Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles)
Page 18
Ethbar paused to gaze out an open window at a slender tree bending and sighing in the breeze.
“There are many things I do not claim to understand in this world. First among them is the manner in which we three are met. It defies all likelihood and expectation, yet leaves no doubt in my mind that such was meant to be.
“You have spoken of your duty, Jeffrey, and I concurred. You have spoken of the sense of urgency that drives you, and I concur. Therefore, you must not dally. Time is, indeed, our great enemy.”
A period of reflective silence ensued. Jeff sipped cold coffee but didn’t mind. He was at peace with his decision to trust Ethbar and Rengeld. The balance of the afternoon was spent poring over a collection of maps.
It didn’t take long to decide the objective of his trip south would be Chaldesia. When Ethbar described Chaldesia, a country of rolling grasslands and farms to the north of Arzak, it became clear to Jeff that its capitol, Khorgan, was actually a city-state. Situated 500 or 600 miles to the south and somewhat to the east of Rugen, Khorgan was Chaldesia’s only center of commerce.
Considering its central location on the map, the city would have to be captured or neutralized before an invasion force could proceed north. Daunted by the distance, nearly all of it open prairie, Jeff laboriously copied the most legible map.
The following day, supplied with a pouch of local coinage by Ethbar, Jeff set out for the craft quarter. Leading Cynic he wandered crooked, hilly streets in a delighted daze for much of the morning. He dawdled at a smithy, chatted with cabinetmakers, admired colored jars in the window of an apothecary, and fingered clothing in a tailor shop. Watching a butcher apply his saw, Jeff found it hard to believe that it was real and not some elaborate set for a holo production.
Arranging to have a new quiver made at a leather shop, Jeff found his way to an armorer recommended by Rengeld. He described the arrowheads he wished forged in minute detail. Words and drawing pictures in the air proved insufficient. The design was radically different from anything the master smith was familiar with.
“May I have a scrap of parchment and a stylus?”
The master became intrigued as the design emerged, as were several journeymen who stopped to view the drawing. After spirited discussion they settled on a final design. The experience was so enjoyable that Jeff wanted to stay longer. However, he had another task to accomplish and had put it off as long as possible.
With great reluctance, even dread, Jeff mounted up. It was time to seek out the farrier. Threading through crowded streets, he tried every trick in the book to convince Cynic that he must be shod. There wasn’t a chance that his hoofs would stand up to the rough and likely rocky terrain they would have to cover. He would inevitably pull up lame, stranding them both.
Cynic was totally unconvinced by every argument. “First you must place this saddle on my back. Now you would force me to accept things of steel driven to my hoofs with deep-biting nails. You ask too much! I will not submit!”
On the verge of losing his temper, Jeff pulled up, leaped out of the saddle and confronted Cynic eye to eye. Pointing a finger that trembled with terminal frustration, he forgot himself as usual and spoke out loud as well as mentally.
“You are going to have shoes fitted. You are going to stand still while the farrier does his work. You are not going to kick him in the head. And by all that’s holy, if you choose to resist I’ll have you strung up off the ground like a side of beef and put a bag over your head myself until you come around.”
Much like an infuriated sergeant, Jeff paced back and forth in front of Cynic. “You wanted to come along; you insisted. No more pulling a plow, you said. And where is the common sense you spoke of? What do you imagine will happen to us when one of your hoofs is injured by a rock? Just use your head and stop shoveling manure at me!” Jeff stopped his pacing and looked Cynic square in the eye. “You must tell me again—did Shadowfax and Arod once roam Middle Earth, or do they live in myth alone?”
In spite of his stubborn fortitude, Cynic was taken aback by the ultimatum and Jeff’s mention of Shadowfax had struck deep.
“Always it is, ‘Cynic’ do this or that or you will pull a plow. How much more awaits in the name of this cursed plow? If I must, I must, but not willingly!”
“Well, thank God for a lick of sense. You have never been lamed and I will not see it happen now. What is a horse to do if he cannot run?”
Turning away from Cynic, Jeff was startled to find a ring of spectators looking on. As usually seemed to be the case, the strange sight of a grown man holding a lengthy, heated and apparently one-sided conversation with a horse had attracted them. Standing with arms crossed and heads tilted to one side, they had followed every nuance and were awaiting an encore. Flushing with embarrassment, Jeff hurriedly mounted.
At the farrier, Jeff held Cynic’s hackamore to make sure he didn’t so much as wiggle. When his temper cooled, Jeff felt growing sympathy. He had never witnessed the process of shoeing a horse. The noise was considerable and the smell was foul as hot shoes sizzled against Cynic’s hooves during the fitting process.
“Thank you for agreeing to be shod, horse-brother. This is not an easy thing to endure.”
Trembling with anxiety, Cynic turned his head to watch the farrier pick up a front leg. It was time to nail the shoes in place.
“I shall trust your judgment that it was necessary.”
Although he knew that fitting shoes was necessary and that no pain was involved, Jeff winced when the farrier banged home the first nail. When all four hooves were finished, man and horse were both emotionally exhausted.
With each step away from the farrier, putting each hoof down as if it would break, Cynic regained more of his usual frame of mind. They had not gone far when he noticed that the cobblestones no longer hurt his hooves. In fact, he had not realized there was a problem until the pain was gone. It was a great relief, but an insight he intended to keep tucked away.
The last day in town was rushed. Jeff purchased a stock of durable foods and picked up the various items he had ordered the day before. The armorer had delivered the new triple-bladed arrowheads to the fletcher as promised. Examining the torque-free shafts and precise fletching, Jeff felt like he should frame the arrows rather than shoot them. Securing them in the new quiver, he headed across town for his last meeting with Ethbar and Rengeld.
Days were becoming hot, the nights short. Although summer solstice occurred about a month later than on Earth, Jeff figured the seasons came and went about the same. Counting days, he decided it had to be the equivalent of early June. Considering the trip he was facing, Jeff did not think he had a prayer of making it to the moot by late July. Khorgan was far to the south and by all accounts a large city. It would take weeks just to learn where the power lay.
When he arrived at Ethbar’s residence, Jeff reviewed his concerns. In the end they decided to send a messenger to the moot if Jeff had not returned by a certain date. Rengeld was solemn as he went over everything he knew about the southern plains.
“Trust no one, Jeffrey. Secret your evening camps. Do not be lulled by the grassland’s rolling vastness, assuming safety in the absence of forest. Brigandage thrives in its many hidden valleys.”
In contrast to Rengeld, Ethbar radiated confidence. “As I have said before, we did not meet by chance and now set out on tasks that must be accomplished. Who can say what price must be paid? That is not at issue. If we pursue that which must be, what is in our hearts, success will follow.”
Taking their leave, Ethbar pressed another purse into Jeff’s hand. “May the forces that guide our lives be with you, Jeffrey. Do not be concerned about us. Rengeld and I are masters of rumor and will deal with the courtiers.”
Rengeld grasped Jeff’s hand. “Be assured that I will post scouts to the south near the time of your expected return to lend what assistance they may. Take you care, my friend.”
Chapter Nine
At Home on the Range
A bluste
ry wind from the north had cleared the air when Jeff left the barracks lugging his saddlebags and other gear. It was early enough that no one was up and about. He had planned it that way. It was hard enough to leave without saying more good-byes.
The stable was quiet except for the sounds of horses munching hay and stomping to shake flies loose. A few stable hands were about, but they were dozing. Although he had saddled Cynic so many times that he could have done it in a few minutes, Jeff took his time. Leaving Rugen was proving difficult.
On the way south from Valholm he had been exasperated at not knowing how far it was to the moot grounds. That, Jeff now realized, had been a blessing in disguise. If you didn’t know, there was no way to set up a schedule or to worry about the distance involved. Each day was a journey in itself. Now he had a good idea of what lay ahead. 500 or 600 miles of open prairie.
Rengeld had assured him there were many streams to provide water, and Cynic would be surrounded by grass at its peak, but what about him? Did he have enough staples packed? Although the saddlebags were stuffed, was it enough?
Shrugging in resignation, Jeff wiggled the saddle to make sure the cinch strap was tight enough and began loading. When everything was securely attached he led Cynic to an artesian well that gushed water in a cold freshet. After filling water skins there was nothing left to do but mount up and leave.
Sunlight had not yet penetrated city shadows, but the sky overhead was a limpid blue and free of clouds. They trotted through empty streets, the clatter of Cynic’s newly shod hooves echoing hollowly off buildings. As they passed under the gate’s portcullis, Jeff’s somber mood evaporated.
“Well, horse-brother, we’re on the road again. Who knows what new adventures await us?”
“That such will occur I do not doubt,” Cynic sent back with an accompanying mental snort. “I am concerned only that we survive them.”
Jeff affectionately slapped him on the neck. “Have we not always done so? You were meant for these great open spaces. Now you will truly be free to run.”
For three or four days the road was busy with traders, tinkers and loads of produce heading for market. By the end of the first week the road had dwindled to a trail, they encountered few travelers, and those they did meet made every effort to avoid close contact.
Having traveled through Kansas and Nebraska on numerous occasions, Jeff found the open prairie comfortably familiar and his concerns dwindled. Although Rengeld had said nothing about animals that inhabited the prairie, Jeff was confident that with so much beautiful grass around they would run across plenty of grazing animals to hunt. It was nearly certain they would also encounter predators.
Days were hot and clear, towering cumulus clouds soaring overhead to cast elaborate shadows onto the prairie. The days were so similar to one another and the prairie so unvarying that Jeff gradually lost track of time. It seemed that he and Cynic moved in slow motion, one grass-covered hill slowly being replaced by another in endless variation. Lulled by the syncopated rhythm of Cynic’s unvarying hoof beats, Jeff let his mind roam wherever it would.
Nights they searched out convenient gullies for concealment. Turning Cynic loose to graze on belly-high grass starting to turn yellow with summer’s heat, Jeff generally started a clean-burning fire with dung scavenged from the prairie. There was a lot of it, further convincing him that finding food should not be difficult. After heating the evening ration and maybe brewing a cup of coffee, he bedded down with the saddle for a pillow.
They spotted a few solitary animals that were of good size, but always at a distance. One afternoon they stumbled onto a large herd. From a position on top of one of the hills, Jeff gazed over a seething ocean of backs that covered the prairie in every direction he looked. Nothing like buffalo, they resembled wildebeest. Rumbling along, the herd stirred up a miles-wide dust cloud that rose high enough to turn the sun orange.
Dismounting to give Cynic a break, he squatted on his heels to watch the show. When the herd declined to stragglers, Jeff remounted in a sober state of mind. He had started by counting individual animals then resorted to block estimates. When the count passed 10,000 he had given it up.
Roasted by the sun, Jeff’s tan turned to mahogany. Shaving was a bother and used precious water so he let his beard and hair grow long. Never fat, Cynic leaned down until he was all muscle and sinew. He rarely complained and fell into the same silent rhythm that ordered Jeff’s daily existence.
They weren’t far into the prairie when Jeff learned he could turn the day’s ride over to Cynic. He simply pointed Cynic in the direction they wished to go and gave him his head. Muscles bunching and stretching smoothly under his skin in their own hypnotic rhythm, Cynic flowed through the sea of tall grass that rippled and sighed in the never-ending wind.
During one of the seemingly endless golden afternoons, Jeff spotted what appeared to be mountains or hills on the horizon. Day by day they gradually rose higher and appeared to be a range of vast hills.
On the day Jeff concluded the range might be within reach before nightfall, he noticed something moving well behind them. Selecting an unusually high hill, he stopped to discover who or what it was. Cynic had been nervous the evening before. Feeling the same foreboding, Jeff had strung the bow and added extra arrows to the quiver before leaving camp.
The moving dots slowly grew larger and resolved into what appeared to be a pack of animals about the size of wolves. No doubt about it, Jeff decided, they’re tracking us.
“Now it is time to run, old horse; to test yourself against those who are foolish enough to pursue.”
Cynic needed no further urging. He picked his way down the hill and accelerated to a gait that varied between a fast canter and loping gallop. Not wanting to tire Cynic prematurely, Jeff let him set his own pace. Although the predators were out of sight, he had no doubt they were coming on. With passing hours the hills continued to soar higher, giving hope of refuge and a defensible position.
Never had they moved together so well as they did throughout that long, hot afternoon. The sea of grass lost substance over time until it seemed a virtual ocean of yellow, and still Cynic never dropped off the pace. Nor did the pursuers. The prairie was their home and this was their game. Slowly but surely they narrowed the distance until Jeff could get a good look.
Not wolves, he thought with detached interest, turning his attention back to the prairie in front of them. Look something like hyenas. May as well call them that.
By late afternoon the hills were within reach. Momentarily rising in the stirrups, Jeff viewed the last stretch of ground they had to cross. It was quite flat. The hyenas had continued to close the gap and were less than a hundred yards behind. Cynic was running strongly but covered with lather and working hard to get his breath.
“I am loath to ask this of you, horse-brother, but now you truly must fly so we may find refuge and seek revenge for this day’s work.”
“Then prepare yourself.”
Shifting his entire weight to the stirrups, Jeff leaned forward nearly onto Cynic’s neck. Gathering himself, Cynic burst into an all-out gallop that took Jeff’s breath away with its power and speed. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder and saw that the hyenas were running flat out but losing ground.
That’s what he had hoped for. They needed the time to prepare a defense. As they thundered along, Jeff angled Cynic toward a rocky promontory that looked like it might have a spring at its base.
Still a quarter mile to go, foam flew from Cynic’s mouth in white streamers and he was laboring. Suddenly, he stumbled. Positioned so far forward, Jeff’s face smashed against the back of Cynic’s head and he was nearly pitched off. Cynic’s agony was palpable as he exerted every ounce of remaining strength to stay on his feet. Catching himself, then almost falling; doing it again.
A wailing chorus of triumph from behind spurred Jeff to fight his way upright and to lean far back onto Cynic’s hindquarters.
“You can do it! Rise again, Shadowfax!”
Cynic’s fight to recover allowed the pack of hyenas to close the gap until they were nearly snapping at his heels. Pounding into a narrow declivity with a stony wall ahead and a creek to his right, Cynic slide to a rock-spitting halt on his haunches. Jeff leaped from the saddle with a handful of arrows, nocking the first as his feet hit the ground.
With their quarry at bay, the fifteen or so carnivores milled around to take stock. The game had come down to the final moves. Chittering and wailing eagerness, the pack of hyenas paced continually. Every so often one or the other would make a tentative dash toward Cynic or Jeff while deciding on the best plan of attack. The two-legs would be easy, the horse likely would put up a fight.
Although the animals were nearly as big as a wolf, the similarities stopped there. They had humped shoulders, small ears, and gargoyle heads covered by skin rather than fur. Colored a mottled yellow, they gave off a putrid stench. The largest of the hyenas stared at Jeff with such intelligent malevolence that he felt his skin crawl. He didn’t know whether the creature had mind speech and didn’t care. Gathering a mental bolt, Jeff let fly.
“C’mon, you ugly devil! You think you’re going to have it easy?”
The hyena abruptly crouched like a coiled spring. His ears shot forward and he raised crimson lips to expose yellow fangs. What slithered into Jeff’s mind was so alien, so vicious, that his mind tried to twist away.
“So. Puny two-legs talks. How sweet you will taste! Come to me so your death may be swift.”
A wave of command washed over Jeff’s mind, but it had little strength and he brushed it away like a mosquito.
“Seek dung for your meal, speaker of filth. Your mind crawls with maggots, your appearance that of long-dead carrion. Leave now, or die.”