The Horse Goddess (Celtic World of Morgan Llywelyn)

by Llywelyn, Morgan

  Kazhak glanced back. “No one follows, not yet. But soon. Is strange thing, but none of those who have become so friendly with shamans seem to have noticed us. Is like they were blind.”

  Epona glanced back the way they had come. A mist, as of water vapor, seemed to have settled on the encampment. A very unseasonable fog, that shielded some sights from inimical eyes.

  Uiska, she thought.

  The smoke of cooking fires hung unusually heavy in the air, clouding the vision, making eyes smart and burn. It was hard to see clearly in such an atmosphere, and the Scythians groped through their duties as if half-blinded.

  Tena, Epona said to herself.

  Still, there was very little time. At any moment the shamans would return to the tent to check on the condition of their treasure; perhaps to give her additional potions to make her more docile, even as they meant to drug the horse. If they were to escape, they must do it now, while all the usually mounted Scythians were on foot, engaged in perparing the sacrificial bonfire.

  Urged by Kazhak’s demanding hands, Epona had reluctantly mounted the gray stallion and taken the reins from Dasadas, but now she turned for one more look at Kazhak—and that was her undoing. His eyes met hers with a look of such loss and longing nothing else mattered: not the fire of sacrifice, not the stallion, not her own tribe. “Kazhak!” she cried, and threw the reins down on the horse’s neck, preparing to dismount.

  “Run!” Kazhak thundered at the stallion, slamming his hand across its haunch with all the force he possessed. The whip of inarguable command was in his voice and the animal obeyed, leaping forward with such a bound that Epona was nearly thrown from the saddle. She instinctively grabbed the stallion’s mane, pulling herself back into balance, and at that moment she heard angry cries and saw a group of men running toward her, led by the furious shamans.

  “Do not let them escape!” Tsaygas screamed, as his men scrambled for their horses.

  “Come, Epona!” Dasadas yelled, grabbing the gray stallion’s headstall as he galloped beside her. There was always the chance she would turn and go back, to certain death. She tried to fight him off but he dodged her desperate fist. When she tried to leap from the saddle he urged the bay in so close to Kazhak’s gray that he was able to clutch the back of her clothing in his hand and hold her on the horse. “Is what Kazhak wants!” he yelled, and this time she heard him. Her struggles lessened and she sat upright in the saddle, allowing the flight to continue.

  But she turned in the saddle and looked back in time to see the first of the Scythians reach his own hobbled mount, unfasten it, and vault aboard. At that moment a figure—lean and lithe, like a giant dog—darted from between two tents and launched itself straight at the throat of the Scythian horse. The animal reared with a terrible scream, the rider fighting for control. The horse crashed to the earth, its rider with it, pinned beneath the heavy body. The silver wolf attacked the helpless man then, rather than the horse, slashing his throat open and then whirling on the next Scythian who approached to aid his comrade. The speed and fury of the wolf’s assault seemed to paralyze the man with fear. It hurled itself upon him, driving him to the earth, tearing him open. Even as he died the wolf left him for its next victim, and the next after that.

  It seemed to be everywhere at once, snarling, slashing, its fangs savaging flesh as if with an insatiable thirst for human blood. In moments it had wrought havoc in the Scythian encampment and so panicked the hobbled saddle horses that even the best horseman could not calm one of them long enough to free it and mount.

  Kazhak snatched his bow from his gorytus without thinking and fired a quick shot, but the arrow passed harmlessly by the wolf—or through it. That could not be; he blinked and rubbed his eyes, and in that moment the wolf turned once and looked at him, with such insane eyes that he was rooted where he stood. Yet the creature did not attack him; its primary interest seemed to be in scattering and slaughtering those who would pursue Epona. Already the area reeked with blood and rang with the cries of torn men, and the animal appeared to grow stronger with every man it killed.

  No one was going to be pursuing Epona; not for quite a while.

  But it was Kazhak’s people who were being slaughtered. Though they had been turned against him, the men who were dying had once called themselves his comrades. His brothers.

  He drew his Kelti sword. If Epona was right, perhaps the wolf would back away from that weapon. He could do that much; he could stand with his people against this thing, and try to keep it from sending any more Scythians into the wooden houses. Perhaps, when Epona was far enough away to be beyond all hope of catching her, the wolf would even let them alone.

  If he lived through that, the battle would still not be over. The furious shamans would demand an explanation. He would tell them, “She stole my horse. Fastest horse on Sea of Grass, is it so? No one can catch woman on that horse. Dasadas helped her. Is known fact, he has looked at my woman with hungry eyes. They run away together.”

  The shamans might not believe him, but his brothers would see him as the injured party in Epona’s escape with Dasadas, and the sympathy won by that stratagem might gain him admission to a few more tents. Perhaps he could still gather enough men to challenge the shamans … perhaps Kolaxais was still alive …

  Before plunging into the fray, he looked westward one more time. He saw two horses, already far across the grassland and racing like the wind; dark miniatures silhouetted against the setting sun as it broke through heavy clouds. The baleful orange light burned Kazhak’s eyes; perhaps that was what made them water.

  The galloping figures were too far away to hear him, or to see the hand he raised in a last salute, but he whispered the words, just the same.

  “Ride, Kelt,” he called to Epona, very softly, entrusting his words to the wind. “Ride free.”

  PART THREE

  AGAIN, THE BLUE MOUNTAINS

  Chapter 30

  They rode as if demons pursued them in the flesh. More than once Dasadas shouted to Epona, “Do not look back!” because he was afraid of what would happen if she did. She would turn the gray stallion and go back to Kazhak, and Dasadas would be sacrificed with her for helping her escape.

  But she did not go back. She made herself lock her eyes on the western horizon and lash the horse with the ends of her reins until he found a speed within himself he had not known he had, and soon they had outdistanced even Dasadas and his strong young mount and were racing alone across the steppe.

  Dasadas followed her. It was not difficult; he knew the only direction she would take. He did not allow himself to think of the coming night, when they would be alone together. He did not allow himself to think of Kazhak, facing the wrath of the shamans.

  He thought of nothing at all but the running horse and the setting sun.

  If a party of pursuers came after them they never knew it. Long after dark, guided only by a sliver of moon and the gray stallion’s unerring instinct, Epona was still traveling west. She had at last fallen back to a trot, and she heard Dasadas calling to her from the distance.

  “Epona? Are you there, Epona?”

  “Here, Dasadas.” She reined the gray to a halt and waited for him.

  “Clouds return,” the Scythian commented as he rode up. “With no moon is too dark to see ground, not safe for horses. We stop here?”

  “I think we can. The last time I looked back, there was a terrible fight going on in the camp; all the men were involved in it. It was … the wolf, I think. It was impossible for anyone to mount a pursuit party just then, and we have come a long distance without catching sight of any followers. We might as well rest here and ride again before dawn. The shamans will surely send someone after us eventually, but our horses are swift and we have a great start; they can never catch us now.”

  “How far do we go?” Dasadas asked, unhesitatingly surrendering the mantle of leadership to her. To Epona, who was not like other women.

  “I am going all the way to the Blue Mountains, Dasa
das. Like Kazhak, I have an obligation.”

  He did not understand what she meant by that, but he understood danger to himself well enough. “Scyth will not be welcome in Blue Mountains,” he told her.

  “If you come riding that stallion you will be. The Kelti raise ponies for pulling ceremonial carts; if we breed your stallion and mine to pony mares, in the future my people will have horses large enough to be ridden. Your good bay will make you welcome, Dasadas. You bring treasure with you.”

  “Can do more than that,” he told her. “Dasadas will show you.”

  They made camp in the lee of a slight rise of ground, but they did not dare light a fire, though the night was dark and cold. To eyes accustomed to the steppe, however, there was enough light to see, dimly, the things Dasadas pulled from one of his saddlebags to show Epona. An ivory comb. Gold jewelry. A copper bracelet.

  “These are your things, Dasadas?” Epona asked in surprise.

  “No, were sent by wives of Kazhak. For Epona to buy safety, food, whatever she needs.”

  She recognized the copper armband, then, that she had given Talia. She sat on the earth, holding the little hoard in her lap, and wondered if she was going to cry. Those reserved, indifferent women. They had never encouraged her to think of them as friends; they had never really allowed her behind their veils. Yet they had sent all the wealth they could gather to insure her a safe journey.

  I never knew them at all, she thought, her throat scorched with regret.

  “When was there time to do all this, Dasadas?” she asked.

  “When Kazhak found you were missing, he guessed what shamans intended. From that moment he meant to find you, send you away. He told one wife, she told others.”

  “I am surprised the shamans weren’t guarding him as they were me. Surely they did not think he would allow them to sacrifice his woman or his horse without offering any resistance.”

  “Why not?” Dasadas inquired. “Order of Kolaxais, Kazhak would never disobey. So they thought. On Sea of Grass, if one man disobeys his han, word travels on wind. He will not find allies in other tribes; princes of other tribes would not allow. What man wants to make angry the man who rules him?”

  “The power of the han is not only total, it can be terrible,” Epona commented. “Only now, among the Royal Scythians, it has become the power of the shamans. Why are they doing this, Dasadas? Why hurt their own people for the sake of gold and livestock?”

  “Is not only reason. Shamans are jealous men, Dasadas thinks. They have watched many years as han ruled people, made decisions. Shamans think they can do better. They want their turn. They want everything.”

  Epona shivered. The cold of the steppe was settling around them. Though Dasadas had brought a wide range of provisions, including her gorytus and ample clothing, he had found himself unwilling to touch or pack the bearskin cloak, and Epona must now satisfy herself with a Scythian cloak of sewn skins and a blanket of goats’ hair.

  “I do not think Tsaygas and Mitkezh are possessed by white taltos, Dasadas,” she remarked as she sat, thinking. “I believe they contain black spirits, spirits of evil. Only such creatures would harm their own kind or use magic for selfish purposes. In time they will be punished for it, of course. The earth mother insists that all things ultimately come into balance.”

  Her words had no meaning for him. He was content merely to sit as close to her as he dared, smelling the aroma of her skin, thinking his own thoughts, and dreaming his own dreams.

  “I should have stayed, Dasadas. I should have stayed to help Kazhak,” she murmured, as much to herself as to him.

  Dasadas said nothing. She was tormenting herself over what she perceived to be her defection, but that would pass. They had many days to ride, and sometime along that journey she would stop thinking of Kazhak.

  “Be my brother now,” Kazhak had said to him. “Take care of my woman as you would your own. Guard her with your life.”

  For that, a man must have some reward. Kazhak would not have expected it to be otherwise.

  The same thought played at the edges of Epona’s mind as she sat on the earth, listening to the gray stallion cropping a last few mouthfuls of grass before she signaled him to lie down beside her. A new pain twisted her as she realized what it must have cost Kazhak to send her away with Dasadas.

  It should have been Kazhak who fled with her; who took her safely home. But Kazhak was a man of honor; he had stayed to try to fulfill his obligation to his father and his tribe.

  And I ran. I ran, Epona thought, hating herself.

  When she could bear it no longer, she had the stallion lie down and she pillowed her head on his neck and surrendered to silent, bitter tears.

  Dasadas lay a few paces away, waiting.

  Soon, he promised her under his breath. Soon Dasadas will give you a reason to stop crying, Epona.

  They fell into a half-sleep, almost expecting to hear the thunder of approaching hooves.

  Thisworld did not look better in the morning. If anything, it was colder, grayer, and more forbidding. Epona would have almost welcomed an attempt by Dasadas to invade her body and drag her away from her own thoughts, but the man kept his distance, watching her with the same mixture of lust and worship she had seen in his face for over a year.

  “They may come after us now,” he cautioned. “We must go.”

  “You will travel with me, then—all the way back to the village of the Kelti?”

  “Kazhak ordered me to take you where you want to go,” he answered.

  When they had eaten a quick meal of dried meat and hard bread, they turned the horses westward. But as they rode, Dasadas explained that this would not always be the direction they took, though their ultimate goal was in the direction of the setting sun. “Is very bad weather here in winter, you know that, Epona. Dasadas thinks it is better we ride south soon, toward shore of Black Sea. There are good roads there, trade roads, easier in this season. There are towns where we can get supplies.”

  “But Kazhak avoided all settlements; almost all settlements,” she reminded him.

  “We were war party, then. Too small a number; we were careful. Now, just two people, no one will see a threat in us. Dasadas has clothes for you, man’s clothes; we will smear dirt on your face so no one can tell who you are. We will ride as travelers only, emissaries of some prince of the horse. Is well known Scythians possess much gold. We may be welcomed if it is thought we bring commissions for craftsmen. Scythians have good reputation among craftsmen in the south.”

  All the way back to the Blue Mountains. It would be a very long journey, and Epona realized that any such travels were dangerous of themselves. She might never make it to her own village; anything could happen.

  But that has always been your destination, the voice within told her suddenly. Go home, Epona.

  The days rolled past under the hooves of the horses, and the landscape changed and changed again as they entered new territories. Since they were not trying to avoid those who might take them for hostile marauders, they did not always ride across trackless expanses. When bitter weather drove game into hiding and their bows found no targets, Epona and Dasadas ventured into settled communities and bartered for meat and staples, or a strengthening measure of grain for their horses.

  Dasadas was determined that they avoid the tribes of “savages” occupying the western fringes of the great steppe. He hoped to follow the coast of the sea south to the Duna and across the father river, then travel west across Moesia, avoiding the dark Carpatos altogether. A longer route, one that would take much more time, but Dasadas was not comfortable with the prospect of facing the Carpatos again.

  Disguised as a male Scyth, her bright hair darkened with mud and topped by the pointed felt cap that protected ears against bitter wind, her body encased in tunic and comfortable trousers, Epona experienced a new kind of freedom. She rode with Dasadas as a comrade, an equal, and soon he fell into the habit of talking with her as he would have with one of his brothers. Th
ere was not the closeness between them that her spirit had established with that of Kazhak, but they became comfortable with one another.

  Except at night, when they were alone in the darkness, and she was as aware of his thoughts as of the horse beneath her.

  No amount of dirt would disguise the fact that Epona had no beard, but the weather worked for them, providing ample reason for her to wrap a scarf around the lower part of her face. As she rode the superior horse, those they met assumed her to be a young noble and Dasadas her attendant, and while they hastened to do his bidding—spurred by dreams of Scythian gold, or fear of Scythian reprisals—they bowed deferentially to her.

  Epona found she quite enjoyed their forays into the settlements.

  Following Dasadas’ plan, they worked their way southward toward the coast of the Black Sea. They crossed two major rivers on their journey across the Sea of Grass, rivers Dasadas identified as the Borysthenes, a large and powerful waterway, thickly settled along its southern reaches, and the Hypanis, a smaller stream, easily forded as it was surprisingly low in this season.

  “Next river will be the Tyras, which is boundary between Scythian land and the territory of the Neuri,” Dasadas explained. “We cross Tyras, we ride on to Duna, we are out of range of the people of the horse. From the Duna we will be safe … if the wolf-demon does not follow us.”

  The wolf seemed to be a preoccupation with Dasadas, second only to his obsession for Epona. Yet neither of them had seen the wolf since the evening they fled the winter camp of the royal tribe, in spite of the fact that for many nights they had been too cautious to build a fire. But Epona was not concerned about the wolf. She was heading back toward the Blue Mountains; she did not think it would bother them now.