by Lisa Maxwell
Chapter 8
After the blizzard they rested the horses two days in the first good grass they came upon. Then they moved on, descending the mountain and crossing the valley floor. They were ascending the next ridge when they noticed the hoof prints of shod horses. The man dismounted to examine them. They looked recent to Is. She glanced around nervously. Shod horses could only be government troopers. When the man remounted and started to follow the trail Is held Lark back. Everything she felt she was starting to know about the man flipped over.
If he meant to take her to the troopers he might use the tool/weapon to keep her from running away. But he hadn't looked back yet. He didn't know she wasn't following.
She reined Lark around hard and drove her heels into his sides. Surprised by her sudden roughness Lark lunged forward into the forest with Is crouched low over his neck. Branches buffeted them as they ran and now Lark had picked up her fear. He plunged down the hillside, dodging trees and ducking low branches.
Suddenly Is was nearly pitched from Lark's back as he stumbled. His neck disappeared from in front of her as he fell, twisting. He was going down on his right shoulder. He would fall on her leg. Possibly roll over her. She kicked her feet free of the stirrups. The ground rushed at her with terrifying speed. The instant before contact the world receded into a spinning dot and . . . came back.
Lark stood, foursquare, under her. She could feel him trembling. She stroked his neck to reassure him although she needed reassurance as badly. She wasn't sure what had happened. Maybe some branch had hit her when Lark was falling and she'd almost blacked out, but he had recovered and she'd stayed on by reflex. That made sense. She'd take good luck like that anytime it was handed to her.
Lark recovered his composure. As he stretched his head down and helped himself to the irresistibly green grass, Is realized they were no longer in the forest but in a meadow.
Funny, it almost looked like spring grass, not the tough mature grass they'd been seeing. Maybe this little meadow was protected somehow.
She'd love to let him eat, but if the man followed her, or if he alerted the troopers, they’d be coming after her. She pressed her legs to Lark's sides to tell him to walk on and a wave of dizziness swept through her. Lark took a few steps and the rolling movement of his walk upset her equilibrium as if she had never sat on a horse before. She had to clutch the saddle and when there were no further signals from her, Lark stopped to eat again.
Is slid from his back. Her knees refused to support her and she ended up sitting on the ground. Pursuit, or no pursuit, she was going to have to rest a moment. Unconsciousness overtook her in a spinning rush.
She woke to the long shadows of late afternoon. Lark grazed near her fully tacked. His reins trailed on the ground between his feet but he had learned not to step on them.
Funny he hadn't gone looking for the mare, but maybe the green grass held him.
There was no sign of pursuit. She'd been really lucky nobody had found her yet, but it was time to get going. Her body felt like dead meat as she got to her feet.
At that moment Lark raised his head and whinnied. He was answered from the other end of the meadow. Is just had time to grab his rein as he went past her. He stopped obediently at her tug. She couldn’t yet see what he saw but any company was bad news. She scrambled into the saddle. From that vantage she saw Blueskins, six of them, riding toward her.
She spun Lark around and saw more Blueskins coming from the other direction. They spotted her at the same instant she saw them. One of them shouted and sent his horse into a gallop. He was answered by a shout from someone in the other group and those horses surged forward too. In seconds they would have her surrounded. She dug her heels into Lark and he lunged for the small opening between the groups.
Suddenly a rider barred her way. He flung his arms wide, baring his blue-cast chest and shouting to make Lark turn. Is clenched her heels against Lark’s sides. Her voice tore from her throat in a scream of rage. Lark reacted, lunging directly toward the horse and rider in front of him. In an instant he would collide with them. Is was too furious to be afraid.
The collision was not as bad as she’d expected. Lark stumbled but didn’t fall. Is felt the impact of hitting the other horse but somehow she never saw the other horse go down. There were no thrashing legs to entangle Lark, no thrown rider trampled underfoot, no horrible scene impressed on her mind, only an open field in front of them. She crouched in her stirrups and let Lark run until he slowed of his own accord. When she looked back there was no sign of anyone.
Had their desperate act convinced the Blueskins to leave them alone? There was no other explanation. Yet Lark was not behaving as though there were other horses nearby. Now that she let him stop he only wanted to eat, and she noticed that the grass was no longer spring green. This was old, dry, winter grass. She felt dizzy again.
For the second time that day Is slid from Lark’s back and found her legs unable to hold her. She had no choice but to sit on the ground for a while.
When she stood up she still felt unsteady on her feet. Night was coming and she was dizzy and disoriented. If she let Lark pick the way in the dark he'd take her to the nearest horses. Better to stay here. She got Lark untacked and pitched the fly of her tent, grateful that it was a lot warmer here than it had been on top of the pass.
But when she lay down she couldn’t get to sleep. She was constantly listening for Lark. Although he had not shown any desire to go after the mare, Is worried he would leave during the night.
She tried to distract herself by planning what she should do next. But no plan would come. She drifted in and out of a light doze. Dreams and memories intermixed.
.. . It was her first day at the Berserker's Barn. The government rig dropped her off at the front door to the indoor arena. Armed only with a tough yellow folder, which probably told everything she had ever done wrong, and a small satchel of clothes, she entered the ring timidly.
The inside was enormous and quiet except for the exertions of the six horses who were working at that moment. Is closed the door silently behind her and stood transfixed by the beauty of the horses. These were not the older horses, retired brood mares and geldings who hadn't had the quality required of breeding stallions, that Is was used to handling in the Apprentice Barn. These were magnificent, highly bred, proud, powerful stallions in the peak of condition. The riders were so absorbed they hardly spared Is a glance. She stood, pressed to the wall, watching and didn't see or hear the Riding Master approach.
"What are you doing here?" the Riding Master's rough voice demanded, stressing "you" as if she were unworthy to enter the arena with his horses and students.
Too startled to speak, Is just held the folder out toward him.
“Ha," he said brusquely, taking it and flipping it open. “Apprentice!" he bellowed. “Junior apprentice!" As his glance jumped from the folder to Is, she knew he saw a weak frightened child. She forced herself to stand taller and not flinch as he continued. "What are those assholes thinking? An apprentice! A junior apprentice! You'll get killed." Then he paused and his countenance softened as he thought of a possible explanation. "Are you sure they meant to send you?"
Is could only nod. She was terrified of how her voice would sound. Now she understood why Riding Master Masley had sent her here, but she wasn't going to get killed. She was sure of that. These were horses. The most beautiful horses she had ever seen. She wasn't going to be afraid of them, even if they did tower over her, with powerful legs and feet that would crush hers if they ever stepped on her, even if they were stallions and she had never handled a stallion in her life. She would learn how to manage them so they didn't hurt her. They had their instincts and they had to be true to those instincts. She would learn their true nature, their rules and she'd survive - she'd become a rider. With new resolve she raised her eyes to Riding Master Lowbridge, only he wasn't looking at her now.
He was reading her file.
"Shit!" he said summing up his disgust with her. Then he turned and roared, "Arimus! Arimus!" in a voice that could have raised the roof if it had not already been so high.
In a moment a tall young man came hustling along the edge of the arena.
"Arimus," the Riding Master said, "this is," he had to consult the file, "Isadora Drey. They sent us a goddamned junior apprentice." His voice had risen again. "Assholes! I can't believe this. You take her. See if you can keep her from getting killed." He stalked off, grumbling loudly.
Arimus looked her over. Dressed in the blue of an intermediate, he was intimidating, but not as much as a senior rider or a master. He wore a dour expression, made more dour by his assignment.
"Junior apprentice?" he asked her.
Is acknowledged what was beginning to seem like a crime.
“What do you know how to do?"
“I can groom, tack up, lead a horse, clean stalls and tack." Her voice didn't sound as bad as she'd feared.
"You can groom, tack up, and lead a school horse," he corrected with disdain, "not a real horse, not one of our stallions, and don't forget it. This is a whole different arena here. You can't mess around here. You've got to keep your mind on what you're doing all the time. You could get killed. Worse, you could get one of the horses hurt." He was looking her over again, but now Is felt he wasn't trying to intimidate her. The warning was real. He couldn't know she hadn't "messed around" in the Apprentice Barn. She had applied herself there, only she had not done what the Riding Master wanted.
"The horses aren't the only danger," Arimus continued. "They told you what we do here?" he asked and didn't wait for an answer. "We train the men who aspire to become the berserkers. They've got to be damn good riders. They aren't completely berserkers yet, and some of them don't make it. Some of them don't pass the riding. Some flunk out physically, or mentally. Sometimes they go crazy." He eyed her closely. "It doesn't happen often, but when it does, it's bad. You've got to be awake. This isn't kindergarten anymore."
Is didn't say anything, but in her heart she swore to learn to handle these "real" horses and one day to ride them. She was not afraid of the horses, nor would she be afraid of the people.
She stirred in her sleeping bag. If her mind must wander into the past at least her memories of the Berserker’s Barn were not too bad. She had applied herself and she had won her way, inch by muscle-aching inch, all the way up to senior rider. Surely that had been harder than what she was facing now. At least now she was alone, and if she was alone she could be safe.
When she finally slept, nightmarish dreams plagued her. Involved in them, she didn't wake fast enough. Lark's whinny was part of her dream. The sound of many horses milling about jerked her out of sleep.
She came out of her sleeping bag faster than she'd ever moved in her life. A man was crouched, about to come under the fly with her. She attacked, charging the man with all her might, knocked him down and got past him, only to be tackled from behind by another man as she burst from under the fly.
On her stomach, on the ground, she was very aware of the horses. Their legs were a milling forest in the moonlight, their hooves coming within inches of her prone body.
Unshod. Marauders, not government. Lark was hidden from her view.
The man who had grabbed her had his arms wrapped around her legs. She twisted around and tried to slug him in the face. Only he ducked and her fist just grazed his shoulder. Other men laughed. Someone's feet nearly landed on her as he vaulted from his horse. He grabbed her by the hair and lifted. She swung at him too. She could see him well enough in the moonlight to see the bluish cast to his skin. Until that moment she'd been more furious than scared.
They forced her to her feet by twisting her arm behind her back. She tried to ignore the pain. Keep fighting. They were going to kill her anyway. If they killed her before they raped her so much the better.
Pain from her twisted arm made her start to lose consciousness, and then adrenaline brought her up again. Everything seemed to be happening in jerky little flashes.
Suddenly everything was quiet. She must have been out for a moment. She was lying on the ground and the men had formed a circle around her. No one was moving. She got to her knees. The circle spun. She exerted her will and made the circle be still. The man she was facing was obviously the leader. He exuded a severe dignity Is couldn't ignore. She stood up. The world did one complete rotation, and stopped. She ignored the places her body hurt and focused on the Blueskins, struck by their resemblance to berserkers. They had the same wide chests and thickly muscled arms and legs, but they were shorter than berserkers.
When the leader saw that he had her attention, he beat on his bare chest with the palm of his hand making a surprisingly loud noise. Then he delivered a short guttural speech. Is couldn’t understand a word. He would probably be the first to rape her, but all she could do was stare at him. She'd meant to fight as hard as she could, try to get herself killed, or at least knocked out. But now, somehow, it seemed too late. Whatever was happening here was not what she'd expected.
“Chest” finished his speech, turned and gestured and a man led Lark into the circle. Is came alert. She'd kill any one of them before she'd let them harm Lark. She didn't think about how.
They'd put a rope with a slip knot around Lark's neck. He'd never been led that way and didn't know the knot could tighten, strangling him. It would be a very dangerous way to handle a fully trained war horse who would fight anything that hurt him. But Lark followed the man complacently into the circle, confident in the goodwill of all humans toward him.
The leader hit his chest making the loud noise again. Then he gestured to the horse and to Is and asked something in a language Is couldn't understand. She stared defiantly at him. He gave an angry grunt.
Is turned and walked toward Lark. No one made any move to stop her. She reached out and took the rope from the man who was holding Lark as though she expected him to give it to her and he did. She slid it off Lark's neck.
Everyone fell back a few paces, making the circle bigger. For a moment Is hoped they were retreating in fear, but they weren't. The leader hit his chest again, pointed at the horse and said something. Then he too moved back to the edge of the circle. It was obvious what they wanted.
They had not offered her a bridle or saddle. She'd never ridden Lark this way before and wondered if he'd respond to her signals. Without the saddle her aids would feel different to him, and without the bridle there would be no way to make him obey if he didn't feel like it.
She turned him downhill of her. With no stirrups she had to vault all the way onto his back. She experienced a moment of doubt but threw it out harshly. She jumped as high as she could, grabbed his mane, and threw her right leg over. A fairly clean vault. Now she knew for sure where her body was hurt - her left elbow, right hip and leg, left ankle. She put the pain out of her mind.
Is pressed Lark's sides with her calves, asking him to walk and steered him around the circle with her legs and weight. He answered as though they did this all the time.
If he had been fully trained she could have broken through the circle in a moment. But Lark wasn't trained for that sort of fighting and neither was she. If she got out of the circle there would be a high-speed chase on the steep rocky trails in the dark. The Blueskins' weedy little animals would be faster under these conditions. Their riders knew the country and they had weapons. She gave up the idea and turned Lark around the circle.
If Lark had been trained in the battle airs she could have impressed the hell out of the Blueskins. But his training had only gotten as far as the basics that formed the groundwork for the battle skills. The movements he knew were less deadly and more esoteric. But that was all Is had.
She asked Lark for a canter and he moved into that gait with an effortless smooth bound. Using only her seat and legs she brought
him into a collected, high canter. They were on a slope, on rocky ground, with only the moonlight, but Lark responded to her aids, bringing his hind legs well under him with each slow-motion bound, balancing as though he had the best footing in the world.
Is felt impressed. But what would her audience of blueskinned barbarians know of the hours of work that had gone into accomplishing this seemingly simple movement, a collected canter on the side of a mountain, with no bridle? They would need to see something flashy.
She turned across the circle and asked Lark for a flying change of lead. He performed it effortlessly, springing into the air and coming down on the opposite leading leg as though he had jumped over a small nonexistent hurdle. Emboldened by the ease of Lark's response, Is asked for another change, and then another in rapid succession. Lark sprang through the air as though he was skipping.
For Is the watchers might as well have disappeared. Lark transported her into heaven. The perfection of his responses made her feel overwhelming love for him. Sitting his bare back, she could feel him use every muscle as though they were her muscles, and in a sense they were. She made a small movement and they responded with a larger one. Hypnotized by their mutual power, she felt their coordination go beyond training and become true communication.
She asked him to halt and he came to a standstill, setting each hoof down once and not moving it again, sitting back into his momentum in such a way that he was able to cease moving instantly and completely.
Without thinking, Is asked for a trot in place. She hadn't taken Lark that far in his training, but he performed it perfectly. Answering her aids to trot but not go forward, he produced the trot in place even though he had never felt her signals applied in that sequence before.
Her heart soared. Lark was giving every bit of his heart, joyously, performing not only for her but for his audience, human and equine. Before he could tire, she asked him to trot forward and he launched himself into the great ground-covering steps of the extended trot with huge, high, joyous strides.
But the circle was too small for such a gait and Is brought him to a halt. She was so filled with joy she had completely forgotten her audience. She slid from Lark's back, intent only on praising him for his gallant effort . . . and then remembered the Blueskins. Sophisticated horsemen would have been impressed by what they had just seen, but she didn't know what the Blueskins would think. For a moment more she didn't care. She had always known Lark had a generous heart, but this night had transcended anything in her wildest dreams. It was the ride of a lifetime, and Lark had given it to her on the rocky steep hillside, with no bridle, surrounded by people who probably meant to harm him. She pressed her cheek against his neck, thanking him silently with all her heart until Chest spoke in harsh grunts.
Immediately a guard appeared at each of her shoulders.
They didn't touch her but it was obvious where they wanted her to go. She let them escort her. What she had just experienced had lifted her above the Blueskins and beyond fear. She had been transported into a place of incredible dignity where any sort of physical struggle was too out of place to be considered and rape was an impossible indignity.
They set off across the little meadow. Is walked on into the night, escorted by mounted Blueskins on either side of her and ahead and behind. In the dark, she could not see the ground but her footsteps were oddly sure. She held her head high, moving among the rocks and roots and steep places, keeping pace with the riders.
Her euphoria lasted for hours. But by morning it was gone. She was hungry and beginning to be very tired. Her hip and ankle hurt with each step, sucking at her attention, draining her energy. By then it was somehow too late to resist. She trudged on through increasing fatigue and refused to let herself think. She also refused to let herself quit. No matter how tired she got she had decided she would keep going. She made that pact with herself, a carryover from Lark's gallantry last night. She was living up to the honor of having been the one he had allowed to train him.
Once Is had made that covenant she never wavered. Walled in by her own fortitude, she was not aware of the changes around her. The first she knew of the approaching riders was when they came galloping, whooping, around the group that was escorting her.
Chest and his warriors sat taller on their horses, making them jig for benefit of the younger warriors. Is caught glimpses of Lark, prancing, neck arched but he didn't try to pull away from the man who was leading him. After a few minutes the other Blueskins departed in a clattering of hooves and great whooping cries.
Within a few more hours of walking, they reached the Blueskin camp. The tents were of an octagonal design Is had never seen before. There were so many that she didn't bother to count.
Is had never thought about the marauders having homes, children and wives. They had always been the enemy – terrifying and savage and unreasoning.
Lark threw his head up and whinnied. He was answered from the camp by a whinny Is recognized. The man's mare stood at the fence of a corral calling to Lark. Is's heart jumped with hope. He was here! And then her hope crashed. He was probably a captive too.
They brought her to the middle of the tents where there was a large clear area for gathering. The people formed a rough circle with her and Chest's group in the middle. Men and boys raced their horses around the edge of the circle, whooping and shouting. Is noticed how the women held back, peeking shyly from huddled groups near the tents.
The men who had brought her in rode tall, especially Chest. Everyone obviously admired Lark. He was excited by being among so many horses. He looked huge beside the Blueskins' stunted animals.
Is was looking around at all the activity when the man to her left tripped her and threw her to her knees in the middle of the circle. Before she could get up, Chest beat on his chest, silencing everyone. As his warriors engaged in a reenactment of capturing her and Lark the leader stood with his chest stuck out. Is had to admit there was a kind of dignity about him. She couldn't understand the words but the acting was very good. She was being credited with nothing. The way the other women held back, and the way she was not even allowed to stand among the men, told her all she needed to know. At best she could hope to become a lesser citizen like the other women, maybe one of Chest's wives. That was if they didn't kill her or make her a slave. At least they would take care of Lark. They would breed him to their weedy little mares and he would improve their herd. He'd be happy enough.
But as tired and defeated as Is felt at that moment she knew she would not submit to the kind of life they'd expect her to lead. She would escape, or be killed trying. She had just reached that decision when she saw the man standing among the Blueskins watching. Her heart leapt with hope. He wasn't a captive. He would help her. But then she wasn't so sure. He was crazy and he had to be some sort of outlaw if he consorted with the Blueskins. He might be her enemy as much as they were.
He didn't look at her but walked into the circle, signifying that he wanted to speak. Like most of the Blueskins he wore no shirt. His skin looked pale and out of place. He was a good head shorter than most of them and still so underweight from his illness that his ribs showed. But there was a confidence about him that Is had never noticed before.
He took center stage and turned slowly around the whole circle, looking at each person in turn. Everyone became silent watching him. Suddenly he beat on his chest the way Chest had done and the noise he made was surprisingly loud in the silence he had created. It startled Is. He didn't speak, but turned and pointed at her and the stallion and beat his chest again. His meaning was clear. She belonged to him.
Is looked to see how Chest was taking that, but he and everyone else just stared impassively.
The man turned and strode over to Is and reached out to grab her by the shoulder as if he were going to make her stand up, but Is had had enough. She came to her feet, swinging at his face as hard as she could. He deflected her punch and caught her
by the wrist so effortlessly she felt as if she must have moved slowly. Almost before she could think of hitting him with the other hand he grabbed that wrist too. She let him pull her toward the center of the circle, but when he moved his hand to her shoulder, as though to turn her around, she was having none of it. She meant to spin all the way around and drive her elbow into his gut, but the next instant she was on her knees again. She couldn't figure out how he'd done that to her.
He motioned for Lark to be led into the circle, then stood back, apparently inviting everyone to look at the stallion. Is wondered if he was claiming the horse too. Maybe he was bargaining her for the horse. She got to her feet and no one noticed because just at that moment the man let out a high shriek. The intensity of the sound seemed to penetrate her mind, leaving her stunned and momentarily helpless.
There was a commotion in the corral. The man’s mare came out of the herd at a gallop heading straight for the fence. She stretched her neck, eyes fixed on the highest bar as she judged the distance and placed her strides. On the last one, she set her hindquarters well under her and lifted over the fence in beautiful form. No one had much time to admire it as she galloped straight at the circle with no intention of stopping. Everyone was forced to drop their dignity and get out of her way.
Only he didn't move. The mare came to a sliding halt right in front of him. It was too much for Lark. He reared, thrashing the air with his front feet, landed, and reared again. Is had a flash of what Chest must be seeing – the small, white-skinned man with the stallion rearing behind him and the mare sliding to a halt in front of him, while he never even turned to see if Lark’s hooves would miss him.
The Blueskin who had been leading Lark was not so sanguine. He let go of the rope and jumped out of the way of those thrashing legs.
Is ran forward and caught Lark's rope and he settled.
If Chest was impressed, it didn't show. He was still standing with his perpetual frown and unassailable dignity.
Meanwhile the man stepped back from the mare, inviting everyone to admire her the way he had the stallion. His hands shaped the slope of her shoulder, the way her neck arced out of her chest, the angle of her hindquarters, built for running. Is was struck again by what a good cross she would make with Lark. She didn't think anyone missed the point.
Now the man turned to Chest. He held his arm out and rubbed and pinched at his skin as though showing it was a different color from Chest's. Then he pointed at Is and Lark, and then over the mountains to the northwest. Is thought he was telling Chest that he had a right to her because they were the same skin color and he was taking her to his camp, or village.
Chest was having none of it. He took a step forward, hit his chest a few times and pointed to her and Lark.
The man, in his turn, again acted out how he was taking Is and Lark with him. As soon as he was done, Chest stepped forward and spoke in his own language, at the same time making motions that said the man and the mare had been going one direction, and Is and the stallion had been going the opposite direction.
Hope drained out of Is. She looked around wondering if there was any chance they could make a break for it. It looked impossible, but if the man tried it she'd be ready. Instead he faced Chest in a belligerent pose and hit his own chest, uttering harsh, guttural cries. Is needed no interpretation.
Chest took a step forward and they faced off. Is noticed how strong Chest looked. His pectoral muscles stood out as he displayed his chest. His biceps were huge, and the muscles of his thighs bulged as he sank into a combat stance. Chest would kill the man.
Is couldn't stand to watch someone beaten to death in front of her eyes. She edged back to Lark's shoulder. When the fighting started she would jump on Lark and gallop through the midst of it. Maybe she'd even be able to pull the man up behind her. Maybe Lark would tolerate that. Or maybe she'd be able to create enough distraction that he could mount his own mare. She doubted they'd escape, but she had to do something. Her body tensed with readiness.
Chest chose that moment to charge. Is saw that much. Then she saw Chest flying through the air. He hit the ground hard but was up again in an instant. A murmur of surprise ran through the crowd.
Chest attacked again. This time Is clearly saw Chest grab the man's shoulder with one hand, the other arm cocked back to punch. She saw the punch go wide as the man moved to the side. Then she saw Chest lean over and go down to one knee. She couldn't see what the man had done to make that happen. He seemed hardly to have moved at all. Chest tried to get up and an instant later he was sailing through the air again.
Chest was a little slower to get up this time, more cautious in his attack. The man just stood there seeming unready for another attack. Is wanted to scream at him. Warn him. Something!
Chest pulled a knife from its sheath on his thigh and slashed. Just as Is expected to see the man double over in pain, Chest reversed directions so quickly he lost his footing and sat down heavily. The man stood like nothing much was happening. It took a moment for Is to realize that he was now holding Chest’s knife. He held it delicately, as though he didn't know how to use it. Then unbelievably he bent over and placed the knife on the ground near Chest, straightened and walked toward Is and the horses. That was all the signal Is needed. She sprang onto Lark's back with no thought of how tall he was. The man walked on by and the mare turned obediently and followed him. Is let Lark do the same. The circle dispersed to let them pass through.
The man walked to one of the tents and went inside. Is was afraid to get off Lark, afraid someone else would claim her. Now that the man had undisputed right to the stallion, maybe he wouldn't bother to take her along. She waited a nerve-racking eternity until the man came back out with his saddle and bags and unhurriedly tacked the mare. He gave Is no sign as to what she should do, so she just sat and waited. They might have been invisible for all the attention anyone else paid them.
When the man mounted the mare and started out of the village Is let Lark follow. They rode in silence for maybe half an hour while Is debated with herself. Perhaps she should thank him. But she wasn't sure he had rescued her. Maybe he only wanted the stallion. Or maybe she now belonged to him the way she would have belonged to Chest. She might be as much a slave among his people as she would have been among the Blueskins. When she looked at him, trying to determine what her relationship to him was supposed to be she saw that his face was set in a grim expression, as though he was in pain. Is's first thought was that he had been hurt in the fight.
He realized she was looking at him and came to a halt. With a hand signal he told her to stay where she was while he dismounted and walked into the woods on the side of the trail. He moved half bent over as though he was hurt.
Is's instinct was to go after him. He needed help. But his hand motion had definitely told her to stay here. She was dithering over what to do when he returned, walking briskly and upright. She could barely smother laughter when she realized what had happened. He, who had seemed so calm and invincible facing Chest, had had an attack of diarrhea now that it was over. A little sputter of laughter escaped Is. She turned her face away from him, trying to control herself. She didn't mean to laugh at him. It was just relief. She'd been in awe and somewhat afraid of him – if he could handle the Blueskin like that she’d have no hope of fighting him – but now he was just her crazy man again.
She heard the creak of leather as he swung into his saddle. The horses began to walk. Is still couldn't look at him. She couldn't get the grin off her face. And then she was surprised by a little sputtering sound that wasn't her own, quickly cut off. She looked at the man just as he looked to see if she had heard him. That was all it took. He started to giggle, high-pitched with the stress of trying to suppress it, but not the horrible hysterical laughter she had heard him make before. Is couldn't help herself. In a moment they were both out of control, laughing, bent over their horses' manes, trying not
to fall off. Gale after gale swept through Is. She had never laughed like this before. Everything seemed funny. Every little thing set them off again. Even after her sides hurt, Is couldn't stop.
For hours, all it took was for one of them to glance at the other, and they would be off again in uncontrollable laughter.