Dark Magic (46 page)

He held that thought as he swung astride the chestnut gelding and followed Bracht down the slope, leaving the spread of timber behind, cedar and cypress thinning until before them lay a vast spread of grass. Bracht reined in there, all the doubts of the last night
seemingly forgotten as he beamed, rising in his stirrups to encompass the panorama with a sweeping gesture. “Cuan na’For,” he said, reverence in his tone, delight shining in his blue eyes.

Calandryll stared round, for a moment daunted by the vastness of the prairie stretching before them. The sun was risen higher and the sky grown purest blue, high banks of cumulus building white as snow across the eastern horizon, ribbons of cirrus streamered high overhead. A breeze set the grass to rippling and he thought it was as though he looked upon a sea, a great earthly ocean, its waters a myriad shifting shades of green. Far off sunlight sparkled on a river, and scattered over the enormous expanse of verdant land there were darker patches, like cloud shadows—the woodlands Bracht had promised. The air was fresh, clean, and scented with the smell of the grass, of springtime growth. He thought no land could be larger, and then that the finding of Rhythamun in such an enormity must surely be impossible; which, in turn, convinced him that Katya had been right and they must look to Ahrd for help.

“Come,” he heard Bracht say, and heeled the chestnut to a canter, going down the last of the gradient onto flatter ground, where the grass grew high and rustled in the wind like some half-heard song, a wistful melody counterpointed by the trilling and chirruping of the little birds that fluttered, bright-plumed, among the verdancy.

They held a steady pace until they came to the river, its banks marked by willows, steep where the grass ended, with benches of yellow sand from which ducks and wagtails fled at their arrival. Bracht bade them wait awhile as he rode a way along the bank, in both directions, his eyes intent upon the sand, returning to inform them he found no sign of hoofprints to indicate the presence of Lykard, and they splashed across the shallow water and continued on.

At noon they halted to rest the animals and eat, still without sight of other humans, though often
they saw scattered herds of wild horses grazing the lush prairie, the king stallions whickering a challenge that was answered by Bracht’s mount.

They cantered on, Calandryll realizing how deceptive the terrain was, for what had seemed from that morning’s vantage point flat grassland rolled and folded in distance-hidden hollows, shallow bowls, and occasionally sharp-flanked cuts. A squadron of horsemen might wait hidden in those undulations, unseen until a careless rider came down on them, or they on him, and he grew more wary, scanning their surroundings as Bracht did. But still no riders were met, although toward the midmost hour of the afternoon they saw, off to the west, plumes of smoke drifting up, marking the position of some Lykard encampment. They speeded their pace then, leaving the smoke behind as they drew nearer a hurst.

As with the land itself, the perspectives of the wood were deceptive. It seemed at first of no great size, but as they closed on it, it seemed to grow, to expand to east and west, far larger than Calandryll had judged. Silver-barked birches were lit by the descending sun, spread like some natural pallisade about the perimeter of the woodland, giving way to hornbeams deeper in, those rising high, to spread their limbs over ground barely grassed and still thick with a crisp layering of fallen leaves. Bracht led them in until the prairie was lost to sight, their path shadowy and loud with bird song, riding steadily deeper until alders showed where a spring gurgled up to form a small pond. They halted there, gathering the makings of a fire but not setting spark to the tinder until dusk fell and the sky grew dark, concealing the smoke. Then, confident that the density of surrounding trunks would hide the glow, they prepared a meal and pitched their tents. Remembering the smoke from the Lykard fires they decided to mount a guard that night, and Calandryll was shaken awake by Katya, the middle watch falling to him.

He wrapped his cloak about his shoulders, the
nights being still chilly, and slung his quiver across his back, taking up his bow as he paced a dutiful round. The moon thickened, lancing pale light over the woodland floor, and through the overhang of branches he saw a vista of stars twinkling. The horses snuffled and snorted, making those sounds horses make in sleep; nightjars sang their strident song and owls their softer calls; earthbound predators hunted the darkness, their presence announced only by the dying cries of their prey. But he felt no threat, for all he held an arrow nocked, as if the wood breathed peace, telling him in its dendroid way that no harm should come while they remained within its boundaries. He thought perhaps this was some silent message sent by Ahrd, so firm was the conviction, though this particular woodland seemed not to contain any oaks. His watch was uneventful and he woke Bracht at the agreed hour to find his bed and fall calmly into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning dawned bright, and after eating they started off again through the timber, Bracht once more in the lead. The narrow trail they took slowed them and it was close on noon before they left the wood, emerging on the open ground with no sign of further welcome cover ahead. Still, they encountered no ni Larrhyn riders as they traversed the prairie, alternating between canter and walk, the sun warm on their backs, the ever-present wind rustling the knee-high grass. They saw more horses, and sometimes the wild dogs Bracht explained were the chief predators of the grasslands, though the canines stayed always, cannily, well beyond bowshot. They were ugly creatures, blunt of muzzle and heavy-jawed, with long legs and stubby tails, mottled of coat so that they blended with the grass, appearing and disappearing like phantoms as they hunted. It was a profitable time for them, when sickly foals might be easily taken, and that culling, Bracht declared, ensured they offered no danger—in leaner seasons they might, unlike the
wolves of the higher country, chance attacking a careless rider.

That night they camped in a shallow hollow, without a fire, aware of the smoke they had seen during the afternoon, closer than before, and started early, while the sun was barely over the eastern horizon. Bracht passed the packhorse into Calandryll’s care, announcing his intention of scouting ahead, and kicked the black stallion to a gallop that carried him rapidly out of sight.

He returned around midmorning, riding fast, swinging the stallion alongside Katya’s grey gelding as she and Calandryll waited nervously to learn what he had found.

“Ni Larrhyn horsemen,” he declared, pointing directly ahead. “Moving across our path.”

“Coming our way?” the warrior woman asked.

“Moving westward.” Bracht shook his head. “But still they’ll see us, save we’re careful.”

Calandryll stared round, seeing only the grass: no place to hide.

“Swift,” Bracht snapped and he realized he had slowed instinctively, heeling the chestnut up to a canter on the Kern’s urging, the packhorse whickering a protest as the tether was snatched tight. “Do we fight them?” he called.

“We hide from them,” Bracht returned, leaving Calandryll no choice but to follow, confused.

It seemed they must ride head-on toward the ni Larrhyn, their paths intersecting, for if the riders crossed their way and they continued this northward progress he could see no other choice in it, nor refuge of any kind. Bracht knows this country, he told himself, trust him; but still he doubted, thinking that surely they must gallop into a battle.

They splashed across a stream, lined like the earlier river with willows and alders, and he realized the terrain sloped upward, and that Bracht made directly for the crest, where surely they must be outlined in all this flat country. But when he topped the ridge he saw
no sign of horsemen and guessed the land folded, hiding them, confidence in the Kern’s prairie lore growing then. Cheered, he urged the chestnut to a faster pace, thundering down the farther slope, over more flat, then down again, into a wide bowl, where Bracht reined in.

The Kern was out of his saddle in the same moment, the stallion curvetting as the reins snapped tight. Bracht reached down, seizing a fetlock and lifting as he shoved hard against the animal’s shoulder, muttering urgently in his own language. The stallion snorted a protest, but it knelt, trained to the maneuver, and rolled onto its side. Bracht stroked the muzzle, briefly, still speaking, and dropped the reins across the glossy neck; the stallion remained supine as he darted back.

“Hold the packhorse,” he commanded as he repeated the action, rougher with Calandryll’s mount and Katya’s. “And lie across their necks. Keep a hand on the muzzle; keep them down and silent.”

Calandryll obeyed, twisting to watch as Bracht shouldered the packhorse down and followed his own instructions.

Then they could only wait, after a while aware of a vibration that drummed from the ground, telling them horses approached. Calandryll felt an insect land on his neck, treading delicately through the sweat there, its touch feather-light and mightily irritating. He held one hand clamped over the chestnut’s nostrils, feeling the beast’s neck strain against his weight, as he slapped with his other at the offending bug. It lifted clear, only to return once he removed his hand and he gave up the attempt, resigning himself to suffering its attentions as the vibration became sound, resolving into the steady pounding of hooves. They came closer, louder and louder, and he fastened his hand tighter on the chestnut as the gelding’s eyes rolled and it struggled to rise. He felt the insect joined by another, teasing him, urging him to let go his hold on the horse and slap them away. He resisted the
temptation, chancing a look round, seeing Katya sprawled across her grey, her tanned face slick with sweat, her eyes intent on the rim of the bowl. Bracht lay farther back, immobile over the packhorse. Calandryll saw that his bow and quiver lay before the animal and thought that he had not noticed the Kern take up the weapon. The black stallion lay utterly still.

The hoofbeats seemed overwhelming now, like sullen thunder, as if the riders came down into the hollow. Calandryll cursed silently, realizing that his own bow lay trapped beneath the bulk of the chestnut, then that the ni Larrhyn must surely be so close as to render the bow useless: when they saw the three intruders it must surely be swordwork that was needed. He wondered how many warriors there were.

Then, to his surprise, he sensed a difference in the sound, in the vibration. It lessened, the drumbeat pounding fading, growing indistinct until it was no more than a memory, an echo held by strained nerves. He started as a hand touched his shoulder and heard Bracht say cheerfully, “Save you develop some unnatural affection for that horse you can let it up.”

He wriggled clear, the beast surging to its feet, shaking its head and blowing, eyes still rolling. He stroked it, soothing its nervousness until he felt sure the trembling in both of them was gone. Katya, likewise, gentled her mount, and Bracht the packhorse, calling softly to the stallion, which came upright of its own accord and stood silently surveying its master.

“I’d thought . . .” Calandryll paused, sighing gustily. “Dera, but I’d thought they must come on us then.”

Bracht chuckled, motioning for him to mount. “There are places enough to hide”—he grinned—“do you know the land. You’ll learn.”

Calandryll nodded from his saddle. Bracht walked the packhorse closer to the stallion, mounted, and beckoned them after him, up out of the concealing
bowl, but eastward now, circling north again across a swath cut through the grass.

“We need ride wary awhile,” he warned, looking to the west. “Their camp will be close.”

How close they saw as dusk came down, the twilight revealing stark the glow of campfires, less than a league distant.

“So,” Bracht decided, “well rest a little and go on through the night—they’ll be out after the wild foals again on the morrow. It may be we must travel by darkness a spell.”

Neither Calandryll nor Katya found fault with his argument and they ate cold meat as full darkness spread over the prairie and the wind dropped away, the air growing colder.

“Shall they not find our trail?” asked Calandryll.

“They’ll find a trail,” Bracht agreed, “but Ahrd willing, they’ll think it no more than wild horses.”

“Then shall they not follow it?” Calandryll wondered. “If they hunt wild horses?”

“Four are scarce worth their time,” Bracht assured him. “And they’ll see there are no foals. No, I think we’re safe enough, save they sight us.”

Which, Calandryll thought, was all too easy if no convenient hollow or hurst presented itself.

That pessimism, though, he kept to himself as they mounted again and proceeded on their journey.

It was hardly slowed by the darkness, for the moon was filled enough now that the grassland shone silvery beneath its glow, that augmented by starlight, the sky stretching vast overhead, presenting myriad constellations to light their way. Calandryll thought that he had never seen so many stars, not even as they crossed the Narrow Sea or the interior of Lysse, as if the vast expanse of Cuan na’For was mirrored in the sky. They cantered like ghosts, league after league until the panoply above was dimmed by the approach of dawn. Bracht slowed then, as the star-pocked velvet became grey, the eastern horizon glowing with the flirtation of the false dawn. They found a stream and
paused on its bank to water their animals, not daring to linger there, for fear of wild horses coming to drink, their presence attracting the Lykard. Instead, they rode on as the false dawn faded and the world was blanketed in darkest grey obfuscation, Bracht finally calling a halt below the scarp of a low ridge, declaring that they might sleep awhile and go on once he had scouted their surroundings.

Calandryll had the first watch and climbed to the ridge’s crest to see the sun come brilliant into the sky, the world bathed in hues of fire that ran like liquid flame against the last vestiges of night, birds rising loud all about and the wind starting again, softly insistent. He heard the howling of the dog packs as they commenced their day’s hunting, and the whinnying of the wild horses, the stallions screaming defiance at the canines. Far off, close to the limits of his vision, he saw a herd break from its grazing and begin to run, coming south and west, toward the ridge. As the horses drew closer, smaller shapes became visible, loping behind, and he saw the herd was pursued, or driven, by a fluid line of dogs. He watched as a dappled mare faltered, slowing, and three dogs ran close, snapping at her legs. Two more moved to attack from the front and a stallion turned from his headlong flight to charge back, his scream a challenge. Calandryll watched, fascinated by the drama, as the stallion plunged headlong at the dogs, bowling one over, yelping, spinning to dash hooves down against the tumbling predator. A second was sent flying by the rear hooves and then the mare was running clear, the stallion pausing a moment, plunging, pawing air, the morning loud with his shrill whickering before he, too, raced to rejoin the herd.