The Gantlet

by Linda L. Dunlap

  The longbow wasn’t enough to win the tourney, and the archer hung his head and left the field, his shame at losing palpable, larger than life. There were no good sports in the king’s guard. They jeered to a man as the bowman left the field, and their laughter added to the misery he already possessed.

  Rand was overtaken by anger at the display of poor sportsmanship, and he shouted at the king’s men, “Stop. He is shamed already by losing. Have you no mercy?”

  The guards turned, their eyes piercing Rand as he stood staring, his right behavior lost on the cowardly crew. He was now marked, and he knew there would be no good end to the contest for Rand Winter. Turning his mind away from all else, Rand stepped to the pad, placed his bow, and drew the first arrow. He nocked it determinedly and drew the sinew as far back as it would go, until the malleable wood bent almost double. As the arrow shot forth, it flew straight and true, and penetrated the tiny ring in the target’s center. The second followed, its path set by the first, the yew tree branches flying one after the other toward the same destination. The third and the fourth flew as well, their presence splitting the target as all four became one inside the smallest mark.

  The crowd was hushed, with mouths agape, their concentration fully upon the young man with the short bow. His excellence with the weapon was greater than any they had ever seen. But five arrows were required for the tourney. Rand nocked the last one and eyed the rings. He loosed the arrow, and its tip penetrated the center of the previous four. The cheerful scarlet feather extended outward from the target as the point rested inside the others.

  The watchers and those who had tried and failed to win the contest began cheering, throwing hats into the air, beating their fellows on the backs, for they had witnessed the best archer ever seen in the entire region of Tick. Rand’s euphoria was cut short by the sight of the soldiers whispering in the king’s ear, their fingers pointing down the field at him. He knew there was trouble brewing.

  “Breanna, we have to go,” he said, moving toward the rest of his party.

  “But Rand, you won!” she said, jumping and hugging him.

  Tom and Sean clapped each other on the back, their joy at Rand’s control of the contest too great to notice the group of men who were scheming with the king.

  “Look, see how they plot. This is not good for us. My mates will honor their agreement, but we must leave now.”

  The three friends saw the group of soldiers gathered near the king, but it was Princess Fielda who got Breanna’s attention. The king’s daughter was staring downfield, frantically motioning them to leave. By her expressions, they knew the tourney was no longer safe for Rand Winter and his party.

  Without further talk, the four gathered their belongings and cut across the forested area on the outskirts of the tournament grounds, where the trees were skimpy and provided little cover. Through the evergreens they saw soldiers impatiently mounting bannered horses, scattering the still-cheering crowd. The first of the king’s men kneed his large black steed and jumped ahead of the rest, intending to be the first to catch the runaways.

  Tom was in front, barely huffing and puffing in his improved physical condition. His new ability delighted him as he led the race. Although they covered a far distance, there was small hope of running fast enough to stay ahead of the men on fast steeds. The chargers would be on them in minutes. From what they had already seen, there was little human kindness in the king’s guard, and even less in the king,

  Breanna saw their dilemma unfold: they would be caught, Yahmara would win, and Elida would be sacrificed—or worse, turned into a witch. There was only one solution—the White. She called to her friends and signaled them to go down into the narrow gully that ran across the forest, and hide from the approaching horsemen. All agreed and ran as one, jumping and landing in the hillside’s breach. With three large breaths, Breanna called down the White just as the king’s men broached the top of the hill.

  “Quiet,” Tom whispered. “Slow the noise of your breathing; they’ll hear your gasps.”

  Muttered grumblings were lanced across the hillside: “You, you lost them.”

  “It was you.”

  “No, it was you. I’ll not be the one to tell the king we lost four souls on foot.”

  “Go the other way, you idiots. Don’t follow me,” the first man said, walking his horse on the rim of the gulch. “They couldn’t have gone far. Find them.”

  Under the White, Rand had Breanna’s bow with an arrow already nocked, ready to stop any soldier who stumbled across them as they lay hidden. But there was an unknown quality of the White that even Willow didn’t know, and Breanna discovered it by accident when a soldier’s horse stepped with full weight through her extended hand. She felt nothing. Not only were they invisible to the rest of the world, they were also without substance. When the ancient power was added to the memories, objects beneath the White became as vapor, showing no surface to watchers. The soldier could have sat his horse and ridden through their midst without knowing they were there.

  The voices drifted away, leaving their troop of friends alone in the forest. Breanna lifted the White, and all gathered their knapsacks and hurried toward the road. Once again, she thanked Willow for the blessed cover; no doubt it had saved them from capture, and possibly it had saved their lives. The crippling headache came, but she swallowed more of the salts, and the pain subsided, leaving a dull ache.

  “Hurry,” Tom said in a loud whisper, “they’ll be back soon. Losing us is not a thing they’ll be proud of. We must get on the road to Parth soon. I doubt we make it before night is half gone.”

  Down the road they could see groups of travelers returning to the town of Tick, some losers and some winners at the tourneys. Rand’s mates would be waiting for him near the outskirts of the city, their gear packed, and weapons ready for battle. He hoped they would live up to their words, but he was prepared if some had rethought the wager and tossed it aside. The king hadn’t recognized the captain as the winning archer. If such a thing happened, and the men refused to fight, there was nothing to be done, for neither Tom nor Rand had silver enough to hire mercenaries to fight for pay.

  Breanna replaced Kit inside the quiver. She had carried him under her shirt while the captain lined up with the archers. The fox lifted his head and placed his jaw on her shoulder. She spoke to him in his language, and told him there would be great danger where they were going, and he must stay in the forest if they went into battle. The fox licked her hand, yipping once that he chose to stay with her and the others. Breanna smiled and hugged his soft fluff, then tucked him out of sight.

  Several carts were in the road ahead, stopped while the soldiers of the king searched for the runaways, but after a while, the mounted men rode off, back toward the tournament. Breanna wondered if the circulating gossip about the handsome champion of the king’s tournament would finally get back to them in the form of a fireside story.

  Rand ran ahead, and strangers recognized him from the tournament and congratulated him as he passed their carts. Toward the front of the line, he found his mates and begged a ride for himself and his friends.

  Back in Tick, there was little time for anything except to grab a bit of food and water on the run. They’d had little to eat all day, and Sean considered himself to be starving. The older ones contented themselves with a loaf of bread and a block of cheese, but the boy wanted milk. A kind woman, the mother of one of Rand’s shipmates, gave the boy a cup of milk and a piece of cake with it. She spoke to Sean about staying with them instead of going on the witch hunt, but he was having none of it.

  “No, I can’t. My sister is waiting for us to find her,” he explained.

  Breanna was lost in thought as they left the city loaded for battle. Parth was their next stop, and everything would become very dangerous for them all. There was nothing to be done except approach in darkness, the worst time for all of them—except Breanna, whose vision at night was sharp and clear.

  She studied Rand’s frien
ds, wondering what they would do in actual battle. Would they hold or falter, leaving the rest of them to fight alone? What could they hope for against witches and black magic? Freeing Elida was the most important part of the mission, but how could they do that and not get caught at the last?

  We must locate our sweet friend and surprise the foul ones with our presence, she thought. Breanna was reluctant to travel through the door of the void. Besides being so close to witches who performed black magic, she would be subjected to horrible pain afterward when all her wits were needed. It would not do to lose the battle after coming so far to save the girl. Breanna thought it better to take her chances searching from building to building for the girl once they had sneaked into the small township.

  The cart ride was slow, even though it was pulled by two strong draft horses. The four from the west had grown accustomed to the great speed of their spellbound oxen, and found traveling in the horse-drawn wagons to be rough and tedious.

  “Bree,” Rand whispered, “given the chance, do you think you could speed the horses?”

  “Yes, probably, but how would I explain it to your mates?”

  “’Tis past the time of worry about that, lass,” Tom cut in, overhearing the two talking. “They’ll know soon enough you be more than you seem.”

  “Then get them to stop the carts and I will speak to the animals.” Breanna had no doubt she could stir a spell for the horses, but she was concerned about the stares and questions she would get back from Rand’s friends. She sighed and waited for him to speak to the man with the reins. The wait was short, for the driver pulled up quickly and jumped down from the wagon. He needed a personal break in the tall weeds along the road. A few others took similar paths then returned to the carts, curious about the boy who had jumped out of the cart and was studying the ears of the trace horses.

  Recalling the spell she had cast on Bess and Barley, Breanna used Anola’s gift for language as the medium, and spoke to the animals, warning them of what was about to happen, and of the lessened burden they would feel pulling the carts. The horses were slow-witted and reluctant to believe the voice in their ears until they felt a surge of energy lifting their hooves. Breanna jumped back inside with the others and waited for the drivers to click the leads. The quick move forward reassured her that her memory of the oxen’s spell was usable for other animals.

  The spelled horses covered ground quickly, and stirred a cold wind as they sped along. The occupants of both carts were soon chilled in the night air, but they preferred to be cold if it meant reaching their destination faster. Soon they saw signs that only a short distance stood between them and the witch-run town of Parth. Breanna knew everything they had ever known or seen would be in question, and she feared for Sean and Elida, innocents in the witches’ game.

  25.

  Riding was both a remembered pleasure and a pain. His own sire had taught him to ride early, and much later the hoof beats of his Baldron stallion had stirred the still warm ground near the haven as he searched for his father amid the mountain’s melt.

  When Eliandor was a young elf at Pentara Wood, Wellanor had taught him not only horsemanship, but how to communicate with living things. He had learned well and gained his father’s trust. Many years later, when Eliandor had his own family, he taught his sons and daughters the way of horses, and they rode along the wild beaches of the Qayborn Sea on salt grass fed native horses.

  Then, several hundred years later, after the volcanic fires had cooled, and wild sweet grass grew upon the once-charred land, the wild Baldron horses began to gather and make their home again on the edge of newly grown Pentara Wood near the haven.

  Eliandor, in his sadness over the loss of his family on the Darth of Qayborn, immersed himself in galloping across the land, once again searching for the graves of his sons and their grandfather. Finally, bereft but determined to go on, he settled into his life, and he and Illene had two more children: the one lost at birth, and the one who was lost at sea. Eliandor had swallowed his grief, and turned his eyes back to the wild horses that always gave him pleasure. The one he rode with the seven was of the same line, sleek and fast, and it responded to the councilor’s slightest touch.

  They rode the first day alongside the Smoke River, one of two water ways near the haven, staying on old trails. Seven skirts flew in the wind as they rode, and each of the Qay women felt the exhilaration of their elven calling. They had been taught to use their gifts for good, and to keep them as secrets among themselves, but the one who chose to go against the family was Yahmara; stubborn and irascible from birth, she used her gift for witch-work. She hated Eliandor for turning her out, and she cursed all her kin as well. Soon afterward, she took her place with the covens of black magic across the Qadra Sea and beyond. Her hatred for all things good made her a fierce enemy, and Mathena, more than the rest, knew Yahmara’s capabilities.

  Along the dark river they found caves that were once the homes of river bears, very large beasts that climbed trees with speed and swam the river currents as well as the fish they pursued for food. The bears had moved upward into the mountains, leaving the caves deserted. The deep depressions in the cliffs became homes for wild cats and sojourners passing through. In one of them, Mathena built a fire, using the wood from the trees beside the river. She sparked the kindling without worry that some was still wet from a recent rain.

  Eliandor watched her work, approving of her use of the gift she had been given. He nodded at her as he stood by the water, the stillness of its deep flow soothing his apprehension over the upcoming battle against evil.

  “We are at a crossroads, Mathena, and dire circumstances will follow. I did not call out our people to fight this battle, for it won’t be won with bows, nor with might, but with the power of good against evil. I do not hope to survive this conflict, for I have not seen a future for me beyond it, but you must return to the haven and take your rightful place as one who belongs. I was wrong to turn you and the others away. My sweet daughter would still be living her life if I had not been so stubborn.”

  “Wait,” Mathena said, “you can’t give in to dreams showing no future for you. You must remake those visions, for we need you, Grandfather. Pentara Haven needs you.” Mathena was distraught at the thought of losing him after such a long time parted.

  “Never mind, child. What will be will be. Perhaps I was wrong about what I saw. Even so, there is much to fear from this battle. Your child’s life is at stake, for the evil one is in place to enter this world and bind it to his own, destroying all in his path.”

  “What have you seen for…her? Will she survive?”

  “I am not privileged to see, nor would I tell you if I knew. Your deeds must be done without consideration for your child. You have a duty to your people, to all peoples. You must never forget she has the memories. The ancients will be with her.”

  “What if all of us, and her memories, aren’t enough to displace the Spectre from this world, Grandfather? What then?”

  “Mathena, sweet girl, as you reminded me, do not be concerned with uncertainties. Lives must be lived, and futures hoped for. We shall all do what we are able.”

  The night was uneventful except for a few angry catcalls from the den dwellers the group had displaced. The next morning, and other mornings thereafter for a fortnight, they rose early and rode hard after spending their nights in caves, or in the trees. Eliandor hoped to avoid the villages, for all of them seen together would create great fears in the people. Most had heard tales of the councilor, but believed them to be stories told to satisfy the need for ghoulish dreams of ageless elves. He hadn’t ventured far from the Haven of Pentara in over a century, and none who had seen him could recall his face or name.

  The seven sisters knew when Breanna called upon the memories of their gifts that she was in serious situations and needed their help. Anola once heard her voice, entreating for help in mind traveling. One morning after the warriors had gone a long ways, Anola called Mathena aside, and spoke to her
quietly of what was on her heart.

  “Mathena, your child has entered realms beyond my own ability. The memories have obeyed her wishes, allowing her to cross greater language barriers, but they placed her in jeopardous situations. She has traveled the void, into the mind of another, and I grow concerned she will lose herself if she continues.”

  “What can we do? Can we advise her of the dangers?”

  “We can do nothing more. The memory I placed has warned her, but her concern for the kidnapped child holds sway in her heart, deafening her ears to words of warning.”

  “Thank you, Anola, for telling me. I will speak of it to the councilor. Perhaps he has also traveled the void, and can find Breanna and make her understand the perils of mind journeys.”

  She found her grandfather riding behind the other sisters, unmindful of the dust stirred by the horses ahead of him. He seemed content with the ride, sitting tall in the ornate saddle. She slowed her horse until they were riding side by side, and then she began telling of the fears she had.

  “Have you traveled the void, Grandfather?” Mathena still found it difficult not to address Eliandor as Mer Eliandor or the childish Grandpoppa. She was saddened for a moment, thinking of her great age and the centuries that had passed without seeing him.

  “Why do you ask?” Eliandor seemed curious, as though no one had ever asked him such a question.

  “My daughter Breanna has used the ancient power and entered the mind of another from a great distance.” She found it best to tell him the exact truth as it had been told her.

  “Oh, I see. I thought perhaps you wished to learn. I speak often to Illene, but we two are as one. The answer is yes, I have so traveled. A fearful journey through the doors of time. I hesitate to go there more often than I must.”

  “It is a danger to her? Will she lose her way?” Mathena was near breaking. Her daughter, whom she hadn’t seen for many years, and had feared dead, was in danger, and her mother could not help her.