silver. It is not Rain. Finan is a living soul, one that I can save from torment. If I don’t turn the balance in his favor, what does that say of me?” She wheeled and galloped off before Rogond could stay her.
It took her quite a while to return with Finan, for he was very lame and she had to go carefully. Rogond and Fima looked in horror at her unadorned cloak—the brooch was gone. Gaelen’s eyes were full of pain; Rogond knew she would ever regret losing this token, and he sorrowed for her. Yet it was her choice, and there was nothing for it now.
She busied herself with tending to her new horse. She massaged his injured limbs that night and again in the morning, singing to him as she did so, and provided as much feed as she could safely give him. She curried his coat, moving gently over his bony body, as he stretched and shuddered with pleasure. He wouldn’t leave her until the last breath left his body, and he once again found his prince.
Siva, disgruntled that Finan was receiving so much extra attention, expressed her displeasure by turning her head and nipping Gaelen’s leg. Gaelen patted her affectionately. I know. I have been neglecting you. I shall try to do better. Siva was only mollified after Gaelen spent an extra-long session grooming and currying her.
They camped on the banks of a small spring whose name they did not know, where there were small, shrubby trees and even a little grass, to the delight of the Elves and the horses. They had made a small fire, and Gaelen sat tending it as Rogond kept watch.
Fima approached, and sat beside her, the firelight flickering in his white beard. He turned his weathered face to her, blue eyes full of warmth. “You did the right thing, Gaelen. I didn’t think so at first, but I’m beginning to understand now.” He patted her arm. “I would cheer you if I could. I know you are missing your token.”
Gaelen sighed. “I told myself it was only a piece of silver,” she said, “but I do miss it. I thought I could feel something of my beloved whenever I touched it...it was always warm. I don’t know why.” She stared into the fire, remembering the touch of the silver and the feel of the pattern. Her fingers had known it well.
“Perhaps this will cheer you then, though it was dearly bought,” said Fima. Reaching into his tunic, he drew forth Gaelen’s brooch, pinning it carefully to her cloak. “There we are...much better!” he said.
Astonished, Gaelen couldn’t even breathe for a moment. “How? When?” was all she could manage to say.
Fima chuckled. “Rogond and I went back some hours after the caravan left us. You were scouting ahead, and we rode back. Eros had to make all speed to get us there and back before you returned, but he did.” He spoke to her under his breath “I’ll have you know that brooch cost me eight gold pieces. The humiliation was almost too great to bear. Don’t you ever tell anyone!” He smiled at her. “It is not in the nature of my folk to part with gold for broken-down war-horses, but for the heart of a friend, they might.”
“Oh, Fima…I can never repay you. I don’t know what to say,” she cried, embracing him.
“Please, please, my good Gaelen! You forget yourself. If you will loosen your grip on my neck I will consider it payment enough. Just fix that animal! If anyone can bring him back to life, it will be you.” She released him and he smiled at her. “It might help restore at least some of my self-respect,” he said. “In future, allow me to do the bargaining; you wear your feelings far too plainly. You may be swift, agile, clever, and capable, and sometimes even show a little wisdom, but you are not in the least bit shrewd!”
“But…eight gold pieces! That’s a small fortune, Fima, more than I have ever possessed. I don’t know what to say in the face of such a sacrifice.” Gaelen’s voice quavered a little as she fought the urge to embrace him again.
“You need not say anything,” said the dwarf, as they sat side by side, staring at the fire. “After all, they were only pieces of metal,” he said gently, “nothing more.”
Gaelen was unusually attentive to Fima for some time after, though she had long been fond of him. He enjoyed her attentions for the most part, until Rogond and Galador suggested that perhaps he was going soft with Gaelen attending his every need.
“Ah, my friends, you can’t be envious without showing it,” replied the dwarf. “But don’t fear. This will wane soon enough. I intend to make the most of it in the meantime.”
Galador turned
to Rogond. “I believe our good dwarf has regained his investment already, yet he still accepts her services. Always she ensures that he has the best provender, the softest sleeping place, and she fetches whatever he needs. She’ll be combing and plaiting his beard next!” He winked at Rogond.
Fima stretched and yawned. “She has done so already, my good Galador,” he said, as though it were of no consequence. Gaelen, who could not plait her own hair, was nonetheless quite skilled; her agile fingers had woven Nelwyn’s hair for years.
Rogond knew that there was now an even stronger bond of friendship between Fima and Gaelen. He often observed her fingers straying to the silver brooch, as though to ensure that it was still there, her eyes peaceful the moment she touched it. He did not begrudge her this token, this memory of her beloved. Her most precious talisman, the tattered remnant of Ri-Elathan’s banner, she had passed on to Rogond, who carried it always beside his heart, for it was the symbol of her faith in him. Gaelen sang now mostly for Rogond, though he suspected that she occasionally sent a song heavenward, to the One who waited for her.
In truth, Fima would be justified in having his beard plaited many times over, for his investment had been greater than Gaelen knew. The recovery of the brooch had been far more difficult than a simple exchange of gold for silver. Fima and Rogond had ridden hard to catch the trader, for they did not want Gaelen to know of their plan until it was accomplished. As they drew nigh, they saw the trader’s men draw their weapons, for they had taken advantage of tender-hearted Gaelen, and they feared the wrath of her friends.
