by P. C. Cast
“Either way,” River said to her sister, “I only know one way to lead. So, here goes.”
“A mare’s luck to you,” said April.
Crowded today. Anjo’s sweet voice filled River’s mind. She reached forward, stroking her filly’s strong neck.
“Would you rather wait until they clear out?” River asked her.
Anjo swiveled her head back and forth, taking in the whispering girls perched around Skye, the two stallions laboring under their Riders, as well as the fillies who—Riderless—were sloughing determinedly through the mud trap.
Your decision. I can beat them all.
River grinned and stroked Anjo’s slick neck, loving her filly’s confidence. She touched her briefly with both of her heels, a sign the filly knew meant to stand still and wait while her Rider assessed the situation.
Clayton and Bard were still working, though River thought they were coming close to overdoing it. Only one other stallion had entered the mud trap. Red, a big sorrel who was several years older than Bard, was well proven and respected by the Herd. His Rider, Jonathan, sat confidently on his back as the stallion trotted determinedly through the mud trap, his coat already slick with sweat.
Two fillies had joined Skye’s Scout—Luce’s grulla filly, Blue, and Cali’s delicate sorrel filly, Vixen. There was an older black mare she recognized as Xanthos, whose Rider, Cybill, had been Chosen the year before Anjo had Chosen River. She was surprised to see that Cybill had joined the group around Skye.
“Cybill usually shows better sense than that.” River spoke softly to Anjo, whose ears twitched back to catch her words.
Xanthos is a fine mare. Cybill is a follower. She follows Skye.
River didn’t say anything more, but she began to feel uneasy. She didn’t like the changes she was seeing in the Herd.
“Let’s show them how this is done,” River said to Anjo.
Yes—let’s!
Anjo moved into the mud trap, choosing the lane that was empty of another horse, but also closest to the reservoir, which meant it was the wettest and the toughest. But the powerful filly didn’t falter. She arched her head, gathered herself, and, as River murmured encouragement, attacked the mud, working her muscles to move her long, fine legs like pistons. River didn’t look to the left or right. She concentrated on her filly, knowing that she was extra weight and that if she shifted her balance she could throw off Anjo’s stride. The Rider and filly worked together, moving as one, and soon River was sweating along with her horse.
She knew that Anjo was approaching and then passing the Riderless fillies, but River didn’t shift her concentration. From her peripheral vision, she could tell that Anjo was moving up beside Red, the first of the two stallions.
Anjo passed him without even straining herself.
They came to the far end of the mud trap, and Anjo turned neatly to head back. She paused at the end, dancing in place, which River understood was a little showoffish, but she couldn’t blame her filly. Though River didn’t so much as glance over at the group of girls surrounding Skye, she could feel that their attention was riveted on her.
“They should be paying attention to their own horses—like, actually riding them.” River spoke quietly to Anjo, who snorted her agreement.
“They like the show.”
River looked up, shocked to see Clayton on Bard, who was breathing heavily. The two were standing just outside the mud trap, taking a well-earned break.
“I’m not here for your show.” River turned her attention from Clayton. She quickly tucked several escaping curls behind her ears and wiped the sweat from her face with her sleeve before clucking at her filly to keep going. Anjo enthusiastically set out again, easily lapping the fillies and Cybill’s black mare, as well as Jonathan’s stallion.
Alone on the return trek, River concentrated on her filly, being sure Anjo was gathering herself correctly so that she wouldn’t strain a misused muscle, or twist a leg.
They challenge.
Anjo’s warning came just before the noise of sucking mud and laboring breath told River a rider was coming up beside them. She glanced to her left to see Bard gaining ground on them.
This is stupid, River thought. His stallion is way too tired for games.
Then River heard the cheers.
“Pass her, Clayton!”
“Go for it, Bard!”
“Beat her!”
They have chosen the wrong horse to cheer. Anjo’s voice blasted through River’s mind, and she took a deeper seat, gripping her filly’s sweat-and-mud-slick sides with her thighs as excitement bubbled up from within her.
“We’re fresher, younger, and a lot less foolish. Let’s lead by example, perfect girl. Do not let Bard beat us to the end of the trap!”
It was as if River’s words had broken a dam, and strength poured throughout the filly’s body. River could feel it pulse against her skin as Anjo’s muscles worked.
Bard had pulled up beside them. River didn’t so much as glance his way.
“Just stay with me! You and me—we can give them a great show!” Clayton said.
River didn’t look at him. Instead she said, “When are you going to learn I mean what I say? I am not here for your show.” She bent low over Anjo’s neck and urged, “Anjo! Go!”
The filly surged ahead, easily pulling away from the weary stallion and spattering him with mud and sand.
“That’s right, Anjo! Go! Go! Go!” April shouted from the sidelines.
And Anjo went. She pulled one length ahead of Bard, and then another—which is when the cheers for Clayton and Bard began to be drowned out by a tide of voices calling, “Anjo! River! Anjo! River! Anjo! River!”
River still didn’t look around. She was utterly focused on maintaining her balance and riding low so that her filly didn’t have to waste energy correcting her balance or dealing with wind drag.
Suddenly startled gasps came from the crowd. River still didn’t look around, believing the spectators were simply shocked that Anjo was leaving Bard so far behind.
Ghost comes! I will beat him, too.
Ghost! River did glance to the side then. Sure enough, the golden stallion was plowing through the mud. He easily caught and passed Bard, who snorted and squealed his rage, but Clayton’s stallion was simply too tired and could not challenge Ghost.
And then Ghost pulled up beside Anjo. She laid her ears back flat on her head and surged forward, breathing deeply and evenly. River clung to her back, ignoring the shouts from the crowd. She could see the end of the trap between Anjo’s flattened ears—and it was only yards away.
“Go! Anjo! Go! You can do it!” River shouted, and her filly responded with an added burst of speed that left Ghost behind her, mud flying into his face, as Anjo vaulted out of the mud trap—the indisputable winner.
The filly turned to face the slack-mouthed crowd.
Hold tight, she warned River seconds before she reared, pawing the air and trumpeting in victory. River clung to her back, gripping her mane tightly, and finding that she didn’t mind her filly’s display of dominance, especially when she noted that the crowd had grown, and her mother was front and center, smiling proudly and clapping.
Skye was still on her rock, though now standing instead of posing perfectly. River expected the girl to be glowering at her, and she was definitely glowering, but at Ghost, not her. The golden stallion had climbed from the mud trap and joined Anjo, who touched muzzles affectionately with him.
Bard was still several lengths behind them, laboring through the mud and sand. The rest of the exercising horses had paused at the far end of the trap to watch the show.
River threw her arms around Anjo’s neck and hugged her filly. “You are the best, smartest, fastest, strongest horse in the world!”
World? No. Herd? Perhaps, came Anjo’s confident response.
River laughed and sat up. “Ghost, that was quite a race.” She was reaching over to stroke the handsome stallion’s neck when his demeanor abruptly
changed.
The stallion’s head went up. His ears went back. He pawed the ground with one muddy front hoof, and then with a war trumpet, he surged forward, parting the shocked group of watchers as he bolted at Skye.
“Stop him!” Clayton cried while Bard finally struggled from the trap. The stallion tried to chase Ghost, but he’d passed the limits of his great strength, and stumbled, almost falling to his knees. “Stop him!” Clayton repeated. “He’s going to kill her!”
River couldn’t move. She was utterly shocked, but she heard Anjo’s voice, calm and sure, Ghost will not harm Skye.
People screamed as Ghost sprinted to where Skye was standing, apparently as frozen as River, atop the rock. From the corner of her eye, River saw a dappled gray blur that could only be the exhausted, mud-coated Scout racing for her Rider.
And then the golden stallion was at the rock. His head whipped down, ears still pinned flat against his head, the whites of his eyes showing. He slid to a halt as he reached out and snagged something from the ground in his powerful jaws. Skye screamed while the stallion shook his head, severing the thick, dark body of the lethally poisonous water moccasin before he dropped it and, squealing, stomped it flat with his hooves.
Scout, sweat-drenched sides heaving and body trembling, stumbled to a stop in front of Skye’s rock. Her muzzle reached out to touch her Rider, who was staring in silent shock at the dead viper. Then Scout faced Ghost. Slowly, they touched muzzles before the filly closed her eyes in obvious relief, and bowed her head to him.
As if what he’d done had been an everyday occurrence, Ghost nuzzled the filly before trotting back through the staring crowd, pausing before the Lead Mare Rider. The magnificent stallion bowed deeply to her, and Dawn rubbed his muddy forehead, speaking so that everyone watching could hear.
“Well done, Ghost. You have shown us a Herd Stallion’s place, which is to protect his Herd. Just as River’s Anjo has demonstrated the traits of a Lead Mare—strength, intelligence, and a respectful, loving partnership with her Rider.” Dawn’s gaze found Skye. “Sadly, I cannot say the same for any other filly Riders here today.” She turned back to Ghost, saying affectionately, “May a mare’s blessing be with you, and may you always have a mare’s luck.”
Ghost nuzzled Dawn gently, wiping mud all over her tunic, which had the Lead Mare Rider laughing and shaking her head as Ghost trotted back to Anjo’s side.
Clayton looked from the stallion to River. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
River straightened her back and raised her voice. “Get used to it, Clayton. Things are changing, but not the way you and your gossips think they are. Come on, Anjo, Ghost—let’s get you wiped down and cooled off.”
As the crowd watched, Anjo pranced from the mud trap viewing area, tail high, neck arched, and ears pricked—with the golden stallion trotting contentedly behind.
CHAPTER 15
PRESENT DAY—TRIBE OF THE TREES
A stench hung over the forest. Ralina had decided it was part decay and part despair. Death had claimed the top platform of the old pine for himself. He’d had his Reapers bring the rest of the Skin Stealers from Port City. More soldiers, in various stages of the macabre animal-human mutation the God had begun calling The Cure, had joined his already transformed Reapers. Currently, they weren’t so much restoring the blackened City in the Trees as moving into any of the nests that were still even semi-habitable and gutting the rest of them.
They reminded Ralina of maggots, crawling in and out of decomposing bodies.
A bevy of young women and girls had joined the Reapers. The youngest and prettiest were always in attendance to the God—lounging about Him, feeding Him, often by hand, and, of course, coupling with Him, as his appetite for everything seemed insatiable.
Death had ordered braziers lit all around him on the platform, as well as surrounding the tree he’d moved into permanently, commanding the firepots to be constantly filled with sweetly scented herbs and pinecones. But the fetid smell that hung over the Tribe found its way into the smoke, mixing with pine and mint and lavender to form a revolting sick-sweetness that tainted every breath Ralina took, causing her stomach to heave.
One good thing about not eating much—I don’t have much to throw up.
“Why do you stop? That could not be the end of your tale. The big Alpha Shepherd, Raphael, has not yet reached the children. I must know what happens! Continue!”
Ralina mentally shook herself, and then lifted her chin, trying to reclaim even a small part of the Storyteller pride she used to hold so dear for herself, and for her Tribe. Her voice found the singsong rhythm the end of the story called for, and she concluded.
“Helpless, the girls clung to the ice in fear.
They screamed their need, though no Tribesmen were near.
But the Alpha, born to protect, did hear.
He knew the ice would break
He did not hesitate
His body made the path
Bloody paws striking with wrath.
He reached the children and to him they clung
Weeping with relief—salvation had come!
Sides heaving—breath leaving—the Alpha stroked on
He kept swimming, even after his strength was gone.
They reached the shore by his blood and his brawn
He saw them safe before the last of his breath was drawn.
That is why always and still
The Tribe remembers mighty Alpha Raphael.”
Ralina bowed her head and crossed her arms over her chest to signify the end of her tale, and the God laughed and clapped.
“Ah, I do so love a story that ends in death! I am eager to hear how you will begin my tale, and I have been considering where you should start. Perhaps not with my victory over the Tribe of the Trees. Perhaps you should begin as I awakened. What are your thoughts, Storyteller?”
You would kill me for my thoughts. Aloud, Ralina said, “Great God, it would be difficult for me to begin your tale by describing something I was not there to observe, especially as I know you would want me to be as accurate as possible.”
“Hum, you make an excellent point, Storyteller, though I mourn that the beginnings of my tale will be lost.” Death sighed sadly as one of the girls He called Feather rubbed His cloven hooves, and another whose name Ralina had never heard Him speak hand-fed Him pieces of rabbit.
Ralina had to keep herself from glaring at the God. She could smell that the rabbit meat was untainted, and could be safely fed to the Tribe, but the God hoarded every bit of untainted meat for Himself. Ralina was beginning to understand that Death’s intention was to infect them all—every one of them.
I must figure out a way to stop Him—and to do that I need to know more about how He went from a sleeping God to one that walks the earth, bringing misery and pestilence.
“My Lord, there is an alternative,” Ralina said.
“Speak, Storyteller!”
“It is just a thought, and I do not mean to overstep, but if you explained to me in detail what happened, how you were awakened, I could recount your tale accurately, and it would be told over and over again throughout the ages.”
Death nibbled a piece of succulent rabbit from the girl’s hand, licking and sucking fat from her fingers while He considered Ralina’s words.
The Storyteller’s empty stomach roiled, and she averted her eyes from His greasy lips and the disgusting noises He made as the girl fed Him.
“I like this new idea of yours very much,” He said as He chewed noisily.
“I would need access to you during the process of researching your tale, though, my Lord. Would that be something you might allow?”
“Of course! Anything to immortalize my story! I shall let Iron Fist know that he is to pass word to all Reapers that you are given leave to come and go freely.” Then the God glanced around the platform, as if just realizing something was missing.
“Where is your handsome Shepherd? What is his name again?”
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br /> “Bear, my Lord.” Ralina forced her voice to remain emotionless. She purposefully left her Companion in the roped-off area where Death had segregated all members of the Tribe who had not accepted The Cure. She didn’t like how the God stared at the Shepherds, especially the large males.
“Yes, Bear! Aptly named. He is one of the largest of the Tribe’s canines, is he not?”
“There were several males larger than Bear, but none are with us anymore,” Ralina prevaricated.
Death’s gaze hardened along with His voice. “Then there is no need to speak of them! Bring your canine with you next time you come. I enjoy observing them.”
“Yes, my Lord,” Ralina said, as terror clenched her heart.
Death was watching her closely. “Storyteller, you do not appear to be ill.”
“I am not, my Lord,” she replied carefully. “Or at least I am not at this moment.”
“It would be interesting to see what a magnificent being you would become should you fall ill and take The Cure. Merging your flesh with that mighty canine of yours—why, you would be even more powerful than the beloved Raphael of your old tale!”
“I will keep that in mind should I fall ill, my Lord.”
“I will keep that in mind as well, when you fall ill, Storyteller.”
Ralina had to swallow quickly to keep from vomiting.
“Now, you asked about how I came into being, and I shall tell you. But first I am curious about how Shepherds and even those small, insignificant Terriers first began bonding with your people. Thaddeus tells me there is a tale called ‘Endings and Beginnings.’ Is that true?”
“It is, my Lord.” Ralina’s answer was flat, but she wept inside. She’d thought her heart couldn’t break any more, but Death’s question had her remembering the last time she’d performed the “Tale of Endings and Beginnings” before their wise Sun Priest, Sol, and their prosperous Tribe. She longed to recapture those days when she stood before an eager Tribe in her rabbit fur cloak and her tunic that had stories beaded into it for decoration.