The Riddle and the Rune

by Grace Chetwin

  As Gom rolled, his head hit a small rock jutting from the churned up earth. Dazed, he wiped his face on the back of his hand, brought it away smeared in blood. He sat up, his breath coming short and sharp, listening.

  Silence, now.

  Gom looked up.

  Sighting Stormfleet in the middle of the compound, he scrambled up and zigzagged toward him rabbit-fashion as the others came about.

  “Stormfleet! It’s me, Gom!”

  The cito reared, teetered on his hind legs, towering over him.

  Gom raised the staff to ward him off. “They caught me trying to open the gate,” he cried out. “They’ve thrown me in here to die.”

  “So you say.”

  Gom thumped the staff on the ground. “I mean it!”

  “The little one speaks true!” The roan pushed through the crowd. “I heard him at the gate, trying to lift the bar,” he went on, and turned to those behind him. “If I’d known who it was, I’d never have let you charge.”

  The cito’s hooves came down beside Gom. “What if I believe you?”

  “Listen: let me on your back, ride me around this place and we can go, they promised.” Gom glanced to the rest. “You can get out too, if you’re quick.”

  Jofor’s voice came from the perimeter. “Hey! You there?” When Gom didn’t answer, the men around the fence began to mutter.

  “Quick,” Gom urged Stormfleet. “Before it’s too late!”

  Stormfleet eyed him sideways. “Why should you help me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” Gom retorted, and added, “I’m helping myself too.”

  From atop the fence, Jofor’s voice came again. “Boy?”.

  All went still.

  “Maybe he’s hurt,” a man called. “Shall we take a look?”

  "Not yet,” came Jofor’s reply. "Come on. The show’s over.”

  "Wait!” Gom cried out to them, then quietly, "Stormfleet?”

  The cito looked down, as though weighing him. Then knelt, touching his proud head to the dirt. Gom climbed the colt’s back with dignity, but as they straightened up, he almost lost it. He’d never dreamed he’d be so high!

  The other colts dropped back now, fully revealing horse and rider, and at once there came a loud gasp from around the stockade.

  Gom raised his staff, his "little stick” as Jofor had called it. From her high perch the sparrow faced Jofor, her tiny seed eyes gleaming. Gom’s heart swelled.

  "Forward!” he whuffled. A couple of steps, and Gom grabbed for the colt’s mane with his free hand, feeling the powerful shoulders moving under him. The cito’s back was broad and round and slippery. Gom was no rider. The slightest jar one way would have him off, he realized, and hoped the men did not.

  Stormfleet walked slowly around the compound, Gom his staff held high ceremonially, the other colts falling in behind, circling the fence in full procession. Easing into the cito’s gait, Gom passed under Jofor’s incredulous gaze, feeling good with his victory—so good in fact, that he took the horses around a second, then a third, time. At the end of the final lap, Gom signaled those following with the staff, and tugging on Stormfleet’s mane, drew up before Jofor.

  Out of the silence, there came a single cheer, then two, then a spattering of men waved their hats, applauding.

  A spattering, no more. Jofor, and those around him were scowling.

  “Behold, Jofor of the solahinn,” Gom called loudly, taking in with a sweep of his staff the men ringing the fence. “This cito I chose. I rode him not once, but three times around the stockade. This makes him mine, as you promised. Now honor your word and open the gate.”

  A murmur ran around the fence. Jofor muttered at the men beside him.

  Lifting his head, he called out across the stockade.

  “There’s evil afoot here,” he said. “First that great bird of ill omen follows our caravan all the way from Pen’langoth, and now, this.” He waved a hand at Gom. “This can be no real boy!” he cried. “But some necromancer’s figment, a cunning ruse to steal the cito!”

  Gom, dismayed at Jofor’s news, nevertheless held his ground.

  “Indeed I am a boy, and real enough!” he called back. “I'm the plain son of a woodcutter. And see—these are real bruises that I'll have by the morrow, and this is real blood!” He wiped his forehead and held up his palm.

  Jofor, his face stony, didn’t reply.

  Gom didn’t like the look of him. Would the man refuse to let them go?

  “You said that the solahinn were men of their word, Jofor. The gate, if you please.”

  The men began to mutter. One of them shouted something across the compound. Then another. And another.

  Jofor looked sternly from them to Gom, then spoke with those around him. “Very well,” he said at last. He cracked his whip and snapped out a command. Men jumped down out of sight and Gom heard the heavy iron bar being raised.

  Gom breathed in relief. “You see?” he told Stormfleet.

  “Don’t trust him,” the cito answered. “Don’t trust any of them. They have great cunning. They’ll be sure to try and stop us.”

  Gom didn’t doubt it. He looked around at the colts. “In that case,” he said, “when the gate opens, let’s have your fiercest stampede ever. We’ll overrun them first, then scatter.”

  Quickly, Gom slung the staff at his back, freeing his other hand to keep himself from falling. Even as he did this, the gate began to open slowly, almost reluctantly, with a creak and a groan.

  There was a moment’s stillness then the colts charged through, scattering men and whips in all directions. Braced as he was, Gom was all but thrown. He dug his fingers into the cito’s mane and desperately hung on. He had a fleeting glimpse of Jofor’s shocked face, heard his shout.

  “To horse! They’re stampeding!”

  “And I’m falling!” Gom cried desperately, feeling the great back slipping from under him.

  “Come up!” Stormfleet called. “Ease up toward my neck, then use your knees! Lean down, down! Hold onto my mane, that’s right. Now draw your elbows in either side!”

  They thundered on through the camp, past the tents, past the bonfire, Gom sliding and bouncing around. One mistake and he’d go under the threshing hooves. Then the horses would go free and he’d be left for Jofor. He squeezed his knees into Stormfleet’s flanks, and, winding strands of wiry mane around his hands, he laid his cheek on the cito’s neck and clung.

  They galloped on, raising great noise and dust until, clear of the camp, Gom lifted his head a fraction to call out.

  "Scatter now! Go! Good speed, and good luck!”

  With neighs of thanks, the colts sped away in all directions. A few minutes later Gom and Stormfleet were galloping over an empty plain.

  After the briefest time, Gom begged Stormfleet to stop. His fingers were numb and his knees were giving out under him. He was losing the horse’s rhythm, and at any moment he was going to fall.

  “I can’t,” Stormfleet called back. "I’ll change my gait. That’ll help. How’s this? The men call it ‘rack.’” Without slackening pace the rhythm changed to a smoother one that was at least bearable.

  The sky began to lighten in the east behind them, a dull red glow, sure sign of bad weather. Under that ominous dawn light, Gom saw a vast expanse of knee-high waving grasses. Gom looked from side to side apprehensively. Zamul was not far away, he could almost sense him. But Zamul or no, he’d reached his limit.

  “Slow!” Gom cried again, and this time he meant it. “I’m falling off!”

  Stormfleet slowed to a canter, then a trot, then a walk. “There’s a spring just ahead,” he said. “We can stop for a brief time. But then we must press on, for the solahinn surely follow us.”

  Not just the solahinn, Gom thought grimly, scanning the skies, the wide spaces around them. He let go of Stormfleet’s mane, rubbed his face, his numb knuckles, feeling warmth and life return. A few moments, no more, and he’d be able to go on.

  Stormfleet whinnied softly,
tossed his mane. “Ah, the spring, Master Gom.”

  Ahead, an isolated clump of nubby bushes sprouted from a dip in the level grassland. Gom eyed them anxiously, thinking of Zamul.

  At that moment some inner sense caused him to glance up.

  Way above him, was a speck, and even as he watched, it came closer, circling down through the sun’s red glow. Gom’s heart jumped.

  “Stormfleet! My enemy approaches. He will kill me if he can.”

  Stormfleet looked around. “Where? I see no rider.”

  “Not the solahinn, Stormfleet. He flies above us. Go!”

  The cito broke into a full gallop. Gom clung, not daring to look up for fear of falling. His whole body was wound up tight. At every moment, he expected to feel the bird’s wings brush his head, the fearful talons rake his back.

  Wind’s sudden draft was all the warning they had as the attacker swooped. Gom ducked as, with a loud cry, the bird swerved past.

  “Faster, Stormfleet!” Gom sobbed. They raced on, Gom lying along the cito’s back, his hands tight-laced into Stormfleet’s mane.

  The bird came down again, and this time, with unerring accuracy, its beak snatched the thong and pulled. The thin leather bit into Gom’s throat, and snapped.

  “No!” Gom cried out in anguish as the great skull-bird soared up into the red sky, tiny stone on broken thong dangling from the hooked claws.

  “Stop, Stormfleet, stop!”

  As Stormfleet slowed sharply, Gom’s gaze followed the spiraling bird, such rage and sorrow as he’d never known ripping through him. He thought of Katak, in his dark prison, awaiting sure release. Of gentle Ganash who would pay the price. Of the peaceful lakelands, and other places he’d not yet seen, the gray blight of evil spread over them, killing joy and light. And he himself, the rune’s keeper, ruined, his quest come to naught. Oh, Mother, Mother, he cried inwardly, I’ve failed you!

  His rage, his anguish surged. “No!” he screamed after the ascending bird, and wished for wings.

  Zamul must not have that stone!

  Banking lazily on the air currents, the great bird prepared to fly away. But at the height of the turn, its shape began to shimmer in the sun’s low rays.

  Gom’s mouth opened in horror. The bird shape was dissolving. For one instant, the figure of Zamul hung suspended, spread-eagled, black against the dull red sky. Then with a very loud and human cry, the figure began to fall.

  Stormfleet whinnied and stamped and tossed his mane in exultation, but Gom hid his face.

  There came a short, sharp scream, then a thud, which Gom all but felt up on Stormfleet’s back.

  Then silence.

  Some way ahead on the flat wide plain lay a huddled shape dressed in black and green.

  Gom slid off Stormfleet’s back and moved slowly forward.

  “Stay where you are,” Stormfleet cautioned him. “It may be a trap. The ways of men are endlessly cunning.”

  “He’s dead, I know it,” Gom said in a low voice. “He took something from me. I have to go get it back.” He moved on toward the body of Zamul. What would he find when he reached it?

  Stormfleet went before him, snuffling cautiously, then suddenly dipping his head, the cito plucked something from the ground, something that glistened as it dangled from his mouth.

  Gom ran forward.

  The rune! He took the stone, clutched it to him. Saved! And with it, Ganash, and the lake lord, and all those other people out there, and Katak would stay in his grotto.

  He rubbed its markings, remembering Horvin. The day his brother had snatched it from him, he hadn’t run three yards with it before he’d fallen, and the rune, flying from his hand, had landed back at Gom’s feet. When Zamul had first stolen the rune, it had been quiescent. Not so now. Alive, it had once again flown back to Gom. Gom squeezed the rune tight, felt a faint vibration.

  His rune, that had hung about his neck for all his life! No, not his rune, he corrected himself soberly. His mother’s magic stone, which he must still deliver into her hands.

  But, he looked down. What to do with poor Zamul?

  Stormfleet pawed the ground restlessly. “Come. The solahinn haven’t let us off this easily.”

  “But I can’t leave—” Gom began.

  “Just exactly what do you propose to do, Master Gom? Bury the creature? With what?” Stormfleet trotted up to Zamul’s body, and around it, and came back again. “Don’t even go near that thing,” he said. “It’s not a sight for you. Leave him to the solahinn. Give them something to think about. Come,” he urged. “Quickly, quickly.” He trotted over to the water.

  Gom stood uncertainly. Leave Zamul to the solahinn? That was an idea. What would they think when they sighted the body of the man whom they thought to be Gom’s master, and Gom riding away on their priceless cito?

  He quickly knotted the thong and slipped the rune back on. He ran to the water hole, drank, and sluiced the blood off him, stinging the grazes on his head and hands. Then he washed the rune, too, of the conjuror’s touch. The image of Zamul changing shape wouldn’t go away. What a horrible way to die!

  Zamul had obviously lost control again, just as he’d done before, first back up north, when Carrick wounded him. Then in the stables only yesterday, when Gom had struck him with the staff. Changing shape and holding it must take great energy and much concentration, Gom thought. The gift of magic was not without its price. He sighed heavily.

  Stormfleet nuzzled his shoulder. “Time to move on,” he said. “You’re not still moping over that human, are you?” The cito shook his mane. “You know, I’m beginning to think there’s some truth in what that Jofor said. You can be no common human boy, as you claim, not with that creature after you. And grieving over that scum? Who are you, anyway?”

  Gom looked up, surprised. “Why, I’m as I said: a woodcutter’s son, from Windy Mountain, which is back of nowhere. My father, rest his soul, was but a plain man of the earth.”

  “Maybe,” Stormfleet said. “And maybe you think that truly. But earth breeds earth, and there’s more to you than that. Master Gom, a seed’s true nature will out in the end, and reveal its source, grass and tree and horse— and even human. So who’s your dam?”

  Gom gazed at Stormfleet in wonder. “My mother is Harga,” he said. “Harga the Brown.”

  “Aha!” Stormfleet tossed his mane triumphantly. “There you are. I knew it! No earth child is she, but the greatest—” He broke off, his nose snuffling the air, his ears twitching.

  Gom was too dazed to notice. “You know Harga? What do you know, Stormfleet!”

  Stormfleet neighed urgently. “No time! Up, Master Gom! We must ride!” The cito knelt.

  Gom looked around, saw nothing but empty plain.

  Wind blew about his head.

  The beast speaks true, Gom Gobblechuck. Go with him! I cannot help you, for riders come from all directions. Speed, and the cito’s cunning is your only chance against them!

  Gom scrambled onto Stormfleet’s back, and they set off at a gallop, westward, away from the sun, in the direction of Long Valley. Suddenly, Stormfleet checked and reared, nearly toppling Gom from his perch. Straight ahead, a solid line of riders came over the horizon, approaching fast.

  Stormfleet wheeled about and set off north. But riders came from that way, too. They looked east, then south. On every hand, just as Wind had warned Gom, riders advanced through the waving grasses.

  Gom held tight, feeling the fear rising through both of them as Stormfleet turned and turned about.

  The riders neared.

  Stormfleet stopped still. “We’ll let them come close, then make a break for it. It’s our best chance!” he neighed.

  Some chance, thought Gom, looked at the advancing ring of riders. And at the same time thinking that Stormfleet was every bit as stubborn as he.

  Stormfleet turned slowly about, watching the riders close in. Gom could make out their hats flapping back in the wind. There came a faint triumphant shout, then two, then more.
/>
  “Hai-tah! Hai-tah! Dahai-kah!”

  Gom watched them helplessly. He was so close to success, with Zamul gone now. And he’d even begun to solve the riddle.

  My father was but a plain man of the earth... Who is your dam... Harga, Harga the Brown...

  “From Air and Earth comes seed...”

  Could he yet solve it, get them out of there? Panic sped his thought, sharpened his mind. He remembered his vision back in the cave, of the sparrow and the bear. Air and Earth, sparrow and bear—Harga and Stig! And if they were the Air and the Earth, then—with a shock, the truth burst upon him.

  I, he breathed. I myself am the seed!

  The horsemen closed in so near that Gom could see Jofor leading, hear his harsh cries over the rest. A whip cracked, sending Stormfleet rearing again.

  In the stockade there’d been no time for magic. But here? He closed his hand about his mother’s stone. In the deep cave under Great Krugk, his will had worked the rune’s power—by Harga’s wish, for sure.

  Would she help now?

  As Jofor’s whip curled out toward him, with one hand clutching Stormfleet’s mane, the other, the rune, Gom drew his mind to a single point.

  Mother! he urged with his whole thought. As I'm the seed, so hear me! Help me now!

  The whip snicked past his ear, but he never felt it, for in that same moment the horsemen, the wide dawn sky and the waving plains vanished like smoke, and he with the cito were engulfed in a whirl of sound and light.

  Chapter Nineteen

  MOTIONLESS at the center of the rushing, roaring vortex, Gom clung to Stormfleet’s mane, one hand still locked about his mother’s stone. He closed his eyes, tried to calm his pounding heart. Don’t panic, he told himself. Don’t be afraid. This must be Harga’s doing. She’d heard him, and was answering with powerful magic.

  The sound of the wind rose in pitch. Light exploded against his eyelids. He squeezed them tighter shut, thinking, Stormfleet must be terrified.

  “Don’t worry! We’re safe!” Gom yelled in Stormfleet’s ear. His voice sounded tiny, thin. If the cito heard it, he didn’t answer. They hung in space, fused together like a wooden carving, the noisy whirlwind turning about them, until Gom’s head filled with images of frantic trees, and flashing silver leaves.