The Horse Lord

by Peter Morwood

  The cloud began to glow from within and an image formed, moving and distorting as the vapour shifted. Its half-seen mouth formed words. "You are late," said Duergar's voice, thickly warped by sorcery and distance.

  "Pardon!" The man abased himself hastily. "I beg pardon!"

  "It is of little matter. You have the holiday as your excuse, of course?"

  "Yes, lord. I couldn't close my shop at the usual time and—"

  "Enough. The article I sent you remains unharmed?" Glancing behind him, the man swallowed and nodded affirmation. "Excellent."

  Filling most of the shop which fronted his small bronze-foundry was an equestrian statue, life-size, of a warrior scale-armoured after the style of an Imperial ka-tafrakt A masterpiece of casting, it was exclaimed over by everyone who entered the foundry, but the bronze-smith himself preferred not to go near it. There was an eerie quality about the image; its armour was not a hauberk, what the Alban stories called lizard-mail, but fitted more like a lizard's skin and gave the figure a scaly, reptilian look. The rider leaned back in his saddle, war-mask in hand, and stared into an unknown distance from under the peak of his helm. Goat-horns curved from that headgear and the essential inhumanity of the piece was completed when the face was made visible by the lifted mask. There was no face!

  In profile the features were of classic, perfect beauty; from any other angle they became merely geometrical shapes, cold and precise. Shadows suggested a soft roundness to mouth and brows and chin, but clearer light revealed only stark hollows and harsh, flat planes. There was no mouth other than a flaw in the verdigrised metal, no eyes at all. Only a bleak power, like the desire for conquest given palpable form.

  Duergar's eyes were closed as if in concentration, but the bronze-founder still felt as if he was being watched— and that by someone without his best interests at heart. Despite the threat of his master's anger, the man rose and backed quietly towards the door.

  Then a vast shadow fell across him and he spun, mouth gaping in a shriek which never left his throat.

  That throat was clamped shut by the inexorable pressure of a bronze hand as the statue leaned down from its pedestal and clutched him by the neck. "I can give it movement for a little while," came Duergar's voice from behind him. "But it must have a life of its own. Yours will suffice." If there was more, the founder did not hear it.

  As the metal katafrakt straightened up, the workman's wildly dancing legs left the ground in a hanged-man's jig as he was lifted with no effort at all and held dangling at the end of the creature's arm. The last thing he saw was the flawed mouth cracking into a smile, and then the hand on his neck closed to a clenched fist. Though flesh and sinew gave way like wet paper, there was hardly any blood from the frightful wound and what little spurted from the dead man's nostrils to fall upon the bronze armour was absorbed as if by a sponge. The corpse shrivelled in that icy grip, shrinking and contracting as life was sucked from the deepest marrow of its bones. When at last it was released, it fell not with the sodden thud of a body but with a clattering of dry sticks wrapped in a bag of skin.

  The ponderous bulk of horse and rider left their pedestal without a squeal of stressed metal, or indeed any sound other than that of an ordinary kailin. Only a certain massive deliberation to every movement betrayed that this kailin was far removed from the ordinary. The horse stopped and knelt before the smoke-cloud as the warrior astride its bronze back raised one arm in a salute. His voice was deep, resonant as a flawed bell in an empty place of prayer.

  "Command me, Lifegiver, my master."

  "First you must be named," said Duergar. It was necessary; even such a creature of sorcery was incomplete without a name—but this was not "man" for its flesh was cold bronze, yet nor was it "statue" for it moved. It was Duergar's servant and more than servant—like an extra limb. "You are as one of my hands," the necromancer pronounced at last. "Your name shall be Esel, which is to say 'sword-hand' in the old tongue."

  "It is a good name, my master. What is thy will?"

  "My will is in your mind, Esel my servant. Seek Aldric Talvalin on the weapon-field tomorrow. You will know him. Yet do not slay him—in this the weapon that you bear will aid you—unless there is no choice. And if he must be slain, then destroy him and everything he carries. Utterly."

  "Thy desire shall be fulfilled in all ways, Lifegiver, my master. Thy enemy is my enemy. My victim is thine."

  Glancing down at himself, Aldric smiled wryly; yril't'sa-thorn really did seem like an elaborate children's game after all, for though armour and harness remained, most of his weapons had been replaced by wooden ones edged and tipped with dye-soaked wadding. He, Lyard and his opponents all wore white overmantles so that any impacts would show up like ink on paper.

  The competitors had received instruction earlier that morning from one of the Prefect's officials, a small man over-full of his own importance. "Each rider will be given a scroll," he had announced fussily, "representing important despatches. This must be carried to the judge who sits on this moated island, representing Torhan-arluth in his fortified camp of Gorlahr. In various places there will be targets for spear and bow—the Great-bow only, sirs, since the lesser bow is not historically speaking correct—and five mounted kailinin of the Prefect's guard representing—"

  "—five men on horseback… ?" speculated somebody, provoking laughter. The official reddened, coughed, rustled his notes and then continued in a less patronising manner. "Representing enemy forces," he said emphatically. "There is only one bridge to the island. It is guarded. A rider may, if he wishes, swim the moat. He will not then be attacked by any defender, but may I point out that swimming takes longer than galloping and each rider will have his riding timed by turn of sandglass. That, sirs, is all."

  That, thought Aldric, was enough. Personally he con-, sidered the best way to stop a courier was to shoot the horse from under him, but that was much too practical for a sport like this. He watched through narrowed eyes as Escuar the Pryteinek galloped out to ride the Courier's Ride.

  A hidden target came up on its counterbalanced arm and Escuar, twisting in his saddle, drove an arrow neatly into it. Aldric pursed his lips thoughtfully; the young man's mounted archery was very good, but his swordplay was as wooden as the mock taiken he used. The fifth and last of the hidden warriors burst from ambush in a clump of trees where a leaf-strewn net had hidden him, and charged with levelled spear. Escuar half-turned, flinging up his shield—and his attacker threw the lance aside, whipped wooden sword from scabbard-tube to white-clad thigh in a single move and left a blue blotch visible all over the field. Somebody not far from Aldric groaned and swore, making the Alban grin as he recognised the sound of lost money. He wondered whether Kyrin would be loyally backing him or sensibly doing no such thing.

  "Kourgath-eijo," said a voice at his elbow, "you ride now." One of the Prefect's retainers presented him with a small scroll. Aldric was tempted to pretend to read the thing and then destroy it, but fancied that such humour would not be well received and tucked it into the cuff of his shooting-glove instead. For a moment he wondered what his odds might be, then as the trumpets blared he dismissed all other concerns and kicked Lyard into a gallop.

  Two warriors pounced before the big Andarran courser had got into his stride, and Aldric reacted instinctively as he had been taught to do—charging the nearer man, sidestepping Lyard at the last minute with tug of rein and touch of knee, then lunging past the displaced shield with his spear. The second warrior, sword-armed, was "dead" before he closed enough to be dangerous.

  Children's game or not, Aldric found his heart was pounding with the excitement of something that was far more real than anything done in Dunrath's exercise yard so long ago. A target reared up and he lowered spear-point, struck squarely home—and felt his spear disintegrate as some small unseen flaw gave way under the impact.

  Cursing under his breath, he threw down the pieces and swept his longbow from its case, drawing an arrow from the ornate fan of shafts quiver
ed at his back. He preferred the handier shortbow to this seven-foot asymmetrical archaism, finding it clumsy by comparison. Like its modern counterpart the Great-bow of old Alba was thumb-drawn—but to well behind the archer's ear—and its arrows were correspondingly long, heavy and destructive. Aldric loosed one at close range and even over the noise of galloping in full battle armour heard the wooden target split from top to bottom…

  Another target appeared, this time craftily set on his right. The eijo bared his teeth in a hard, appreciative grin; whoever had built the course knew that no horse-archer could shoot to his nearside. Heeling Lyard briefly away to the left, he launched a shaft backwards over the animal's rump—almost missing altogether in his haste— and then turned back towards the judge's island.

  The three remaining kailinin were waiting for him at the bridge. Lyard reared as Aldric reined back, eyeing the other riders apprehensively. Without a spear, attacking all three would be a risky undertaking, yet he did not want to waste time swimming his horse across the moat. Deciding at last that boldness would be best, he pulled the peak of his helmet down a little, settled more firmly in the saddle and touched heels to his stallion's flanks, aware that the judge had risen from his canopied seat to get a better view.

  But the official was not watching him. Aldric's head jerked round, all plans and strategies forgotten as something surfaced in the moat with a hiss of displaced water.

  As an armoured horseman surged towards him through the shallows, he thought for just one instant that it was all part of some trick staged by the Prefect. Then weeds fell from the rider's spearhead to reveal not a dye-pad but a long, sharp blade. This trick, if trick it was, had no part in yril't'sathorn …

  There was time enough for his stomach to turn right over as the lance slashed towards his head, then reflex took over and his shield came up. The impact punched it back against him, rocked him in the saddle—and chilled him with the knowledge that such a blow striking home would drive clear through him, armour or no armour. Throwing aside his useless wooden weapons, Aldric rode with desperate haste towards the judge's escort, the only men in range who wore real swords.

  The soldiers broke and scattered as he approached, terrified not of the eijo but of that which followed him. Aldric snarled and rode one of them down; before Lyard had skidded to a halt he was on the ground and wrenching the dazed man's broadsword from its scabbard. The weapon was no taiken—but it was steel, and that was enough.

  Before he could regain his saddle the bronze rider was upon him. Aldric twisted away from the jabbing spear and hacked at its shaft, but almost dropped his sword from stinging fingers as it bounced off solid metal. With obvious intent the katafrakt continued his charge at Lyard and Aldric screamed a warning. The battle-trained Andarran knew well enough what was meant by that and galloped out of reach.

  In the deathly stillness which had fallen over the crowd, Kyrin's whistle rang out clearly. The black stallion hesitated, ears pricked, recognising the signal but knowing that his master had not given it. Kyrin had to repeat the summons twice before she was obeyed.

  Rather than press home his advantage, the scaled horseman descended with a harsh metallic slither from his own steed. The sound had an eerie echo, almost a hollowness, as if there was emptiness within both the reptilian armour and the horse's hide. Aldric swallowed sourness and tried not to think what that might imply.

  "I am Esel, o enemy of my master," pronounced the katafrakt, his voice so deep that Aldric felt it vibrating in the marrow of his bones. That, too, had an ominous metallic quality which confirmed the Alban's fears. His enemy, no matter what he looked like, was not a man. "Return to me the thing ye stole aforetime, ere I take it from thee." Esel paused, the empty glare of his war mask not wavering from Aldric's face. "Speak thy choice."

  The eijo cleared his throat, trying to still the tremor lurking there. Gripping his broadsword and settling his shield, he smiled a mirthless smile that did little to conceal his fright. "1 r-really think—" he tried again: "I really think you have to take it." His voice sounded insignificant.

  "As ye will." The monstrous figure turned towards his horse, standing immobile like something cast from metal, and when he swung back there was a sheathed sword in his hand. "My master desires that ye be brought before him, that he may visit condign punishment upon thee at his pleasure. This shall be. It is my master's bidding."

  Kyrin shouldered her way furiously through an audience who stood as if spellbound, trying to reach the spot where Lyard waited patiently. She approached the stallion as warily as her need for haste allowed, knowing how dangerous a war-schooled horse could be. When she vaulted into the charger's saddle Lyard reared, pawing the air and shrilling his anger and excitement; but he did nothing worse, knowing the woman on his back as a companion of his master, as someone who had treated him kindly, and was at least familiar with the strangeness which had frightened him. Kyrin sighed with relief, then dug in her heels and rode full-tilt for Aldric's tent and Widowmaker.

  Backing away from Esel's stealthy advance, the eijo glanced around. Nobody moved, whether through fear or horror… or some more sinister reason. Then the bronze katafrakt shook the scabbard from his sword, flicking it at Aldric's head. The Alban almost forgot to duck, such was his shock at seeing what Esel cradled easily in one scaly fist.

  It was not steel, nor even bronze, but a shimmering translucent stuff like glass which drew the eyes and held them. Aldric gulped as bile rose in his throat and wrenched his gaze away with an effort, feeling sweat begin to film his skin. For perhaps a second the world had tried to slither out of focus, and he knew another second would have left him helpless. It was more rage and fear than courage which sent a whirring cut at Esel's helm, and it was more luck than judgement that permitted it to strike.

  With a snap one of the bronze goat-horns spun away, but Esel ignored what should have stunned him and kept on advancing. He had not parried, nor even tried to, and his shield sat uselessly on his arm as he gripped his great sword like a blacksmith's hammer. Or a bronze-founder's maul.

  Then heavy feet approached from Aldric's left as one of his erstwhile opponents came charging in with an axe raised in both hands. Why this man had moved when no one else did, the eijo did not know. Not that it was of use. The bronze warrior blocked clumsily, his blade emitting a piercingly-sweet chiming note, and Aldric saw the nacreous shimmer drain from the weapon to leave it clear as ice, almost invisible in the sunlight.

  Then it chopped home.

  The stricken kailin dropped his axe and tottered back a pace. There was no wound, no blood on the white robe covering his tsalaer—but those robes had gone strangely rigid and crackled at each sluggish movement. It was a sound Aldric had heard before. As the warrior fell over stiffly, his face frozen into a pallid mask of shock, Aldric knew what Esel's sword had done even before the wave of icy air billowed over him. The man was frozen in very truth, his body, clothing, armour all frosted over—within half a heartbeat on a hot spring day.

  Another great sweep of the sword left a trail of chilly white vapour hanging in the air as Aldric ducked, then straightened and smashed his iron-bound shield rim into the bridge of Esel's nose. It should have blinded the bigger man with pain; but the only blindness was that of a war-mask buckled beyond recovery. Esel made a grinding, impatient noise and tore the mask aside to reveal his non-face.

  In the next exchange Aldric lost his sword. Not through clumsiness but because, made brittle by appalling cold, its blade abruptly flew into a score of tinkling shards. With blood streaming down his face from where a splinter had ripped skin, Aldric flung the useless hilt—a hilt which frozen perspiration had almost stuck to his hand— at his enemy before backing out of reach. Esel followed, making no attempt to lengthen his stride. He came on with the calm assurance of an executioner.

  Aldric knew now that he could not outlast Duergar's sending, because though he was sodden with sweat, exhausted by the dragging weight of an-moyya-tsalaer and growing rapidly unstea
dy on his feet, Esel's movements were still the same: no slower, no faster, patient and inevitable. Resignation joined fatigue in Aldric's brain, combining into the despair of vast weariness so that he almost knelt and waited for the inevitable. Almost… but not quite. He was Alban, kailin-eir Talvalin. If this thing was to finish it would be on his own terms. Aldric's hand began to close around his tsepan's hilt.

  Hoofbeats and shouting cut through his daze and his unfocused eyes finally settled on the blonde figure riding swiftly closer on a black horse. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps there is another way. He forced himself into a shaky run.

  Kyrin slid Isileth Widowmaker from her lacquered scabbard and breathed a soft apology to the taiken, then flung it as hard and straight as she was able. The weapon came cartwheeling down and quivered in the turf for barely a second before Aldric's fingers closed around its hilt and he turned to face his tormentor.

  He turned almost into a cut across the eyes and though he jerked his head a handsbreadth back, the frigid wind which whipped into his war-mask's trefoil opening left frost rimed thickly on eyebrows and lashes. He had no illusions about crossing swords, even with Widowmaker, and made no attempt to press home an attack. Instead he concentrated on the opening that he wanted… needed… had to have sooner or later.

  Bronze was brittle. That helmet-horn had not been cut but broken off like a dry stick. Given the chance— Aldric threw his shield invitingly away—he would test his theory on the bronze man's armour.

  Or his arm. Esel's blow was huge but clumsy and Aldric evaded it with ease even in his weakened state. There was nothing weak about the double-handed cut which came down on Esel's sword-arm. The limb shattered halfway to the elbow.