Exile's Challenge

by Angus Wells

  “I think so.” Arcole nodded. Then: “What happened to them?”

  “To who?” Davyd asked.

  Once Arcole would have corrected his grammar. It seemed pointless now and so he only said, “Short Thom and his dog called Sam.”

  Davyd’s smile faded. His eyes went a cloudy green. “The Militia arrested Thom,” he said bitterly. “Sam went to his defense and a Militiaman stuck him with a bayonet. Thom was sent to the prison barges.”

  They all had such memories, Arcole thought, and perhaps Davyd more than he or Flysse. Evander was a dark and gloomy country, the Autarchy a cruel parliament; he wondered vaguely what hierarchy governed this new land. He set a hand firm on Davyd’s shoulder.

  “All that’s behind us now. We’re free and amongst friends, no?”

  “Yes.” Davyd nodded, brightening again. “And I’m hungry. Do we see what’s for breakfast?”

  Arcole hesitated, then felt his stomach answer. Best eat hearty, he thought, suspecting a long ride lay ahead of them, and that it would be no easy journey. Then: God, have Flysse or Davyd sat a horse before? He nodded, and they dressed and made their way back to the camp.

  Flysse was settled by the fire, surrounded by Colun and his Grannach and the five Matawaye. She was pointing at things—a kettle, the tripod that held it, the bowls—and her hosts were naming the items while she dutifully repeated the words.

  She laughed as Arcole and Davyd approached, holding up a dish of beaten metal and saying something that sounded to Arcole like a cough. He saw Morrhyn touch her shoulder and correct her pronunciation, then nod his approval as Flysse repeated the word. It now sounded to Arcole like the sound of a dog’s bark, and he wondered if he could ever learn this odd language.

  He smiled as the Dreamer gestured, the hand signs easy of interpretation, found a place at Flysse’s side, and took the offered bowl.

  The porridge was thick and restorative, salted and laced with wild honey. He washed it down with tea, and after he had eaten two bowls, proclaimed himself filled.

  Rannach spoke then, and when he was done, Davyd announced that he thought the akaman said it was time to leave. This Arcole found easy to understand, for the Matawaye and the Grannach all rose briskly and set to cleaning the eating implements, then kicked out the fire and set to striking the leather tents. Arcole was impressed by their efficiency: the tents were down and bundled in moments, packed onto the spare horses, and the others readied. Morrhyn gestured at the exiles’ gear and spoke to Davyd, pointing at the packhorses. Davyd said, “I think he’d stow our stuff with theirs.”

  Arcole studied the horses they must ride. The animals were smaller than those of his homeland, lean and muscular, with a look of speed and agility. They had no stirrups, he saw, and only thin saddles of lightly padded leather, each animal guided by a single rein that was woven into a simple halter around the muzzle. He could ride; indeed, he had been considered a fine horseman, but he wondered how he would manage with so basic a harness. And he doubted Flysse and Davyd could manage at all.

  He nodded his agreement and watched as packs and muskets were lashed amongst the tents. The Matawaye, he noticed, stowed their quivers and shields on fastenings behind the crude saddles, thinking that he must learn to carry his musket thus—or learn to use a bow from off a horse’s back, which he thought must surely be very difficult.

  Then Colun and his folk were clustering around, bidding them what Arcole guessed were farewells. He clutched the Grannach’s hand and offered thanks for all his help and hospitality. The words of both went knowledgeless, but the meaning was understood: a bond existed that had no need of words.

  Then Arcole gasped as Rannach drove his lance into the ground and vaulted astride a bay stallion. Then again as plump Yazte did the same, and Kanseah, like limber gymnasts. Morrhyn and Kahteney mounted less dramatically, but still athletic, simply taking hold of saddle and mane and springing astride.

  Arcole said, “I think this shall not be easy.”

  Flysse said, “Why not?” And went to the roan horse Rannach held for her, and leapt onto the saddle.

  Arcole gaped. The Grannach and the Matawaye laughed at his expression.

  “I was born on a farm,” Flysse said; somewhat smugly, he thought. “I learnt to ride horses long ago, with no saddles on them.”

  He nodded and looked to Davyd, who was staring at the buckskin Morrhyn held for him with an expression that reminded Arcole of his looks before the sea serpent came to attack the Pride of the Lord.

  “I’ve never been on a horse before,” he said.

  “It’s not so hard,” Arcole returned.

  “It’s big.” Davyd’s voice was wary as his look. “I’ll fall off.”

  “We all do,” Arcole said. “I did, at first.”

  Davyd’s expression suggested that he doubted this, and Arcole saw that he was torn between embarrassment and disinclination. He felt sorry for the youth, remembering his own first equestrian ventures. The pony had seemed gigantic, the ground too far below him. And that little animal, he reminded himself, had been equipped with proper saddle, stirrups, and full harness. Then Flysse heeled her animal closer and smiled fondly at Davyd.

  “It’s really not so difficult.”

  Davyd refused to meet her eyes, his cheeks growing red. “How do I get on?”

  “Mount,” Arcole said unthinking. Then frowned—how, indeed, without Davyd be subjected to further embarrassment? He said, “I’ll help you. Look, take the rein and the mane …” He set Davyd’s hands in place and cupped his own, stooping. “Now put your foot here.”

  Davyd obeyed and Arcole took his weight, seeing him settled astride the buckskin.

  “Hold with your knees.”

  The horse turned and Davyd swayed precariously, crying out as he lost his seat and fell to the ground. His shout was followed by a stream of curses that fouled the morning air.

  Flysse said, “Davyd!” Then, “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” He clambered upright, rubbing at his shoulder. His face was flushed and sullen. Arcole was grateful neither the Matawaye or the Grannach laughed. “Do we try again?” he asked.

  Davyd hesitated, scowling, then nodded and came warily around the buckskin. Morrhyn brought his own horse alongside, Kahteney on the other flank, so that the buckskin stood quiet and the two wakanishas were positioned to support Davyd. Or catch him, Arcole thought as he lifted the youth back onto the saddle. This time Davyd kept his seat.

  Arcole turned to his own animal. It was a rangy-looking gray that swung its head to study him as Kanseah passed him the rein. He stroked the animal’s muzzle, murmuring softly as he braced himself to mount. I can do this, he told himself. I must, for I’ll not be helped into the saddle like a child. Even so, he was less than confident. He took the rein and the mane as he’d shown Davyd and launched himself up. The gray snorted and skittered as he landed, and he clamped his thighs tight on its ribs, aware of the Matawaye watching, and Flysse. He gritted his teeth, determined to retain his dignity, and was thankful he stayed astride. Managing the horse, however, was another problem: the simple saddle was surprisingly comfortable, but he found the absence of stirrups disturbing, and could not at first decide how the single rein could guide the animal.

  Then Kanseah touched his arm, smiling shyly, and showed him how the single length of rawhide might be drawn to the left to turn the horse in that direction, and how its laying against the neck turned it the other. Heels came into it, but such nuances he would leave for later—for now he was satisfied just to remain seated.

  “You see,” he heard Flysse call, “it’s not so difficult.”

  The gray had begun to curvet and he was concentrated too much on holding his seat to answer, so he only offered what he hoped was a nonchalant smile until the beast calmed, accepting his weight and unfamiliar smell. He looked to where Davyd sat, still flanked by the Dreamers, and wondered how far they would travel this day, and how the youth would feel at journey’s end. Pained, he guessed, and likely
he not much better: it had been a long time since he’d sat a horse.

  Then Rannach spoke, pointing to the east, and the Matawaye called to the Grannach and the Grannach answered. Hands were raised in last farewell and the horses heeled forward. Arcole chanced a last glance back, and saw Colun wave even as the squat little man roared laughter.

  Rannach and Kanseah took the lead as they rode slowly down the valley, and Yazte the tail. Morrhyn and Kahteney held the nervous Davyd in his saddle, talking the while. Arcole and Flysse came behind. Arcole thought she rode better than he.

  “I’m not used to this,” he said.

  “You’re a gentleman.” Flysse chuckled. The wind coming down from the hills blew out her golden curls and her eyes sparkled: Arcole thought she looked lovelier than ever, as if this wild free life suited her. “You’re accustomed to fancy riding.”

  “I’m accustomed to civilized tack,” he returned, aware he sounded a little grumpy.

  “And a stableboy to groom your horse at day’s end,” she gave him back, “and hand you a stirrup cup, and pull off your boots.”

  He affected an expression of puzzled solemnity. “Shan’t you tend to those matters? Are they not wifely duties?”

  Flysse said “No!” and pranced her mount close, threatening to dislodge him.

  “God, woman!” he cried, his alarm not entirely feigned. “Shall you knock me down?”

  “Do you expect such services of me,” she answered, smiling, “yes.”

  His face grew serious a moment and he reached to touch her hand, then snatched it back as the gray skittered. “Those things are gone,” he said. “I’m not that man now.”

  “No.” Flysse beamed and shook her head, so that sunlight danced in her hair. “And better for it, I think.”

  “Yes.” Arcole nodded. Then indicated Davyd, ahead of them. “But I believe he’ll need tender ministrations this night. Do I recall my first venture ahorse, I could not believe so much of me ached.”

  “Yes, poor Davyd,” Flysse said, her expression grown solemn. “I hope our new friends carry balms with them.”

  The People lived largely on horseback, and children were set astride their parents’ mounts when first they began to walk; for them, riding was natural as walking. What was a man without a horse? It had not occurred to any of them, that there could exist any folk other than the Grannach who did not ride, or would suffer pain from the experience.

  Davyd did. Indeed, had Morrhyn and Kahteney not ridden beside him, and the pace not been slow, he would have flung himself from the saddle simply to escape the agony of the buckskin’s bony spine driving like a hammer against his buttocks, whilst its ribs heaved between his legs, threatening to stretch his thighs and split him apart. He could not believe riding was so painful, or so uncertain. It seemed to him as unnatural as committing a ship to the unknown depths of the sea, and through all that long day he need tell himself he had overcome his fear of water, and therefore must surely overcome this newfound torture. Besides, Flysse was witness to his efforts, she apparently quite at ease on horseback, and it embarrassed him that he was so ungainly and felt so nervous. He’d not look a fool in her eyes, or in Arcole’s, and so he struggled to ignore his discomfort and learn to master this unlikely new skill.

  The pain helped in that: it consumed him, so that as the morning passed into afternoon and they did not halt, he began to forget his apprehension in the encompassment of the overwhelming ache that possessed his entire body. It was not so much the falls—for despite all the ministrations of Morrhyn and Kahteney, he still tumbled from time to time—as the unnatural position and the constant collision of his body with the horse’s. He thought he would prefer the swaying deck of a ship to this, and that likely he should never learn to ride with the casual elegance the Matawaye displayed. But he gritted his teeth and determined not to give in to the pain, and must he sometimes blink tears from his eyes, then at least he did not cry out—save when he fell—and told himself he was not a child to whine and whimper at discomfort, but a man who would suffer his fate in silence.

  Still, he was mightily glad when they halted. He watched the Matawaye spring lithe from their saddles, Flysse and Arcole dismount slower, and endeavored to emulate them only to find himself seemingly paralyzed. His legs would not move; they seemed melded with the horse’s ribs, and he fused in place like some animate equestrian statue. His left hand was locked around the rein, his right in the buckskin’s mane, and try as he might, he could not force his fingers open. The buckskin whickered, tossing its head impatiently as it saw its fellows unsaddled and turned out to graze. Davyd mouthed a curse and closed his eyes as the others gathered round. He felt his cheeks grow hot and knew he blushed, and when he opened his eyes and still could not move, and saw Flysse frowning solicitously, he experienced a terrible chagrin. God, but she must think him a useless boy, a fool!

  “Stiff, eh?” Arcole set a hand on the buckskin’s neck. “Me, too; and I’ve ridden before. The first time is always the worst.”

  Davyd nodded silently, quite unable to speak for the mortification he felt. The pain was nothing compared to this humiliation.

  Arcole chuckled and slapped Davyd’s thigh, which somehow Davyd did not feel, and said companionably, “I remember my first time—two grooms had to lift me down. Shall I help you?”

  Davyd nodded again.

  “Then let go the rein.” Gently, Arcole prised his fingers open. “And the mane, eh?”

  Davyd made his unwilling hands obey.

  “Now ease your legs and swing down. I’ll catch you.”

  Davyd tried to follow the instruction, succeeding in pitching sideways off the horse so that the buckskin snorted and skittered. Arcole caught him, grunting as his own back protested, and lowered him to the ground. Davyd swayed, the world spinning around his head for a moment. His legs seemed not to be there, or the fleshly columns unboned: he sagged, thinking he must fall down. Arcole held him upright and he clutched helplessly at the older man, who set a supportive arm around him and said, “Let’s walk a little, eh? Until you’ve your balance back.”

  Davyd doubted most sincerely that he could walk—perhaps might never again—but Flysse came up on his other side and put an arm about his waist and offered him her shoulder, so he took it and ground his teeth and forced himself to pace out the painful steps.

  He was surprised that in a while a measure of normal feeling returned and he could walk unaided, albeit like some frail ancient. He ached all over, and could not understand why his arms and shoulders hurt so. The rest was obvious—human legs were not designed to enwrap the barrel of a horse’s ribs, nor buttocks to suffer the assault of the animal’s spine. But why did all of him ache so? As they walked slowly back to where the Matawaye were already setting up camp, he noticed that they were all somewhat bowed of leg, and wondered if they were somehow designed by God to fit astride their animals, or grew on horseback. He, he knew beyond doubting, was not.

  Morrhyn smiled with puzzled sympathy as they approached, and held up a pouch, speaking.

  Davyd was altogether too immersed in discomfort to attempt to understand, and it fell to the others to explain as best they could.

  “I think,” Flysse said, “that he’s some ointment might help you.”

  “I think nothing can help me,” Davyd moaned in reply. Then cursed himself for acting the child and straightened his back—which sparked fresh shivers of agony. “I’ll be all right.”

  Arcole said mildly, “My first time, I lay in a hot tub for hours. Then my mother rubbed me with liniment for another.”

  “Did it,” Davyd asked, hoping he did not sound too desperate, “work?”

  Arcole nodded solemnly: “After a few days.”

  Davyd said forlornly, “Oh, God!” And then miserably, “There’s no hot water here. Not for a tub.”

  “Even so.” Flysse nodded in Morrhyn’s direction. “Likely our new friends have medicines that will help.”

  Davyd nodded and walked stiff-legged
to Morrhyn.

  They had halted in the lee of a tall bluff where a cascade sprang out from the rock to arc down into a stone-encircled pool before spilling over to feed a stream that ran swift to the west. A mountain meadow spread green below the cliff, wind-sculpted pines and green ash trees rustled in the breeze, and blooms of yellow and blue quilted the grass. Swallows darted overhead and the descending sun lit cliff and meadow and water with mellow radiance. Morrhyn took Davyd’s arm and led him past the pool, around a spur of overhanging stone to another basin.

  This was not fed by any cascade, but rather from some internal source that agitated the surface with gaseous bubbles. The air shimmered there and smelled of sulfur. Morrhyn pointed at the pool and spoke. Davyd listened, struggling to understand, but what knowledge of the People’s tongue the Dreamer had instilled in him seemed blurred by his pain. Still, Morrhyn’s gestures made clear that he wished Davyd to undress and climb into the water. Davyd looked around. The steaming basin was hidden from the campsite, but even so he hesitated, thinking that Flysse might come seeking him and find him naked. The notion was simultaneously alarming and exciting, and he blushed afresh.

  Morrhyn spoke again, pantomiming the ache-boned stance of a man in pain, bending his back and rubbing at his buttocks with such an expression of feigned agony that Davyd must laugh. The bright blue eyes caught his and twinkled, then Morrhyn pointed toward the camp and shrugged, and patted his buttocks again. Then thrust a finger at the pool and held up the pouch, straightening his back and sighing in exaggerated parody of relief.