“Lucky?” The black colt reared fiercely, showing the whites of his eyes. “If that be luck, then keep it!” With a kick of his hind hooves, the stallion-to-be moved away around to the stockade’s far side.
Gom started back a little, yet sensing fear behind the bravado. “What magnificence,” he murmured. “What pride. No insult intended to the rest of you,” he added hastily, realizing that he’d spoken out loud.
"None taken,” said the roan. “It doesn't take much of an eye to see that he’s no ordinary horse. Stormfleet, we call him. He’s a cito, as you can tell from his ringmark.”
Gom could tell nothing of the sort, for he’d never heard the word. “Pardon me? What’s a cito?”
“This lad certainly has led a sheltered life,” the piebald snickered. “Surely citos are legendary throughout Ulm.”
“They happen once in a thousand years,” the roan explained kindly. “They live so long we have never counted their years. Stormfleet will outlive us and our children for many generations.”
Gom thanked the roan, grateful for the courteous reply.
The piebald tossed his mane. “So here we are, caught in the traps set for Stormfleet. And unless you want to be caught, too, I advise you to be moving on without delay. You’re lucky the guards haven’t found you already.”
Guards? Gom looked around nervously.
“Thanks for the warning,” he said. But danger or no, he couldn’t leave without a last word from the cito.
Gom worked his way around the fence until he reached the place where Stormfleet stood, and put his face to the nearest peephole. Oh, what a magnificent creature he was. Proud, independent. Fierce.
What a friend that horse would make!
“What I hear is disgusting!” Gom cried. “The solahinn are a disgrace. I tell you, I wish I could do something to help you!”
Stormfleet’s head snapped up. “A human’s word is cheap. Go, and thank your stars that this fence parts us, or you’d not stay in one piece.”
“Not fair!” Gom answered him. “I wish you only great good.”
“You’re a human,” the horse retorted. “There’s scarce one alive I’d not wish grave harm.”
The colt moved away.
Gom stood watching him, his face to the hole. “Cheap, eh?” he muttered. Well, they’d see about that! He’d find the gate to this place and open it and let them all out. He moved around the fence perimeter, until he was almost in view of the wagons again. It had to have a gate, he told himself. A couple of steps more, and there it was.
It was stout and heavy, simply a movable section of the fence on great iron hinges. And it was secured with a thick iron bar.
He set aside the staff, put his hands to the bar and tried to lift it. It gave a little, then stuck. Hold on, Gom muttered. Another minute and he’d have it.
He braced himself for another heave, but at that moment, a harsh voice rang out.
“Kahaganai! Dagadah ak hanai?”
Chapter Seventeen
BONY FINGERS dug into Gom’s shoulder and whipped him around.
“Who are you? Where have you come from, boy?” the man asked, this time in the common tongue.
Gom swallowed hard. The excuse that he’d rehearsed back in the wagon didn’t sound so good now.
The man raised a gauntleted hand and shook his whip at Gom.
“Can’t find your tongue, boy? Then I’ll find it for you. Come.” Gom grabbed his staff as the solahinn dragged him from the stockade, past the wagons and tents, to the men around the fire.
At Gom’s approach, the music and the talking stopped, and all eyes were on him. His captor spoke, pointed his whip at Gom. At the man’s words, a murmur went through the gathering. No doubt the solahinn was telling his fellows how he’d found Gom.
One of the men stood up, waved at Gom, speaking rapidly.
Gom’s captor looked down at him. “Hundro there is our chief wagoneer. He says he saw you in Pen’langoth this afternoon, sneaking around the caravan.”
“I—” Gom began.
The solahinn shook out his whip and cracked it. “The truth, boy!”
“M-my uncle is a cruel man,” he said, shamefully conscious of the break in his voice. “He hates me, and beats me. I couldn’t stand it any longer. This afternoon, I ran. I hid in the inn yard, but he found me.” He looked around in sudden hope. “One of you saw him chase me from the stables?”
No one spoke.
Gom went on. “So I climbed into a wagon, only for a minute, mind. The next thing I know, I can’t get out, and now here I am.” He tried to look sorrowful rather than afraid, putting to good use the wobble in his voice. “My mother—she’ll be going out of her mind, wondering where I am. If you could just tell me which way to go, I’ll be off home at once.”
Another spoke up, a slower voice, more wordy, but sounding just as harsh and unfriendly. Gom watched him intently. His witness?
Gom’s captor glared down at, him. “Does your uncle wear a black shirt and bright green britches?”
“Yes, yes,” Gom said, nodding in relief. But to his dismay, the man shook him angrily.
“You take us for complete fools? That rogue, whom one of my men caught skulking around the wagons, is a common juggler, or conjuror, as he calls himself.” The man laid his hand on Gom’s staff. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this were not a stick for juggling and trickery. It looks fancy enough,” he said, and made to seize it.
But tightening his grip on the staff, Gom pulled back. “Indeed not!” he cried. “This was made by my father, and let any man here speak ill of him!”
The man looked startled for a moment, then, laughing, let his hand fall.
“Our boy has more grit in him than his uncle, eh?”
Amid a general murmur, the solahinn went on. “ Tis lucky for us that you don’t defend your—uncle so fiercely. The man’s a thief and a rogue. We’ve brushed with him before, over the matter of a horse.” The man stopped laughing abruptly, and bending down, thrust his face close to Gom’s. “Now you may be his nephew as you claim, but more likely you lie. I say you’re his agent, sent to see if we’ve caught our prize.” He straightened up. “Don’t look so shocked. It’s no secret that a cito’s in the offing. You can’t deny it.”
“But I can,” Gom protested. “I swear that until I came here, I’d never even heard of the word!”
“Oh?” Gom’s captor cocked an eyebrow. “So who told you now?”
Gom groaned inwardly. What had he done! How could he possibly tell those men that he’d learned it from the horses in the stockade?
“I, er, overheard it,” he said.
“You overheard it, eh?” The solahinn leader looked around to the gathering. “So this enterprising lad speaks our language after all.” The man rapped out a question to Gom in the solahinn tongue. Naturally, Gom didn’t understand a word.
“You see?” the leader cried triumphantly. “Another lie!”
He eyed Gom in such a way that made Gom’s knees go weak. “Let me tell you how I found this liar: he was so intent on getting back to his mother that he was standing outside the stockade gate, both hands on the bar, trying to lift it. And when I asked him what he was at, he couldn’t find a word to say.”
The men were silent.
“Perhaps,” the man went on, “he thought to take a certain horse to ride. One that would get him home in no time at all!”
This brought scattered laughter.
“Come,” the man said to Gom, speaking now in mock deference. “It’s clear that we deal not with the lying, sniveling boy that we see, but with a very talented accomplice to that scoundrel, Zamul. We must have ourselves a conference here.”
The man seized Gom’s staff now, and pulled him none too gently toward the bonfire.
Gom eyed the leaping flames, his throat dry. What were they going to do to him? He looked around, seeking escape, but saw only tall figures crowding in on every hand.
To Gom’s relief, the man merely thrust h
im to the ground beside the fire, threw the staff down after him, and bowed in mock courtesy. “Allow me to introduce myself properly: Jofor, chieftain of the solahinn, at your service.”
Gom reached for the staff, drew it in beside him. Then, looking up, he forced himself to face the ring of hostile whips around him. “Gom Gobblechuck of Windy Mountain,” he replied, his knuckles white upon the staff. But he didn’t say anything about being at anybody’s service.
“I see. Well, Gom Gobblechuck, you sit there while we decide what to do with you.” Jofor called one of the men to watch him, and went to speak with several of his fellows farther around the fire.
Gom sat looking into the flames, thinking. There was luck for you! Jofor thought him a spy. A spy for Zamul, come to help steal the cito. A horse thief, caught redhanded. They’d surely punish him.
His flesh crawled. He could almost feel the whips lashing his skin, his poor back, only just healed. Why, they might even kill him.
He felt for the rune, found it lying outside his shirt in full view. But would that matter? Those men clearly measured wealth and power in terms of horses, not small black stones scratched with strange markings. No, only those who knew would recognize such a thing, and covet it. Men like Zamul.
He slipped it back under his shirt anyway, and gazed upward to the moonlit sky. At least for the moment he was clear of that one. At least the rune was safe, even if he was in danger of his life.
He straightened his legs out in front of him, rubbing his knees. Still a bit sore from the long hours shut up in the wagon. Pulling on his staff, he first knelt, then stood up warily, his eye on his guard’s whip, and shifted from one leg to the other, to ease them. At that moment, Jofor rose from his conference and walked back to him.
“You like to dance, I see.” Jofor turned with a laugh to his men. “Music! Where's Chodur?”
“Here!” The musician appeared before them, his stringed box hanging at his chest.
Jofor smiled coldly. “You like to dance, Gom Gobblechuck of Windy Mountain? Then you shall dance for us.”
Gom stared up at him aghast. “Dance? I don’t know how.”
“Dance, I said.” Jofor cracked his whip, making Gom jump. Chodur struck a loud chord.
Gom’s mind raced frantically. He couldn’t dance! He’d never joined in the dancing back in Clack, fearful of his feet going the wrong way, unwilling to look foolish in front of the townsfolk. Besides, his knees were stiff, and his legs ached. No, he couldn’t, wouldn’t dance.
Jofor cracked his whip again, curling it past Gom’s ankles. Gom stepped onto his left foot, back onto his right.
“Knees up,” Jofor said. Crack. “Quick, or I’ll help you.” Crack.
Gom stepped sideways again, onto his left foot, did a little hop, then halfheartedly, went back onto his right. Chodur began a slow, clumsy tune in a shambling bear’s gait. Laughter rippled around the firelit circle.
Gom’s rage surged. He saw a small gap, a dark space leading away from the fire. He turned and ran. A moment later sharp pain cut his ankles, jerking his feet from under him. He fell headlong, face down in the dirt, the staff flying from his hand.
“The next time,” Jofor said, unwinding his whip from around Gom’s ankles, “you’ll bleed. Now, dance!"
Gom danced, shuffling around in a slow circle, first on one foot, then the other, slide, hup, slide, hup. His face grew hot with humiliation.
“Faster,” Jofor said, and at a signal several of the onlookers also took up their whips, and, forming a ring around Gom, began to snap at his legs. Gom dodged out of range of one whip only to whirl within range of another. The men around the fire began to clap, first in slow rhythm, then faster, driving Chodur’s fingers, the pace of the whips.
Gom leapt and spun and twisted, his stiffness, his cramp now forgotten in his desire to avoid that cutting leather. His heart banged against his ribs, his throat was hot and dry. And his fury was almost unbearable. Such hateful, cruel folk. How long, how long, before they let him stop? The firelight blurred, the darkness wheeled about his head. Gom slipped, fell, and amid loud applause, lay at Jofor’s feet.
They picked him up, set him down by the fire and handed him a plate.
“Eat,” Jofor said. “Then we talk.”
Gom thrust the plate aside, tipping the food out. He couldn’t eat. He felt sick, and he’d starve, he told himself, before he ate with them. What he wouldn’t give to pay them back!
Someone began the loud chant he’d heard earlier. The rest joined in, their voices at this range overwhelming.
Gom listened, staring stiffly into the fire.
“You like our song?” Jofor was back.
Gom shrugged. “How can I? I don’t understand a word.”
“Then we must accommodate our guest,” Jofor said to the assembly. “Let us sing it again, in the common tongue.” And oh, the pride with which he spat out the last two words.
The men began again, familiar words mouthed in harsh, flat accents to that strange chant. In spite of his anger, Gom found himself caught up in the words.
Solahinn we, hai-tah! hai-tah!
Of the High Vargue, hai-tah! hai-tah!
Ever we ride, hai-tah! hai-tah! hai-tah!
This ground so wide, hai-tah! hai-tah!
Masters of these flat lands,
Culling with our tireless hands Great wild herds,
Beasts of the plains:
Riding, riding, in pursuit abiding;
Ours to take, hai-tah! hai-tah!
Ours to break, hai-tah! hai-tah!
Hai-tah! hai-tah! hai-tah! hai-tah!
On the last shout, Jofor stood, hauled Gom to his feet. “Time for business. You want a horse, you shall have a horse. Come.” He walked Gom back toward the stockade, the rest following.
Jofor halted them by the gate. “In here as you know,” Jofor said, “are horses fresh caught. Pick one, ride it around the stockade, and it’s yours.”
Chapter Eighteen
WELL?” Jofor demanded, hoisting him up level with the top of the fence.
Gom looked out over the bright moonlit compound. “It’s too dark to see. Maybe tomorrow—”
Jofor shook him impatiently. “Now. Tonight. Over the fence with you.”
Over those sharp pointed stakes? Not that he wanted to go in at all. There were at least thirty enraged colts down there! Catching sight of the two heads peeping over the fence in the bright moonlight, one of the horses pawed the ground, sending clods of earth thudding against the barricade.
Gom played for time. “My staff, I left it by the fire.”
Jofor’s eyebrows came up. “Staff?” He turned to the man beside him. “Fetch our guest his little stick,” he said, then shouted after the man: “He mustn’t think us thieves.”
Gom’s face grew warm. Jofor couldn’t wait for the show to begin. He looked along the fence, at the men waiting with Jofor to see him trampled underfoot. Anger rekindled within him. What wouldn’t he give to disappoint them!
Maybe—Gom’s eyes narrowed—maybe he could. He remembered a day long ago when his brother Horvin, the one who’d snatched the rune and come to grief, had bargained with Gom for a little green tree frog in a frog jumping contest. Against unfair odds Gom had won that frog squarely from under his brother’s nose. For how was Horvin to know that Gom could speak with the frog and work out a joint strategy to beat Horvin’s cheating?
Could he manage the like here?
The question was, which colt to choose. The roan had been the most kind. One quiet word in its ear, if he could find it, and they’d both go free. Jofor wouldn’t mind losing one horse. And yet... it didn’t seem fair to leave the rest behind.
Gom looked to the cito standing in the middle, apart from the rest. There was a leader! If he could ride Stormfleet, then they all had a chance. If. It was a risk, even to approach him. Think yourself lucky this fence parts us... or you’d not stay in one piece.
Gom bit his lip. The rune was the thing. He must ge
t it out of there.
Still. He pointed over the fence.
“I choose the cito,” he said. “That is, if our agreement holds.”
A spontaneous shout of laughter sent the horses inside rearing and neighing and kicking up their heels.
Jofor waved his men to silence. “Indeed it does, boy. We solahinn are men of our word.”
The staff arrived. Jofor thrust it into Gom’s hand, then hitched him up and over the spikes, to let him fall face down into churned up earth. After a moment, Gom stood painfully, retrieved his staff, and dusted himself off, glancing around the moonlit fence at the broad-brimmed hats outlining its top, the avid faces watching him.
The cito, he’d said, and Jofor had confidently agreed. Jofor: a cold, callous man, who’d carelessly traded the priceless cito, not expecting Gom to survive his ordeal.
Gom, face set, staff raised defensively, worked his way around the inside perimeter. The colts looked huge from this side of the fence. How, Gom wondered, was he ever going to reach Stormfleet without being trampled?
One of the colts noticed him.
Gom froze. It was not one of those he’d spoken with.
The colt shied, stepped toward him. Gom snorted and blew out his cheeks. “Hold: I’m a friend.”
It was not enough.
The colt reared, neighing loudly at seeing a hated human so near. Then it bore down on him, picking up other colts with it. At the last minute, Gom spun aside, and the colts rammed the fence.
“You’re going the wrong way!” Jofor shouted from the gate. “That’s not how to catch a cito, boy!”
Gom thought fast. The rune: could it help him? Laughter mixed with jeers as Gom fled across the churning compound floor to the other side, his mind working frantically, his eyes seeking Stormfleet. No time. No time for magic now.
As the colts wheeled to charge again, Gom glimpsed the black shape in their midst, silver ringmark shining.
“Stormfleet!” he called, but the colts were on him. A flying hoof caught Gom on the shoulder, knocking him to the ground. Another hit him and pain flashed in his arm. He tucked in his head and rolled and the colts grazed past to crash once more into the stockade fence.
The Riddle and the Rune Page 19