Exile to the Stars (The Alarai Chronicles) (25 page)

Arranging
to have a new quiver made at a leather shop, Jeff found his way to an armorer
recommended by Rengeld. He described the arrowheads he wished forged in minute
detail. Words and drawing pictures in the air proved insufficient. The design
was radically different from anything the master smith was familiar with.

“May
I have a scrap of parchment and a stylus?”

The
master became intrigued as the design emerged, as were several journeymen who
stopped to view the drawing. After spirited discussion they settled on a final
design. The experience was so enjoyable that Jeff wanted to stay longer.
However, he had another task to accomplish and had put it off as long as
possible.

With
great reluctance, even dread, Jeff mounted up. It was time to seek out the
farrier. Threading through crowded streets, he tried every trick in the book to
convince Cynic that he must be shod. There wasn’t a chance that his hoofs would
stand up to the rough and likely rocky terrain they would have to cover. He
would inevitably pull up lame, stranding them both.

Cynic
was totally unconvinced by every argument. “
First you must place this saddle
on my back. Now you would force me to accept things of steel driven to my hoofs
with deep-biting nails. You ask too much! I will not submit!”

On
the verge of losing his temper, Jeff pulled up, leaped out of the saddle and
confronted Cynic eye to eye. Pointing a finger that trembled with terminal
frustration, he forgot himself as usual and spoke out loud as well as mentally.

“You
are going to have shoes fitted. You are going to stand still while the farrier
does his work. You are not going to kick him in the head. And by all that’s
holy, if you choose to resist I’ll have you strung up off the ground like a
side of beef and put a bag over your head myself until you come around.”

Much
like an infuriated sergeant, Jeff paced back and forth in front of Cynic. “You
wanted to come along; you insisted. No more pulling a plow, you said. And where
is the common sense you spoke of? What do you imagine will happen to us when
one of your hoofs is injured by a rock? Just use your head and stop shoveling
manure at me!” Jeff stopped his pacing and looked Cynic square in the eye. “You
must tell me again—did Shadowfax and Arod once roam Middle Earth, or do they
live in myth alone?”

In
spite of his stubborn fortitude, Cynic was taken aback by the ultimatum and
Jeff’s mention of Shadowfax had struck deep.

“Always
it is, ‘Cynic’ do this or that or you will pull a plow. How much more awaits in
the name of this cursed plow? If I must, I must, but not willingly!”

“Well,
thank God for a lick of sense. You have never been lamed and I will not see it
happen now. What is a horse to do if he cannot run?”

Turning
away from Cynic, Jeff was startled to find a ring of spectators looking on. As
usually seemed to be the case, the strange sight of a grown man holding a
lengthy, heated and apparently one-sided conversation with a horse had
attracted them. Standing with arms crossed and heads tilted to one side, they
had followed every nuance and were awaiting an encore. Flushing with
embarrassment, Jeff hurriedly mounted.

At
the farrier, Jeff held Cynic’s hackamore to make sure he didn’t so much as
wiggle. When his temper cooled, Jeff felt growing sympathy. He had never
witnessed the process of shoeing a horse. The noise was considerable and the
smell was foul as hot shoes sizzled against Cynic’s hooves during the fitting
process.

“Thank
you for agreeing to be shod, horse-brother. This is not an easy thing to
endure.”

Trembling
with anxiety, Cynic turned his head to watch the farrier pick up a front leg.
It was time to nail the shoes in place.

“I
shall trust your judgment that it was necessary.”

Although
he knew that fitting shoes was necessary and that no pain was involved, Jeff
winced when the farrier banged home the first nail. When all four hooves were
finished, man and horse were both emotionally exhausted.

With
each step away from the farrier, putting each hoof down as if it would break,
Cynic regained more of his usual frame of mind. They had not gone far when he
noticed that the cobblestones no longer hurt his hooves. In fact, he had not
realized there was a problem until the pain was gone. It was a great relief,
but an insight he intended to keep tucked away.

The
last day in town was rushed. Jeff purchased a stock of durable foods and picked
up the various items he had ordered the day before. The armorer had delivered
the new triple-bladed arrowheads to the fletcher as promised. Examining the
torque-free shafts and precise fletching, Jeff felt like he should frame the
arrows rather than shoot them. Securing them in the new quiver, he headed
across town for his last meeting with Ethbar and Rengeld.

Days
were becoming hot, the nights short. Although summer solstice occurred about a
month later than on Earth, Jeff figured the seasons came and went about the
same. Counting days, he decided it had to be the equivalent of early June.
Considering the trip he was facing, Jeff did not think he had a prayer of
making it to the moot by late July. Khorgan was far to the south and by all
accounts a large city. It would take weeks just to learn where the power lay.

When
he arrived at Ethbar’s residence, Jeff reviewed his concerns. In the end they
decided to send a messenger to the moot if Jeff had not returned by a certain
date. Rengeld was solemn as he went over everything he knew about the southern
plains.

“Trust
no one, Jeffrey. Secret your evening camps. Do not be lulled by the grassland’s
rolling vastness, assuming safety in the absence of forest. Brigandage thrives
in its many hidden valleys.”

In
contrast to Rengeld, Ethbar radiated confidence. “As I have said before, we did
not meet by chance and now set out on tasks that must be accomplished. Who can
say what price must be paid? That is not at issue. If we pursue that which must
be, what is in our hearts, success will follow.”

Taking
their leave, Ethbar pressed another purse into Jeff’s hand. “May the forces
that guide our lives be with you, Jeffrey. Do not be concerned about us.
Rengeld and I are masters of rumor and will deal with the courtiers.”

Rengeld
grasped Jeff’s hand. “Be assured that I will post scouts to the south near the
time of your expected return to lend what assistance they may. Take you care,
my friend.”

A
blustery wind from the north had cleared the air when Jeff left the barracks
lugging his saddlebags and other gear. It was early enough that no one was up
and about. He had planned it that way. It was hard enough to leave without
saying more good-byes.

The
stable was quiet except for the sounds of horses munching hay and stomping to
shake flies loose. A few stable hands were about, but they were dozing.
Although he had saddled Cynic so many times that he could have done it in a few
minutes, Jeff took his time. Leaving Rugen was proving difficult.

On
the way south from Valholm he had been exasperated at not knowing how far it
was to the moot grounds. That, Jeff now realized, had been a blessing in
disguise. If you didn’t know, there was no way to set up a schedule or to worry
about the distance involved. Each day was a journey in itself. Now he had a
good idea of what lay ahead. 500 or 600 miles of open prairie.

Rengeld
had assured him there were many streams to provide water, and Cynic would be
surrounded by grass at its peak, but what about him? Did he have enough staples
packed? Although the saddlebags were stuffed, was it enough?

Shrugging
in resignation, Jeff wiggled the saddle to make sure the cinch strap was tight
enough and began loading. When everything was securely attached he led Cynic to
an artesian well that gushed water in a cold freshet. After filling water skins
there was nothing left to do but mount up and leave.

Sunlight
had not yet penetrated city shadows, but the sky overhead was a limpid blue and
free of clouds. They trotted through empty streets, the clatter of Cynic’s
newly shod hooves echoing hollowly off buildings. As they passed under the
gate’s portcullis, Jeff’s somber mood evaporated.

“Well,
horse-brother, we’re on the road again. Who knows what new adventures await
us?”

“That
such will occur I do not doubt,”
Cynic sent back with
an accompanying mental snort.
“I am concerned only that we survive them.”

Jeff
affectionately slapped him on the neck.
“Have we not always done so? You
were meant for these great open spaces. Now you will truly be free to run.”

For
three or four days the road was busy with traders, tinkers and loads of produce
heading for market. By the end of the first week the road had dwindled to a
trail, they encountered few travelers, and those they did meet made every
effort to avoid close contact.

Having
traveled through Kansas and Nebraska on numerous occasions, Jeff found the open
prairie comfortably familiar and his concerns dwindled. Although Rengeld had
said nothing about animals that inhabited the prairie, Jeff was confident that
with so much beautiful grass around they would run across plenty of grazing
animals to hunt. It was nearly certain they would also encounter predators.

Days
were hot and clear, towering cumulus clouds soaring overhead to cast elaborate
shadows onto the prairie. The days were so similar to one another and the
prairie so unvarying that Jeff gradually lost track of time. It seemed that he
and Cynic moved in slow motion, one grass-covered hill slowly being replaced by
another in endless variation. Lulled by the syncopated rhythm of Cynic’s
unvarying hoof beats, Jeff let his mind roam wherever it would.

Nights
they searched out convenient gullies for concealment. Turning Cynic loose to
graze on belly-high grass starting to turn yellow with summer’s heat, Jeff
generally started a clean-burning fire with dung scavenged from the prairie.
There was a lot of it, further convincing him that finding food should not be
difficult. After heating the evening ration and maybe brewing a cup of coffee,
he bedded down with the saddle for a pillow.

They
spotted a few solitary animals that were of good size, but always at a
distance. One afternoon they stumbled onto a large herd. From a position on top
of one of the hills, Jeff gazed over a seething ocean of backs that covered the
prairie in every direction he looked. Nothing like buffalo, they resembled
wildebeest. Rumbling along, the herd stirred up a miles-wide dust cloud that
rose high enough to turn the sun orange.

Dismounting
to give Cynic a break, he squatted on his heels to watch the show. When the
herd declined to stragglers, Jeff remounted in a sober state of mind. He had
started by counting individual animals then resorted to block estimates. When
the count passed 10,000 he had given it up.

Roasted
by the sun, Jeff’s tan turned to mahogany. Shaving was a bother and used
precious water so he let his beard and hair grow long. Never fat, Cynic leaned
down until he was all muscle and sinew. He rarely complained and fell into the
same silent rhythm that ordered Jeff’s daily existence.

They
weren’t far into the prairie when Jeff learned he could turn the day’s ride
over to Cynic. He simply pointed Cynic in the direction they wished to go and
gave him his head. Muscles bunching and stretching smoothly under his skin in
their own hypnotic rhythm, Cynic flowed through the sea of tall grass that
rippled and sighed in the never-ending wind.

During
one of the seemingly endless golden afternoons, Jeff spotted what appeared to
be mountains or hills on the horizon. Day by day they gradually rose higher and
appeared to be a range of vast hills.

On
the day Jeff concluded the range might be within reach before nightfall, he
noticed something moving well behind them. Selecting an unusually high hill, he
stopped to discover who or what it was. Cynic had been nervous the evening before.
Feeling the same foreboding, Jeff had strung the bow and added extra arrows to
the quiver before leaving camp.

The
moving dots slowly grew larger and resolved into what appeared to be a pack of
animals about the size of wolves. No doubt about it, Jeff decided, they’re
tracking us.

“Now
it is time to run, old horse; to test yourself against those who are foolish
enough to pursue.”

Cynic
needed no further urging. He picked his way down the hill and accelerated to a
gait that varied between a fast canter and loping gallop. Not wanting to tire
Cynic prematurely, Jeff let him set his own pace. Although the predators were
out of sight, he had no doubt they were coming on. With passing hours the hills
continued to soar higher, giving hope of refuge and a defensible position.

Never
had they moved together so well as they did throughout that long, hot
afternoon. The sea of grass lost substance over time until it seemed a virtual
ocean of yellow, and still Cynic never dropped off the pace. Nor did the
pursuers. The prairie was their home and this was their game. Slowly but surely
they narrowed the distance until Jeff could get a good look.