by David Weber
“I’m not surprised,” she said, and chuckled. “Just keeping up with all your sisters and brothers must be challenge enough without settling all the political problems your father’s facing right now!”
“Aye, you’ve got that right enough,” he agreed. “Still and all, they’ve had more than enough experience managing all of us; it’s the rest of my folk keeping their hands full just now. My Da’s a lot of details to be settling—and some of them ugly ones, too—but I’m thinking things are after beginning to quiet down a mite.” He snorted. “Of course, it could be as how that’s because there’s after being so few left as feel like arguing the fine points with him. The crows have finished picking over Churnazh’s head, and his son Chalak’s after being so stupid not even the likes of Churnazh’s hangers-on will be following him. Arsham’s the only one of Churnazh’s get with the brains to be coming in out of a thunderstorm, and they must have come from his mother, for they can’t have been coming from his father! And the fact that he’s bastard-born isn’t so very big a thing to be holding against him in the succession amongst our folk. So now he’s sworn fealty to Father as Prince of Navahk, the rest of the Bloody Swords are after lining up to do the same.” He glanced at Brandark for a moment, his expression half-apologetic, and shrugged. “If I were being a betting man, which I’m not, I’d put my kormaks on the fighting being over for good and all at last.”
Leeana cocked her head in thought. Most Sothoii might have considered Bahzell’s response to her question a bit odd. Ladies—and especially gently born ones who were still little more than children—should be sheltered from the brutal realities of the difficult problems and solutions which faced rulers. Leeana, though, only weighed what he’d said carefully, then nodded. One thing about her which was not at all childlike, Bahzell thought, was her obviously deep interest in politics. Or her uncanny ability to grasp the ramifications of her father’s current, convoluted political problems. For that matter, her grasp of the problems facing Bahzell’s father was better than that quite a few hradani chieftains could claim.
“Do you think the fighting is over, too, Lord Brandark?” she asked softly after several seconds of consideration. She looked at the shorter hradani, and Brandark gazed back at her for a long moment, his eyes more thoughtful than Bahzell’s, then shrugged.
“Yes, I do, Milady,” he said. “And while I won’t go so far as to say I’m happy the Bloody Swords have had their feet systematically kicked out from under them by a bunch of loutish Horse Stealers, it’s certainly not a bad thing if the fighting really is over.” He grimaced. “We’ve been killing each other over one imagined insult or another for almost as long as the Horse Stealers and your people have been doing the same thing. As someone who once wanted to be a bard, I may regret the loss of all those glorious, ballad-inspiring episodes of mutual bloodletting and slaughter. As a historian, and someone who’s seen the bloodletting in question firsthand, I’d just as soon settle for the ballads we already have. And all the gods know Bahzell’s father is infinitely preferable to someone like Churnazh.”
He kept his tone light, but his gaze was level, and she looked back at him for several heartbeats before she nodded.
“I can see that,” she said. “It’s funny, isn’t it? All the songs and tales are full of high adventure, not what really happens in a war. And I’ve heard lots of songs about splendid victories and defiance even in defeat. But I don’t think I’ve ever heard even one where the side that lost ends up admitting that it’s better that they didn’t win.”
Bahzell’s mobile ears cocked, and one eyebrow arched, but Brandark simply nodded, as if unsurprised by her observation.
“It’s not an easy thing to do,” he agreed. “And the bards who write songs suggesting that it’s a good thing their own side got its backside kicked tend to find their audiences less than receptive. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean it isn’t true sometimes, does it?”
“No, I don’t suppose it does,” she said, and looked back at Bahzell. “So from what you and Lord Brandark are saying, Prince Bahzell, it sounds as if you may find yourself an official ambassador for the King of the Hradani after all.”
Bahzell’s deep, rumbling chuckle could have been alarming if she hadn’t heard it before and known what it was. She cocked her head at him, and he grinned.
“Now, that I won’t be.” He shook his head. “First, I’ve no least desire to be anyone’s ’official ambassador.’ Second, Milady, I’ve even less of a notion how to go about being one! And third, the one thing my Da’s least likely ever to be calling himself is ’King of the Hradani.’ “
“There I have to agree with Bahzell,” Brandark agreed with a slightly less rumbling laugh of his own. “Prince Bahnak is many things, Milady, but one thing he’s remarkably free of is anything resembling delusions of grandeur. Unlike Bahzell, he’s also a very bright fellow. Which means he understands exactly how hard a bunch of hradani princes would find it to take anyone who called himself ’King of the Hradani’ seriously. I have no idea what title he’ll finally come up with, but I feel confident that it won’t have the word ’king’ in it anywhere.”
“Perhaps not,” she said. “But what he chooses to call himself won’t change what he actually is, now will it?” Her tone was a bit tarter, and the green eyes gazing up at the two hradani were a bit harder.
“No, it won’t,” Brandark agreed. “Which is my real point, I suppose. Just as he’s unlikely to rub his recent enemies’ noses in their defeat by calling himself a king, he’s not going to make your father’s position even more difficult by asking him to officially accept a hradani ambassador at his court.”
Leeana’s eyes widened very briefly. Then they narrowed again, even more briefly, before she nodded.
“That does make sense,” she said after a moment, and Brandark wondered if the girl realized how completely her thoughtful tone demolished her pretense of having “accidentally” collided with Bahzell. She stood there for a second or two, as if being certain she’d digested the information thoroughly, than shook herself and smiled at Bahzell again.
“Now I’ve compounded my carelessness in running into you by keeping you and Lord Brandark standing here nattering away,” she apologized. “I seem to be going from triumph to triumph this afternoon, don’t I?”
“In a manner of speaking, I suppose,” he agreed. “Not but what Brandark and I haven’t enjoyed the conversation.”
“It’s kind of you to say so, but I’ve detained both of you long enough. Marthya?” She looked over her shoulder at her maid and gathered up the older woman with her eyes. Then she gave Bahzell and Brandark a quick, abbreviated curtsy and whisked Marthya off down a connecting hallway.
Chapter Three
The herd stallion was magnificent.
He was coal black, but for a white star on his forehead, and his conformation was perfect. At just over twenty-one hands, he was huge for any horse, and looked even bigger than he actually was, with his still-shaggy coat of winter. But despite that, he was actually of less than average size for a courser stallion, and he lacked the heaviness of build which characterized any breed of horse which even approached his own, massive stature. Indeed, he looked almost exactly like a Sothoii warhorse, with the same powerful quarters, well-sloped shoulders, and deep girth, but for the fact that he was very nearly half again the size of any warhorse ever born. Yet for all his size and magnificent presence, he moved with a delicate precision and grace which had to be seen to be believed.
At the moment, however, that silken-gaited precision was in abeyance. He stood almost motionless on a slight rise, under gray skies and gauzy, drifting curtains of rainy wind, only his head stirring as he gazed out over his slowly moving herd. He ignored the rain, but his gaze was intent, and his ears shifted uneasily. It was still early spring here atop the Wind Plain, and the herd had only recently left its winter pastures. He ought to have been busy sorting out the myriad details of its transition back to full independence, but something els
e occupied his attention. He didn’t know precisely what it was, but he knew it was a threat.
It shouldn’t have been. There were very few creatures in the world which could—or would dare—to threaten a single Sothoii courser, much less an entire herd of them. Despite how lightly he moved, the herd stallion weighed over three thousand pounds, with blue-horn hooves the size of dinner plates. He was powerful enough to drop a direcat, or even one of the great white bears of the eternally frozen north, with one well-placed hoof, and unlike lesser breeds, he could place that hoof with human intelligence and forethought.
And he and his kind were equally well bred for flight, at need. For all their mass, they could move like the wind itself, and they could keep it up literally for hours on end. According to Sothoii legend, the coursers had been created by Toragan and Tomanak themselves, gifted with the impossible speed and endurance to match their incomparable intelligence and courage. According to others—like Wencit of Rum—they owed their existence to somewhat less divine intervention, yet that made them no less wondrous. They couldn’t match the acceleration of the smaller warhorses, but they were (quite literally) magically agile, and their wizardry-modified ancestry let them sustain a pace no mere horse could equal for periods which would have killed that same horse in short order. The only things they lacked were hands and the gift of speech, and those the Sothoii were honored to provide.
The stallion’s herd (or most of it, at any rate) had spent the hard, snowy months of winter as guests at the Warm Springs stud farm. Lord Edinghas of Warm Springs was one of Baron Tellian’s vassals, and the Warm Springs courser herd had been wintering with his family for generations. Although no Sothoii would ever mistake a courser for a horse, many of a courser’s needs matched those of lesser breeds. They could have survived the winter on their own, though they would undoubtedly have lost some of their foals, but the grain and shelter provided by their human friends had brought the entire herd through without a single loss. Now it was time they returned to their summer range.
Under normal circumstances, they would have been accompanied by at least one wind rider, one of the humans who had formed a bond with a particular courser. It was hard to say whether the courser half of such a bond became half human, or its rider became half courser, and it didn’t matter which it was. Every spring, wind riders and their coursers returned to the farms and pastures where courser herds had wintered to escort them to their summer ranges. No Sothoii would have dreamed of impeding those yearly migrations, but there were still times when it helped immensely to have a wind rider along to provide the human voice the herd stallions could not.
But this spring, the herd had been impatient, because three of their younger stallions and two youthful mares had elected to remain behind over the winter months. The herd stallion had been opposed, but courser herds weren’t like those of normal horses. Courser herd stallions didn’t win their positions simply by being stronger and faster and thrashing all competitors, and those stallions who never rose to lead the herd seldom left because they hadn’t. Coursers were too intelligent, their society too sophisticated and intricate, for that. Herd stallions couldn’t rely on their ability to defeat challengers—they had to be able to convince the rest of the herd to accept their wisdom. And the other stallions were too valuable to the herd, for their minds, as well as their strength and courage, to simply wander or be driven away. Besides, unlike horses, coursers mated for life, and mated pairs normally remained with the mare’s herd.
But there were times this herd stallion wished his kind were just a little more like the smaller, frailer horses from which they had been bred so long ago. He would have preferred nothing more than to have been able to drive his quintet of stay-behinds into accompanying the rest of the herd last autumn with a display of bared teeth and flattened ears, or possibly a few sharp, disciplinary nips. Unfortunately, such simple and direct remedies had been denied him.
He remained unable to understand what had inspired the others to stay behind. Occasionally—very occasionally—bachelor stallions might choose to remain on the open range for at least part of a winter. It was unheard of for a group to linger there, though, and none of the truants had been able to explain their reasoning. It was simply something they’d felt they had to do. Which (unfortunately, from the herd stallion’s perspective) was a perfectly adequate explanation for almost anything a courser might choose to do. The herd stallion understood that the Races of Man found that frustrating and perplexing, but he couldn’t really understand why they did, because coursers didn’t belong to the Races of Man. Their minds worked differently. For all of the countless things which set them apart from ordinary horses, they were herd-oriented in a way none of the Races of Man was prepared to understand, and they trusted and followed their instincts in a way very few of the Races of Man, with their fixed habitations, were prepared to accept.
Still, the herd stallion had remained uneasy all winter, fretting about the safety of those who had been left behind and wondering what could possibly have possessed them to stay. Nor was he alone in that. Whatever their motivations, the five absentees were members of the herd, and their absence left an aching, uncomfortable void. The other coursers missed them, and the pressure to make an early start back to their range, whether or not a wind rider was available to go with them, had been overpowering.
But now …
The herd stallion stamped one rear hoof on the soggy grass, and his nostrils flared. The sense of threat grew stronger, and he threw up his head with a high, shrill whistle. The herd slowed, and other heads rose, looking back in his direction. The other stallions, and the childless mares, drifted towards the outer edges of the herd, prepared to place themselves between the foals and nursing mares and any potential threat. Thoughts flickered back and forth, in flashing patterns and without anything any member of any Race of Man—except, perhaps, those telepathic magi gifted with the ability to communicate with animals—would have recognized as words.
The herd stallion’s uneasiness communicated itself to the rest of the herd, and every head turned, facing into the fine, misty billows of rain sweeping down out of the northeast. There was nothing to scent, nothing to see, yet those same instincts the coursers trusted so implicitly warned more strongly than ever of approaching threat.
And then, with the suddenness of a lightning bolt forged of arctic fury, the steady wind which had pushed rain into the herd’s faces all morning turned into a shrieking hurricane, and the misty raindrops turned into stinging, biting darts of ice. The herd stallion reared, trumpeting his challenge as the vile smell of something long dead swept over him on the teeth of the howling wind. He heard other shrill screams of outrage and defiance, yet he knew the true threat wasn’t the wind, or the ice. It was whatever came behind the wind. Whatever drove the wind before it like the outrider of its fury … and its hunger.
The herd stallion galloped down from the hillock on which he had stood. He thundered into the teeth of the wind, mane and tail streaming magnificently behind him, mud and spray exploding under the war hammer beat of his hooves. The herd’s other stallions fell into formation with him, converging from every direction to follow him in an earth-shaking drumbeat of hooves. Courser mares were among the deadliest creatures in Norfressa, but even so, they were smaller and lighter than the males of their species. And coursers were less fertile than horses. Potential mothers were not to be lightly risked, and so the childless mares closed up behind the stallions, forming the inner line of defense for the herd, rather than charging to meet the threat with them.
The stallions slowed their headlong pace as they spread out into battle formation, each making certain he had the space he needed to fight effectively yet stayed close enough to his companions to cover one another’s flanks. The herd stallion didn’t need to look back to check their positioning. Unlike horses, coursers relied as much on training as instinct at times like this, and his stallions were a well-drilled, disciplined team. They knew exactly where they were suppo
sed to be, and he knew they did. Besides, one of the things which made him herd stallion was the inborn ability to know the precise location of every member of his herd, and despite the instinct-driven fury pounding through him and the terrifying unnaturalness of the sudden, shrieking wind, he felt the confidence of the herd’s defenders. And his own. His was not the largest of the courser herds, by any stretch of the imagination, yet there were seventeen stallions behind him, prepared to trample any possible enemies into the Wind Plain’s mud in broken ruin.
But then he threw up his head again, eyes flaring wide as that same ability to place the members of his herd shrieked in warning horror.
Screaming whistles of anger and confusion rose behind him, audible even above the howling wind, as the rest of the herd tasted his confusion and revulsion through the intricately fused net of their minds. It was impossible. He couldn’t be sensing the members of his own herd who had remained behind—not as the threat beyond the barrier of the icy gale!
Yet he did. And he sensed something else with them, some transcendent horror. It had no name, yet it rode them more cruelly than any spur or whip, for it was part of them. Or they had become part of it.
They were dead, he realized. And yet they weren’t. He reached out to them, despite his revulsion, but nothing answered. The stallions and mares he had known, watched grow from foals, were no more, yet some splinter of them—some tortured, broken and defiled fragment—remained. It was part of whatever hid behind the wind, sweeping down upon the rest of his herd.
It was … recognition. It was the diametric opposite of his own sense of the herd, for his was the sense of a leader, a shepherd and protector, but this was the sense of a predator. A hunter. It was as if the monstrous danger hidden in the hurricane had devoured those he had known and taken their herd sense, their existence as part of the corporate whole, to use as a hound master might use a human’s discarded clothing to give his hounds the scent of his prey.