The Bloodwolf War

by Paula Boer

  Sapphire!

  His promise forced him to his feet. Dust flew as he shook from head to tail.

  He must go on.

  He would have to head northeast to get back on track. With a slight limp in his off hind, he followed the tree line, grazing as he went to rebuild his strength, keeping well ahead of the man.

  Too slow. Other bloodwolves might be threatening horses as he dawdled along. He must locate King Streak. He broke into a shuffling trot. Almost immediately, the throbbing in his heavy legs dragged him back to a walk. The pain in his hindquarters built with every step.

  The scent of water drew him on, his mind numb to all else. He focused on placing one hoof at a time, stumbling over miniscule stones or grass tussocks. His head hung low and his ears lolled as he staggered towards a steep bank. A vast river swept by. He had never imagined so much water could be in one place and move so fast.

  Pain shrieked through his wounds. His head swam. He slipped down the crumbling slope and collapsed at the water’s edge.

  Chapter 2

  Wetness dribbled onto Fleet’s tongue. The water tasted sweet with a bitter aftertaste unlike any he had experienced before. A tuft of clover was stuffed into his mouth. He chewed. As his head started to clear, the man offered him water from a hollowed piece of wood. Fleet guzzled, half the contents dribbling from his swollen lips. He swallowed. His head sank back into the sand. He was so tired.

  No! He should flee! Unable to stand, he kicked out with his hind legs, their feeble twitching the only result.

  The man brought him armfuls of ryegrass and tempted him with the rich seed-heads. He ate and drank more before feeling a new dizziness. Drifting in a daze, as if he’d eaten the forbidden fungi he’d tasted as a foal, he no longer wanted to fight. The man massaged Fleet’s stiff muscles and creamed a salve into the raw gashes. Fingers teased out the tangles of his mane and tail. Still he couldn’t rise, the pain and exhaustion too much. The grooming lulled him like Sapphire’s lips.

  Sapphire… He should move…

  Instead, he slept.

  Fleet woke with a start. Where was he? The sun glared in his eyes. Memories came back as he sighted the man through blinding patches that drifted across his eyes. Fleet winced, his head thick and fuzzy, and his hindquarters as sore as if a tree had fallen on them in the night.

  But he had promised. And he would do all he could to prevent another awful death like Sapphire’s. The pain in his rump had subsided. He thrust his forelegs out and tried to stand before thudd­ing back to the ground. He struggled again. This time he managed to rise, legs akimbo and panting hard. He tottered to the river and savoured deep swallows. His thirst satisfied, he needed to eat.

  As much as he yearned to fulfil his promise, and belong to a herd, Fleet feared the encounter with King Streak. Would the stallion accept him, another king’s offspring? Would Streak heed Sapphire’s warning? She had always avoided other horses, so he had seen them only from a distance. For a moment he considered not searching for the stallion. It would be easier to stay here and rest his injuries. Loneliness built like his pain; Sapphire wasn’t there to tell him what herbs would ease his wounds.

  Fleet ambled along the base of the bank until he found a gentle rise. Climbing the shifting sands took more effort than he’d expected. He finally reached the top and picked at the coarse grass. He chewed and swallowed, chewed and swallowed the sourness, needing to recover.

  Sapphire’s words continued to chase around his head like annoy­ing insects. He must be on his way soon.

  The man arrived with an armful of sticks and lit a small fire within a ring of stones. After eating, the man wandered over, holding out his arms smelling of the salve that had eased Fleet’s pain. The man slowed and signed with his hands towards Fleet’s rump. Not detecting any threat, Fleet remained motionless, his heart racing, every hair on his body alert.

  The man approached and rubbed Fleet’s neck.

  He should run! But his legs refused to work. Hunger overcame his need to remain vigilant. He resumed grazing, the man following his steps to work on Fleet’s body. The man continued the massage before running his hands along Fleet’s back to the wounds. With tender fingertips, he rubbed the ointment into the scabs, softening the edges. With a firmer motion, he rubbed the large muscles. Blood flowed through Fleet’s legs, warming his hooves.

  With every moment, Fleet relaxed more and his energy returned, remembering again that Sapphire had said to trust people. He accepted the ministrations and started to plan. If he were to keep heading east, he’d need to cross the river, a challenge he dreaded. He’d never encountered such a deep and wide body of water. He should go back. He could survive in Dark Woods.

  No. He had to go east and find King Streak. Feeling stronger, he meandered down to the river and sniffed the water’s edge. Gravel washed away beneath his hooves, sucking his feet deeper. He peered across the expanse of water. Nothing indicated how fast the river flowed; no sticks spun by, and no rocks protruded, washed by the current. He waded in to his knees, the cool water dragging at his legs. As he ventured further, the force against his body became stronger than a storm.

  Fleet plunged, throwing up his head as the cold force hit his chest.

  Out of one eye, he saw the man hesitate before following him. The man had strapped his pack onto his back and now the river tugged at the hogskin, the rope around his shoulders floating in loose loops along the surface of the water.

  Fleet ploughed on, cutting across the powerful current.

  A yell rent the air. The man thrashed his arms, torn off his feet. His head bobbed and gasped between dunkings. The river swept him downstream.

  Fleet leapt after the sinking figure, his only companion. In moments, his hooves left the security of the river bottom. Instinctively, he swam. He overtook the floundering man and blocked him with his chest. Fingers grasped his mane. The river sucked at his legs and buffeted his body, ripping away his strength. Swimming for his life, Fleet paddled hard, carried along like a limb torn from a tree, the man limp across his back.

  As Fleet’s hooves found firm gravel, he lurched forwards. The man had one leg on either side of his barrel. Before Fleet could think about being straddled, the ground disappeared, demanding he swim again.

  He reached the far side and struggled up the slippery bank, the effort draining him. He staggered. He dropped to his knees and deposited the man on the grass, having no idea why he’d risked his life to save him, only knowing it felt right.

  Coughing and spluttering, the man came to with a heave. He rolled onto his hands and knees, and vomited before collapsing.

  Fleet studied the land on this side of the river. Maybe these were the open plains Sapphire had described. The sky stretched for­ever, unmarred by clouds or trees, far more welcoming than the marshland. Grass was plentiful but it was drying off. All the flowers had long since shed their seeds. Summer was ending and food would become hard to find. He needed to learn the whereabouts of King Streak soon. But the man was in no condition to run and Fleet couldn’t bring himself to leave him behind.

  If he could carry him like the man did his pack, they could go faster. The man had straddled him in the river. Perhaps in time he could teach the man to speak, or at least understand language. Sapphire had said people and horses had been friends, so they must have communicated. In reference to the colour of the hair hanging down the man’s shoulders, and the fact he was always gathering food, Fleet named him Squirrel.

  As Squirrel staggered to his feet, Fleet attempted to strike up a conversation. “If you mount, I can save you from running.”

  No response.

  He poked the man with his nose.

  Squirrel moved away, mumbling.

  Fleet tried again, shoving the man in his back. Almost knocked from his feet, Squirrel grabbed at Fleet’s mane.

  Shocked by the sudden movement, Fleet do
dged sideways.

  The man remained still.

  He can’t have meant any harm. Fleet returned. Squirrel was too short to lean across his back as he had in the water. Bracing himself against all his instincts, Fleet dropped a shoulder to lower himself beside the man and nudged him closer.

  Squirrel raised his eyebrows before wriggling over Fleet’s back, his legs dangling on one side and his arms over the other.

  Fleet straightened his foreleg and took a step forward. Unaccustomed to the weight, he hesitated, the sensation all wrong. He backed up and spun in a tight circle, causing the man to swing one leg across his rump and sit astride, his arms around Fleet’s neck.

  Feeling more secure, Fleet walked forward. Gaining confidence, he broke into a trot.

  Squirrel bounced for a couple of strides before sitting up. His head rose above the level of Fleet’s ears, his forward-facing eyes like a predator clinging to Fleet’s mane.

  Fleet surged off at a gallop, blinded in panic by visions of wolves attacking horses.

  The wind tore tears from Yuma’s eyes and whistled in his ears. Sweat stuck his leggings to his thighs and the smell of hot horse wafted around him. He didn’t care. Astride! He had never dreamt such a thing was possible. Never once had it occurred to him to try to mount a horse. He couldn’t imagine the young stallions living on the outskirts of his home valley permitting anyone on their backs. Those bachelors had never shown any inclination for a closer relationship with people other than driving hogs in return for feeding. “You’re certainly special, my beauty.”

  When he had first sat upright, the stallion had bolted from the river as if a pack of wolves chased him. Not daring to release his hold on the thick mane, Yuma had clung with his knees, bouncing to the extent he feared he would be flung to the ground.

  “Thank the Mother you don’t buck!” He had never known a horse to cover ground like this. Or maybe it was only his new perspective from being astride.

  Whether from tiredness or because he detected nothing to fear, the horse slowed. Yuma tried to calm the trembling stallion with soft words while stroking the slick sweat on his neck. As the horse dropped to a trot, Yuma became unbalanced and precarious, the jolting pace threatening to unseat him. Sitting deep, he squeezed with his calves to get a better hold, not wanting the experience to end.

  The horse rolled into a canter. Was that coincidence or had he signalled for a change of stride? Trying to keep his legs still in case the horse bolted again, Yuma released the tension in his back, letting his body merge with the horse and going with his motion—much more comfortable. As he became accustomed to the rhythm, he rode without conscious effort and revelled in the faster pace.

  They came to a creek small enough to wade through. Instead, the horse dropped his nose to drink, sending ripples across the clear water and tiny silver fish into the reeds. Yuma slid to the ground. His legs threatened to buckle beneath him as he patted the heavy neck. “Thank you, my beauty. That’s been the best morning of my life. I’ve never heard of anyone travelling on a horse’s back.”

  The stallion walked deeper into the creek, splashing with his forelegs.

  Yuma stretched and staggered forward. “Do you want a bath? Me too.” After placing his pack on a rock, Yuma removed his clothes and boots, paddled into the cool water, and cupped his hands to throw water at the horse’s belly.

  The stallion shied and bounded downstream, tossing his head, and rolling his eyes.

  Yuma approached with careful steps. Crouched low, he played his hands in the water before flicking drops onto the horse’s lower legs. Taking his time, he worked above the knees until he touched the horse’s shoulder, the muscles tight beneath his fingers. Keeping one hand on the horse, he used the other to scoop water over the stallion’s chest.

  The horse’s muscles softened and his neck lowered, his tail no longer clamped between his buttocks.

  Yuma moved to his neck, gradually working along his back, scraping off grime and sweat with each handful. When he reached the rump, he investigated the wounds. The hard work of the morning had split the scabs. Pus oozed from the gashes. “These need more than water and light salve. They’ll have to wait until we get to a village.”

  Yuma retrieved his possessions and splashed to the opposite side of the creek. After dressing, he perched on a moss-covered boulder and chewed on a strip of dried meat.

  The horse drifted out of the water and searched the ground, sniffing as he went.

  “Looking for a good spot to roll?”

  The horse bent at the knees and dropped on his side. He grunted as he wriggled his legs in the air, and then stood and shook in a cloud of water, hair, and earth. Then he picked at the short grass, step by step along the creek bank, ears swivelling to detect any threat.

  Yuma extracted his pipe from his pack and trilled a few notes.

  The horse lifted his head before returning to his grazing.

  Yuma played on, mimicking songs of thrushes, blackbirds, and robins. The ribald songs and ballads of lovesick maidens his people usually played were not to his liking. Nature provided the best music as well as helping him hunt. Copying the sounds of a coney in distress could be used to attract a wolverine, or he could call ducks to water from where he hid in nearby reeds. Such bush skills meant he never went hungry no matter where he roamed, though he played mainly for pleasure.

  Carving was his other passion, transforming bone or wood into creatures. They made popular items for trade. Some said they were charms for good hunting or fertility, depending on how the animal was depicted. He didn’t believe in magic, merely delighted in their creation. Or perhaps that was magic, transforming one thing into another?

  The horse whickered.

  Yuma slung on his pack. “You should be resting those wounds. What drives you? Not the need for a mate, like me, not at this time of year.”

  The horse seemed content to go at a slower pace. Yuma jogged at his side to loosen his stiff muscles as they continued east towards Oaktown. Glad he didn’t have to choose between following the horse and obeying his father, he looked forward to catching up with friends, even though he didn’t relish selecting a partner from one of the young women. They wearied him with their limited conversation of children and food.

  Imagine if he rode in on the black stallion! That would make tongues wag.

  By mid-afternoon, unused to keeping up the hard pace, Yuma stum­bled and almost fell, the pack dragging on his shoulders.

  The horse trotted back to him, bobbing his head, and pawing at the ground.

  “Are you inviting me to get on again?”

  The horse bobbed its head again, as if in agreement. As if it under­stood him.

  Grateful, Yuma grabbed a handful of mane. The horse didn’t offer to lower his leg as before. Not sure if he would end up on his rear, Yuma sprang so he lay across the horse’s back and wriggled to slide his leg across the rump, taking care not to touch the raw wounds.

  Before he had a chance to straighten up, the horse trotted off.

  “Steady there! I’m still getting the hang of this.” Remembering how he squeezed with his legs before, Yuma encouraged the horse into a more comfortable canter.

  Yuma chatted aloud, regaling the stallion with stories of his family and adventures. “I know you can’t understand me, but it’s nice to have someone to talk to. Did I tell you I have a sister? She’s training to be a healer like our mother. She made the salve I’ve been using on your wounds. She’d know something better to stop the infection.”

  The more he relaxed, the more secure he felt on the horse’s back. Even trotting became easier. Riding not only saved him effort, it gave him time to enjoy the scenery. When on foot, he kept an eye out for food or useful items such as flints and interesting shapes of wood. Now he could study the country they passed through. Shrubs and small trees started to dot the grasslands, becoming thicker and tu
rning to forest the further east they went.

  The horse slowed to a walk along a narrow twisting game trail. Yuma slid to the ground and wandered along, savouring crunchy huckleberries. The horse tore at pockets of lush grass in the small clearings and nibbled the wide variety of herbage growing in the dappled shade.

  After a while, the stallion signalled for Yuma to remount. He didn’t complain. This was the most fun he’d had since climbing the peaks above Waterfalls as a boy—the same mix of thrill and danger as when an eagle swooped him on a rocky ledge. He’d saved himself only by grabbing a tree jutting from the rock. Hopefully he wouldn’t fall from the horse. The prospect of hitting the ground at speed held no appeal.

  The horse propped to a sudden halt.

  Pain exploded in Yuma’s crotch as he slid forward onto the withers. He used both hands to push himself back, sweat beading his forehead.

  The stallion raised his head to scent the air. He whinnied, loud and long, the call echoing through the trees.

  A shrill neigh reverberated back.

  A bay stallion emerged onto the track from the forest, prancing with forelegs striking the air and tossing his heavy-boned head. He stood taller than Fleet, his crest thick with muscle. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  Fleet held his ground on trembling legs. He’d be no match against the older horse and the stallion appeared ready to fight. “Are you King Streak? I have a message for him.”

  The stallion reared to his full height, ignoring the branches that snapped around his ears. “How dare you speak to me like that? Introduce yourself properly. I’ll ask only once more. Who are you and what do you want? And why are you carrying a man? No-one here would do that.”

  Backing up a step, Fleet lowered his head in respect. “I’m Fleet. Do you know King Streak?”