“I know,” Isabel said. “We know.”
“Trainer Isabel,” called someone from beside Rue’s corpse. He held up a piece from the spilled pool glinting around the body. “This is Scapian coin.”
The words hardly penetrated Galyne’s hearing. She stared after Reaver, who had come to stand at the far side of the courtyard where the other unicorns waited restlessly. “I should have stopped—”
“He’s not fully trained,” interrupted Isabel, “and you were holding Nova, and he was presented with the enemy who injured his trainer.”
Galyne’s breath caught.
Trainer Isabel looked at each of the unicorns, completely at liberty and unconstrained, and nodded once.
Galyne licked her lips and pushed the words from her tight throat. “I did not understand at first. Do you understand?”
Trainer Isabel smiled very faintly. “It is a truth with a terrible, terrible price. But it is still truth. You are what you do.”
Galyne swallowed. “I train unicorns for war.”
Isabel nodded. “You do.”
***
Laura VanArendonk Baugh overcame the dubious challenge of having been born without teeth or developed motor skills to become an award-winning writer of speculative fiction, mystery, and non-fiction. Her works have earned numerous accolades, including 3-star (the highest possible) ratings on Tangent’s “Recommended Reading” list. Laura speaks professionally on a variety of topics throughout the year, including writing, fan costuming, and her day job as a professional animal trainer and behavior consultant. Find her at www.LauraVAB.com.
Riders in the Sky
V.F. LeSann
Peregrine’s hooves tore gouges out of the packed desert sand, sending up eddies of dust in their wake. Bending low to his neck, the Rider glanced over her shoulder. The ghost-storm roiled up behind them like a dark ocean wave, low and heavy in the sky. A rumble of thunder sent a bolt of fear through her bones. The storm would be on them before nightfall.
Peregrine’s mind spoke into hers, tired but reassuring: Calm. There will be shelter.
For three days they’d thundered across the desert with neither rest nor drink, skirting ghost towns full of empty bandit-hives and rot. The sun-scorched land was a museum dedicated to the Fall; skeletons of electric cars long since scavenged and the burnt husks of solar-cycles littered the desolate landscape, artifacts of a time of peace, plenty, and technology.
They surged over the crest of a steep dune and Peregrine’s plan revealed itself in the cracked valley below: a small settlement tucked in the shadows. Buildings surrounded by a circular stone wall topped with barbed wire coils offered a cold yet clear warning. She recoiled from the cross-tipped spires towering like sentries, threatening to pierce the clouds if they dared to sling too close.
Calm, Peregrine soothed again. This place will do. It is very round, like an apple. I like it.
She sighed. They belonged here even less than they belonged in the barren wastelands.
Before she could attempt to thwart Peregrine’s stubborn horse logic, the storm growled and a crimson flash of lightning cracked over the desert like a whip. The sound worked its magic, turning the memory of old lashings into fresh blood. Pain scalded her back and the Rider wailed, the smell of burnt flesh stinging her nostrils.
Her hand shot to the searing heat at her shoulder. Gritting her teeth, she wiped her blood-sticky fingers on her shirt.
There was no divide between Rider and horse; what was hers was also his, including the wound that blistered across her spine. No further words were needed and they hustled down to the shadow of the village.
The wrought-iron gate stood open, yet was as unwelcoming as the spires that hailed the skies. She dismounted and led Peregrine in, his metal hooves striking sparks on the stone.
People milled about on the dirt streets, stealing glances that stabbed heavy judgement into the heart of her. Stranger. Outsider.
Do not fear, Peregrine spoke silently. ‘It is me they are looking at. I am a very handsome horse, you know.’
Smiling, she gave his neck a rub, running her hands through his smooth obsidian hair, doing her best to hide the fresh blood from his back. “C’mon, let’s get a roof over our head.”
Peregrine had led the way across the desert but the duty of shelter would fall squarely to her. Any knowledge she had was fragmented wisps of memory, floating without context like clouds in the sky.
She tried to focus: getting out of sight, a hot meal, a cold drink. Best as she recalled, taverns served as the tipsy hearts of these ragtag settlements. So she followed the sound of a guitar to a two-storey wooden building at the end of the main street. It was dominated on one side by a freshly painted church whose steeple stretched above the other roofs like it had something to prove. But the paint wasn’t fooling her; she could still see where the old marquis used to light up the night’s entertainment.
Behind them, the black tempest had risen above the dunes, pressing closer. Steeling herself, she walked into the tavern like she belonged there and Peregrine followed, his hooves clattering noisily on the boards.
The guitar twanged into silence and a thick-shouldered brute stormed towards them, hands up like he was ready to push them right back across the desert.
Her hand slid to the pistol tucked inside her jacket, and she braced for a blow.
“You can’t bring that rig in here, girl!” he exclaimed.
Confused, she glanced to her boots. She wasn’t tracking any mud, best as she could tell.
“Your horse!” His voice cracked on a note of wild disbelief. A couple patrons snickered and a satin-clad blonde leaning against the bar laughed out loud. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are but…”
The Rider took a mental cue from Peregrine and read the dirty label on a bottle of liquid amber that’d caught his eye. “Hennessy,” she said, warily at first, testing the word. Then repeated it, as much to herself as to the barkeep. “My name’s Hennessy.”
The brute folded his arms. “I don’t give a good goddamn what your name is—get out of my bar!”
Peregrine blew out a breath, hot on the back of her neck. Outside, the storm snarled, thunder and ghostly hoofbeats echoing through the valley.
“We just need a roof ‘till the weather passes, that’s all. We can pay.”
The bartender’s eyes flicked to the place where Peregrine’s blood had begun to drip-drop in dark spatters on the floorboards. “We don’t have any vacancies.”
“Don’t have any?” The bar was sparsely filled and the second level lined with numbered doors.
The mental link between horse and Rider buzzed with mutual anger—if anyone was going out in that storm, it was this man. Together, they took a step forward.
The ashen-haired woman set her glass on the bar with a sharp clink, loud enough to send a ripple through the tension.
“Well now, let’s not be too hasty, Sergei. Not all of us have enough coin in our pockets to be as fussy as you.” She dipped a shoulder so her knit shawl slipped down, accenting the low cut on her dress, and dangled a key from her finger. “I’ve got a room if you’ve got coin, and are looking for something a little extra?”
Peregrine pressed his nose into her back. Tell the shiny-dress woman yes. They’re too close.
A crack of thunder sealed the deal. “All right.”
The barkeep shook his head. “No. Delia, no. I’m not selling her a room.”
With a flap of her hand, the woman sashayed up to them, all eyes fixed on her. The blue shimmer of her dress mingled with black lace; she was strapped in so tight the Rider wondered if she could even draw a full breath.
The woman’s ocean eyes slid from the Rider to Peregrine. “Stables are behind the bar. Get this handsome fella settled and then meet me upstairs. Room Six.”
I’ll be fine, Peregrine assured. I’ll be close.
And you trust her ’cause she said you’re pretty, the Rider mentally grumbled, earning a nicker of amusement
. She mumbled her thanks to the woman, snatched the key from her like a lifeline, and turned to hustle to the stables before the storm hit.
The rain was relentless by the time Peregrine convinced her to leave and take her own shelter. The miasma of sulphur and brimstone hung in the air like a blight, choking and blinding anyone foolish enough to still be outside. She shoved her way past the barkeep as he boarded the door against the whipping wind and rain flooding the sandy streets.
His glare followed her up the stairs as she rounded the balcony to room number six. When she opened the door the soft scent of flowers and perfume caught her off guard and she stumbled, tangled in sensation.
Delia was seated at the vanity. She glanced back at the Rider through the mirror as the door closed. Her hair was loose now, ivory and sand coloured curls tumbling over her shoulders.
“Now I can’t decide,” she said, flicking a coat of red over her lips, “if you’ve got the biggest cojones I’ve ever seen, or if you’re just plain stupid.”
The Rider pressed her back against the door, tense and wary. “Maybe neither.”
Delia pursed her lips. “No, I don’t think so. Walking in here with a stallion as midnight black as the ones from the storms? That either takes balls or stupidity, sweetheart. In these parts, people show discretion.”
She gave the Rider a slow studying glance in the mirror. “I’ve known women like you before. I’m not going to berate you with the usual questions. I don’t care what wind blew you here. I’ve got no stock in secrets. But I protect me and mine, so the only thing I’m gonna ask is what business you’ve got in this town. And you’d best speak true.”
“Shelter,” she answered. “I’m only here for shelter.”
Delia’s look softened, and she spun around to regard the Rider directly, revealing the double-barrelled shotgun on her lap. She put it to the side and gestured to a bedside table which held a bottle and some bread. “Well then, Hennessy. That’ll be forty coin for your share of food and drink, and the room I didn’t sell you.”
Without argument, the Rider handed over the money.
Delia wrapped a heavier cloak around her shoulders. “Believe it or not, I’ve known a few women in my day who named themselves from a bottle in a pinch. You’re the first Hennessy though.”
Hennessy tore into the food like a starved animal. She couldn’t remember her last meal. The drink warmed her insides and washed the taste of dust from her throat. She could feel Peregrine sating his thirst with clean water as well.
The storm shook the tavern as it descended into the valley, drowning out most conversation between the women. Jovial whoops mingled with the wind and the distinct sound of iron hooves within the thunder. The hissing crack of a whip. Her shoulder ached fiercely.
The cacophony persisted for what seemed like hours and Delia eventually got to her feet, peering out through the boarded window.
“Should’ve been done by now,” she murmured. “Clouds are dipping low. Looks like we’re in the middle of the warpath.”
Her voice trailed off as she peered closer, her eyes widening in shock, oblivious to the boards bowing near her face.
Hennessy leapt to her feet, pushing Delia to the ground as the wood splintered. Delia’s scream was punctuated with another shout from within the tavern. She stayed crouched low, guiding Delia to the door as the storm whipped through the broken window.
“Delia?” someone bellowed, followed by the sound of snapping wood and another scream from a neighbouring room.
Hennessy kept Delia shielded as dusky wisps of cloud seeped into the room. She heaved the door open and launched them both onto the landing, slamming it closed behind them.
“We’re all right, Sergei!” Delia yelled, finding her voice. “Damn it.” She fumbled to tear the hem of her dress with shaking hands.
Instead, Hennessy pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed the blood dripping down the side of Delia’s face.
“I thought I saw a boy in the storm. West Osmond.” Delia winced at Hennessy’s touch, and took over, pressing the cloth firmly against her temple. “You can’t believe what you see. Sometimes the storm shows you things. Things to make you come out and get caught in it.”
Hennessy steadied the other woman and hustled down the stairs. A prickle of fractured memories made Delia’s suspicion feel true.
“I’ll be fine,” Delia assured. “We’ve got a bunker beneath the floor, but Sergei isn’t going to let you in after how the two of you got off.” Wind whipped through the exposed bar, slamming doors and shaking rafters. “There’s a tunnel, under the last table on your right. It leads over to the church. Father Monaghan will let you in. He can’t say no if you ask for sanctuary.” She gave a wry smile. “Old custom, but useful for us shadowy women.”
Delia quickly unfastened her cloak and tossed it to Hennessy before standing on her own strength.
“Take this and stay outta that storm, you hear?”
Hennessy clasped the cloak around her neck, running across the empty bar, and hauling chairs aside until she found the entrance to the tunnel. Slamming it closed above her, she fled into the earthy darkness.
Are you safe? Peregrine’s panicked thoughts flooded her mind. Has the wind blown you out to them? You are very small, with only two legs…
I’m safe, she thought back. Are you?
She could feel relief wash over him. Yes, but they are close. Looking. Hunting. I have convinced the other horses to stand around me, so we can shelter like a herd.
Clever boy.
Hush now, they will sense us if we keep speaking.
The sound of heavy footfalls overhead froze her in place. She held her breath, hearing the jangle of spurs, and the clack of hooves. A flurry of dirt fell from the roof, followed by a guttural snarl as the patrol moved along.
Pressing her hands against the cool earthen walls, she crept as quickly as she could until a wooden doorway emerged from the darkness.
She stopped, catching her breath to ease her electric nerves. Fear boiled in her belly as she hesitantly touched the entrance. Maybe she’d be struck down the moment she stepped into the place of worship.
In a lull between gusts and the cries of the nightmare steeds, she heard it: the unmistakable sound of a sob. Not from ahead of her, but above.
Shit. She forced the door open, throwing her shoulder into it until something let go with a splintering sound. She barrelled into a dimly lit cellar, dread melting into determination.
“Excuse me, that was bolted closed.” A boy dressed in black strode to meet her, a thin candle lighting his shocked face in flickers. “If you want entry, you knock. Perhaps a provincial concept, I know, but…miss? Are you listening?”
Hennessy pushed past, sending him stumbling into a small shelf of books. The cloth of his robe brushed her arm and she felt a sting of heat strong enough to burn: his clothes were blessed. Clenching her jaw, she started up the stairs.
“Sorry, kid. I need your priest. Right now.”
The boy stomped after her. “And who the hell do you think you are? I’m not responsible for lodging every vagabond Sergei gets doe-eyes for.”
Hennessy glanced back. “Did you just say hell?”
The boy put a hand on his hip, fingers drumming. “That’s the part you listened to? Congratulations, you’ve found the priest. And if ‘hell’ shocked you, just wait until I tell you to scamper back to wherever the fuck you came from.”
“You’re Father Monaghan? Oh, come on…”
The boy had some height on him, but it only made him gangly without the muscle of a grown man. Trimmed roan hair, without a wisp of beard, the kid didn’t look more than fourteen. Her eyes fell to the dusty white sash at his neck and she groaned.
“I don’t dress like this for the sake of fashion,” he answered crisply. “And I’m going to ask you again…”
Hennessy dragged her hand through her hair. “Sanctuary, alright? I’m asking for sanctuary.” She jogged up the rest of the stairs. “And
if you’re the priest, we’ve got work to do.”
“Sanctuary doesn’t mean you own the place! Where do you think you’re going?” He scampered after her. “There are demons up there.”
She spun and stared him down. “I need sanctuary, but not near as bad as you need me right now. There’s a kid caught outside.”
The priest hesitated then reached past her and unlocked the trapdoor.
“You’ll die out there.” He trailed her past a modest altar and down the aisle of the church.
Religious symbols lined the alabaster walls, carved into every board, dusted in black charcoal: crucifixes, Celtic crosses, stars of David, runes, sigils, evocations, and hundreds more. The holy equivalent of ‘armed to the teeth.’ It made her skin itch just looking at them.
“I’d bet neither of us is gonna leave a kid to those starving wolves.” She tightened Delia’s cloak, securing the hood to shield her face. “Considering you’re about twelve, and think you’re dealing with demons, I’ll nominate myself for the job.”
I need a favour, big guy, she thought to Peregrine, smiling as he acknowledged her intention, riffling through her thoughts on the wave of their connection. “Take off your robe,” she ordered the priest.
The boy’s eyes bugged and he clutched the front of his garment like a maiden about to be ravished.
She rolled her eyes. “I need your robe, not your virtue.”
The child is near some crates. Peregrine sent her the image: a barren corner with heavy metal boxes toppled to the side. The boy was tucked between them trembling, his hands balled at his mouth.
I know this could ruin everything for us…
If they find him, they will destroy him. He is too small to be a rider. His horse would be a pony. Peregrine sent her the full force of his determination.
She nodded. Their minds were made up, but damn, if her belly didn’t twist. The priest was down to jeans and a tee-shirt, fussily folding his robe. “Give it here. When I say, open the door, then shut it quick behind me. I’ll come back with the kid, or not at all.”
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