“Parz is planning to look for us here,” I said. “We’ll need to leave him a message that we’ve moved on . . . or just go camp out of sight of all these mad people, and come back in the morning.”
“Both,” Judith said. We left a message with the town watch, and they, too, told us to move on before nightfall.
We weren’t much beyond the shadow of the town wall before I knew I couldn’t hobble any farther.
“We have to turn back,” Judith said.
“I can’t make it back,” I said, tears leaking from the corners of my eyes. Involuntary tears—I wasn’t crying or anything.
Judith scanned the landscape. On our right ran the mighty Rhine; on the left, a terraced vineyard rose above us. There were no harvesters here—they’d all been working closer to town.
Two terraces up squatted a small barn, though that might have been too grand a term for the building.
“I can get you there,” Judith said grimly, and she half carried, half dragged me up the mountain and deposited me inside the structure. It was a storage hut, full of trellis pieces and bits for repair, tools for harvesting, baskets, and buckets. There was no convenient pile of hay, as there should be in a proper barn, but at least it would be some shelter from the night frost.
Judith opened the barn door wide and built a small fire at the door’s mouth, so we could have some heat and yet vent the smoke.
The flesh of my foot was hot, red and tight, once we had my shoe and stocking off to examine it. I had incipient blisters nearly everywhere.
“It’s going to be a long day,” I said, even though it was already somewhat past noon.
“I’m going to fetch a healer.”
“What would we pay a healer with?” I asked, and Judith didn’t mention leaving again. “I just need to rest it.”
We knew that was true. This had happened before. There really wasn’t much to do for my foot but to apply heat and cold and bandage those blisters. To that end, Judith put some stones in the fire and left some in the shadows outside, and we tried using them. But the cold wasn’t very cold, so Judith jogged down to the Rhine and brought cool, wet stones back up.
It wasn’t quite the same as Frau Oda’s hot and cold poultices reeking of mustard seed, but it would do.
We ate sausages while watching the round moon race to rise before the sun set, and tied more wet stones from the Rhine to my foot. Judith said, handing me an apple, “What do you think the maid meant, ‘It’s the end of the world’?”
I shrugged, turning the apple over in my hands but not biting into it. I wasn’t hungry after all the sausage. “A generation ago, everyone thought the world would end because it had been a thousand years since Christ’s birth. Father Ripertus said that in some places they never quite got over that, and every few years prepare for the end all over again. Maybe this is one of those places. Anyway, it doesn’t matter—we’re out of the town.”
“And there’s no one else around,” Judith said.
That was worrisome. But I couldn’t say exactly why. We made uncomfortable beds from our cloaks on the dirt floor and fell asleep, the moon shining bright on our faces through the barn door.
THUNDER WOKE ME.
“Strange,” Judith murmured. “I thought it was clear tonight.”
“It is,” I said, staring out the barn door at the sky full of stars.
The thunder roared louder.
And then the shaking began.
At first, I almost didn’t notice it. It was like being rocked in a cradle in the beginning, but then the shaking got harder and harder. The beams of the barn creaked and moaned. Judith and I got to our feet, no longer even a little drowsy.
We would have run outside right then, for fear the barn would come down on our heads, but outside was no better. The vines were tossing on their trellises, and leaves scuttled past in long chains.
“Storm and earthquake,” Judith cried. “It really is the end of the world!”
Then came the light. It was so bright, I flung my cloak over Judith and me, pulling us down to the ground with the fabric over our heads. Even through the cloak, the light turned the inside of my eyelids bright red. The noise of the wind and the shaking rose to a steady, low hum, like giant bees in a field of flowers.
Then the noise died away. The light dimmed.
My skin felt pricked by pins and needles. I threw back the cloak. Judith and I stared at each other: The barn was bright, far brighter than it had been in moonlight and firelight, though still dimmer than in the sun, or in the blinding light that had preceded this.
And the silence was vast and strange. So quiet, it almost burned the ears. There should have been something to hear, and my ears strained to listen for a sound, any sound. Judith got to her feet, but her footsteps made almost no noise—flat, muted thuds that I could barely hear.
Judith hit the side of her head, as if tapping water from her ears.
I hummed, testing my voice. It felt flat and lost in this silence. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“Ahhhhh,” Judith sang with two fingers pressed to her throat. She nodded, and helped me to my feet.
From outside came a noise like distant war drums.
chapter 9
JUDITH WAS FIRST OUT THE BARN DOOR. I FOLLOWED on her heels but could not keep pace.
Outside, in the windless calm, a strange light lay over everything. It was like the light that comes in a late-afternoon thunderstorm, when the sunrays stab golden across the sky from the west, vividly lighting up banks of onrushing coal-colored clouds. The whole world seems lit by witch light during those storms.
In the terraced vineyards near Upper Folkstown, I saw the same kind of light—only with no sun. The world was bright but the sky was dark, the stars and moon now blotted by clouds. The light came from nowhere, from no single source. It was true witch light.
Two terraces above the barn, a great, gleaming creature ran, trampling vines flat with its gigantic hooves.
The creature was a horse. A huge, golden horse, wearing a golden saddle, an iron bridle, and two bulging saddlebags.
I tried to speak, but in the airless calm, my voice died in my throat.
A shriek—a battle cry, like nothing I’d ever heard before—rose, entirely bone-chilling; the cry was followed by the jolting crack of hooves hitting the earth and splitting it open. Another enormous horse, this one copper, bore down on Judith. It reared in front of her and struck out with its front hooves, hitting Judith in the shoulder. She went down with a muffled cry. I choked on my breath, unsure of what to do.
The copper horse stared coldly down at Judith, a malevolent intelligence in its eyes. It’s going to trample her to death.
I screamed some wordless denial at it and ran forward, waving my arms, to plant myself between Judith and the horse.
The copper horse reared—and I don’t exactly know what happened next, because I thought for sure it was about to trample both of us, but a blur of silver caught the corner of my eye—and then an impact against my ribs pushed me aside. It was gentle, not painful, and it seemed that for one moment, I was floating above the earth, before I found myself standing six paces farther north than I had been.
Between Judith and the copper horse—between me and the copper horse—stood a silver mare. She faced the copper horse with flared nostrils and flattened ears, baring teeth.
The copper horse backed away.
I made a noise then. It might have been a squeak of fear. It might have been the words I had lost in my screaming, trying and failing to find form on my lips. The point is, I made a noise and I shouldn’t have, because in no way did I want to draw the attention of any of the horses—gold, copper, or silver.
The silver horse wheeled around and stared me down, bathing my face with her hot breath.
I stared back, frozen in terror. All I could see was the sharp, hard feet that could grind me into dust, the giant teeth that could rend my flesh from the bones. They might not be a dragon’s tearing teeth, but they were no less fearso
me.
Not too far away, the copper horse started trampling the vines—a fast but deliberate movement, as it methodically tore down and pulverized the whole row of grapes. Puzzled, I glanced over, then back. Judith’s auburn hair caught my eye.
“Judith?” I whispered.
The silver horse showed her teeth again, and I flinched.
“I’m all right,” Judith whimpered. “I mean, other than my shoulder.”
The silver horse did not look around at Judith’s voice, but when the copper horse drew near again, the mare sent it away with an angry snort.
The silver mare bent her head toward me and showed her teeth again. She’s going to take my nose off, I thought, shaking, and turned my cheek aside. I took a half step back, then waited, unsure of how close the golden horse was, and unwilling to take my eyes off the silver mare. She had saved us from the copper horse, but her lips curled from her teeth again and again and again. I cowered away from her, praying she wouldn’t bite me.
“Tilda!” Judith called in a low voice. “She—she’s not threatening you. She’s fighting that bit in her mouth.”
I glanced up at the horse, my tremors subsiding as my curiosity increased. I studied the horse. She was silver, from teeth to tail, and this was certainly amazing; but amazing as well were the elaborate, bejeweled saddle and fittings of silver she wore. Bulging saddlebags of cloth of silver rested both ahead of the pommel and behind the cantle.
But her bridle was a different story; it was not silver but dark iron, wrapped around the mare’s face like a cage—and it didn’t belong.
Judith was right.
I reached up to touch the bridle. The mare quieted, no longer making her teeth-baring face.
“How do I take the bridle off?” I called back softly. Our voices still sounded strange and flat in the dead-calm air.
“Reach up—grab that topmost piece of the bridle, between the ears, and just pull forward and down.”
My hands fumbled to obey Judith’s instructions. My fingers skimmed up to the topmost piece between the ears, hooked around it, and pulled it forward.
Immediately, the bit dropped out of the horse’s mouth, and the whole iron bridle fell to the ground.
The silver mare shook herself and grunted.
Behind me, I heard the continued trampling of the golden horse. Beyond the silver mare, the copper horse edged closer to me again. The silver horse wheeled about and stared down the copper horse.
I was uncomfortable with the silver horse’s massive rear hooves so easily in striking distance of me, but I wasn’t scared witless anymore. I sidled over to Judith, then crouched next to her.
“What’s wrong with your shoulder?” I whispered.
“It’s . . . It might be broken.”
“Thunder weather!” I swore. We couldn’t just slap a hot rock on a broken bone. Of course, we couldn’t even do that surrounded by these horses.
“Do you think you can get up?”
“We’ll see.”
We managed to get Judith to her feet. The copper horse—another mare—flattened her ears, but the silver horse blocked her approach.
“Let’s get you to the barn,” I said, and together we moved slowly across the terrace to the little wooden building. The silver mare kept pace, always placing herself between us and the copper horse.
“I’ve never seen anything like them,” Judith said once we were inside the barn. I stood in the doorway, studying them. All three gleamed like metal; all three wore bejeweled tack and bulging saddlebags. The golden and copper horses each had dark iron bridles as well.
Three horses made of the three royal metals, here in Upper Folkstown.
The copper horse tried to approach the barn, but the silver mare headed her off again.
I watched the copper horse closely. She was making the same lip-curling face that the silver mare had. She flicked an ear, watching me watch her.
I stepped out of the barn.
The silver horse stepped forward, as if to push me back inside; but while I was still wary of her, I was no longer exactly scared. I was the mouse who had removed the thorn from the lion’s paw. I put my hand out to brush the silver horse’s neck, to show her I would not be herded back into the barn.
“I’m, um, fine. You can . . . well, you can stand guard, but stop interfering.”
Slowly, cautiously, I edged toward the copper horse. Her aggression had died away, and she simply stood there, waiting for me, while she fought her bit.
When I reached the copper mare, I waited a moment for her to quiet, then pulled off her bridle, too. This time I caught it, not letting it fall to the ground.
The copper horse dropped her nose to my head and snorted.
“Don’t chew my hair off,” I whispered.
She blew into my ear and then sort of grunted at me. Not a whinny—something else.
I backed away from the copper horse, the bridle looped around my wrist, and looked up at the golden stallion still trampling the vineyard to dust. He was many terraces above us now—he had destroyed nearly the whole vineyard. I wondered if he wanted to be free of his bridle, too, but there was a wildness to him that made me too afraid to go and try.
“I don’t know that my foot could handle it, anyway,” I said regretfully.
A light wind ruffled my hair. The strange silence disappeared beneath a crack of new thunder, and clouds roiled above us.
The horses started to mill about, staring up at the sky and the fading witch light.
“What’s going on?” Judith called from the doorway of the barn.
“I don’t know!”
A low and piercing note filled the air, making the hair on my arms stand up and a weird shudder run down my back. The note came again, and then again. The horses kept staring into the sky. The golden horse galloped down the hill toward us. “Is that a hunting horn?” I shrieked over the noise.
Lightning flickered above us, illuminating the clouds. And among the clouds were the shapes of horses and hounds.
“The Wild Hunt!” Judith screamed, hanging on to the doorframe of the barn with her good arm. “Tilda, get in here!”
I started for the barn, still carrying the iron bridle, but there was no time. The Wild Hunt touched down in the vineyard.
chapter 10
I STRUGGLED TO REACH THE BARN EVEN AS THE LEAD hounds of the Wild Hunt flowed around me and past. Their heads came to my shoulder. They were utterly silent, not baying like hounds usually do, and they kept their distance. I wasn’t even brushed by a wagging tail as they raced by. They ignored me utterly.
Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the huntsmen.
The lead horse was darkest gray and yet brightly shining, and so enormous that it dwarfed the metal horses. And it was ridden by a helmeted horseman who seemed to have no face or eyes beneath his helm, just a burning, red maw.
No—not horseman. Horsewoman. There was a distinctly female shape to the Hunt leader’s body.
The Hunter reined in her shining horse and stared down at me.
“Ride with us,” said a voice like a whisper, but so loud I wanted to huddle down and clamp my hands over my ears.
“No,” I said. “I don’t ride. I can’t. I was never taught.”
And then I realized I had refused the Wild Hunt.
You are never supposed to refuse the Wild Hunt. At best, you agree to go with them, and maybe after they are done with you, you retain your sanity, and possibly they reward you—or just as likely, you go mad and get no reward.
But at least if you accommodate them, you have a chance. Refuse them, and—
“Then you will be punished,” said the Hunter.
I stood as straight as I could, shoulders back, still holding the iron bridle loosely in one hand. “It’s not my fault,” I shouted. “You shouldn’t punish me because I don’t know how to ride!” I just wanted to register my objection. I didn’t think that would stop her. Which is good, because it didn’t.
The Hunter raised
her sword, and I closed my eyes. I really hadn’t expected to die like this, and so young. . . .
The blow never fell. Instead, a whoosh of air ruffled my hair, and thunderous hoofbeats shook the ground.
The silver mare had put herself between me and the Hunter’s sword. The mare reared up and struck the blade with her hooves, raising sparks that seemed to fly a league.
The red pit where the Hunter’s face should have been flamed like coals under a breeze. “You dare!” Her voice at full shout sounded less like a single voice and more like the screams of a thousand crows.
It was the stupidest thing I’d ever thought to do—I could so easily have been struck by the mare who was trying to defend me, as well as by the Hunter—but I put my hand to the silver mare’s neck and tried to place myself between her and the Hunter.
“Leave her alone!” I bellowed, shaking the iron bridle in the face of the Hunter’s horse.
Well, I tried to bellow. My voice was more like that of a mouse than an ox.
The great, shining gray horse of the Hunter shied from the iron bridle much to my shock.
The Hunter regained control of her stallion and looked down at me. Her voice was pure menace. “You have failed, Mathilda of Alder Brook.” I cringed to hear my full name spoken in that crow-screaming voice. “You have freed two of the three, but the Aurum still belongs to me.”
“What? What are you talking about? The horses? I wasn’t even—I didn’t even try to do anything! How can I fail at something I didn’t even try?”
“Ignorance does not make the wrong choice into the right one. And fate is sealed by choices,” she said.
In the distance, a rooster crowed. All the dogs and horses of the Hunt pricked their ears.
“Dawn is your savior.” The Hunter’s yawning red maw seemed to blaze. “We will meet again, Mathilda. And then you will repay the debt you owe me.”
She gestured to one of the other hunters, who put a horn to his lips and blew.
The call of the horn rose and swelled, seeming to reverberate in my very bones, making my teeth ache. I knew if it continued, it was going to shatter my skull—but it didn’t keep going.
Handbook for Dragon Slayers Page 7