The Horse Lord

For my father, who had to leave early.

With acknowledgment and thanks to:

Alastair Minnis and Diana Wynne Jones;

Charles Redpath and David Lavery;

Rosie Freel and Trish Burns;

and my mother and sister, who put up with it all.

“... bye virtue of his lady wyfe.

In this yeare also, being but ye eighth of
ERHAL-OVERLORDE
his holding of his Seate in ye fortress of Cerdor, was there war and stryfe in ye north kingdomes through ye Malice and foul Usurpations of that Sorcerer since ynamen Kalarr cu Ruruc.

ERHAL-OVERLORDE
having setten him forth with an hoste being of soche numberes as fyve thousandes of Horse and of Foote ten thousandes, he did bring defeate to his enemy and ruination utterly by force of armes at Baelen Fyghte.

But in that field did fall and perish
ERHAL
, most Noble and Gentle of
LORDES
(this of an Arrow betwixt ye Harness joyntes) and with him dyveres soche Honourable men as ykepen oath even unto Deathe, to ye numberes of seven thousandes both hygh and humble. And of hygh-clan yfallen are…

... And this is all their names that be yknowen slaine. Now to their sonnes hath yeomen fell Ambition where-bye each hath ycraven landes held of another for his own, and hath ytaken seizen of full many an halle and citadel each from another. Now indeed doth red War make of
ALBA
his dwelling-place to the dolour and exceeding Heaviness of all honest folke, and noble
LORDES
do slay those that were their hearth-friendes not four monthes agone.

May-be by
HEAVENES
grace this lande may be de-livered from sore Travail, and by
ITS
Endeless Mercy the people may be ysafen from blood and pestilence to live again in Peace…”

—Ylver Vlethanek an-Caerdur
The Book of Years, Cerdor

Boots thudded in rotting vegetation, slapped in patches of slushy snow. As the sound grew, a solitary figure came stumbling through the forest gloom, slumped against a tree and then slid face-downwards into the dirt and wet dead leaves.

The runner was twenty years old and sick with fear. His tunic was open despite the chilly air, and the neck of a once-fine shirt hung loose. Sweat glistened on his face and body, sticking sodden clothing and tails of wet hair to his skin. The boy’s chest heaved, veins beat in throat and temples and his whole frame quivered with exertion.

He listened, holding his breath and lying quite still in the clammy ooze of slime where he had fallen. At first there was nothing but the hesitant patter of raindrops and the slamming of his heart. Then he heard it—a soft, ponderous sound not quite drowned by the whisper of wind through autumn-bared branches. As it drew closer he clawed at the tree trunk, struggled upright and then fell back. Though his left shoulder barely touched the unyielding wood, he convulsed and an agonised moan escaped his clenched teeth. Around the arrow jutting obscenely from torn flesh, crusted stains grew slick and oily beneath a film of fresh blood.

The arrow had ceased to pain him hours ago when all feeling had left his arm, and he had almost forgotten its presence. Until now. He had forgotten, too, how long he had been running. There was only the dull realisation that his flight was almost over. Fatigue was spreading a seductive warmth through him like a drug—or a poison.

It invited sleep, stiffening his muscles even as he gulped the air which kept them working.

Lightning flickered, etching the world starkly black and white. Its thunder growled like some vast beast among the trees and nameless things scuttled slavering through his brain, sniffing the air for their quarry’s scent. His scent. He fled again through a flurry of rain.

Something struck at his leg and he flinched wildly, almost tumbling headlong before realising it was his longsword. The weapon’s straps had slackened, letting it swing free; another minute and it would have been lost. The boy fumbled to run his hand into the complex hilt. He dared not stop, yet his left arm was useless to halt the scabbard’s crazy wavering. The blade was only half-drawn when he fell.

The storm was to blame. Great banks of cloud had drifted up in silence, then vented their fury directly overhead. Blinded and deafened, the fugitive did not even see the tree root which jerked both feet from under him. Raising his head painfully, he stared at the thing in his fist. Only a jagged splinter remained in the hilt—the rest of his finely tempered blade was gone. With a sound that was half sob and half curse he flung the remnant away and reeled on.

After another crash of thunder it began to rain in earnest, slashing sheets of water which drummed a knee-high haze from the ground. A tree loomed suddenly from the murk and raked crooked branches across his shoulder. The impact tore a ragged scream from his throat.

Whimpering with pain, he knew that the running had ended. Death hung at his hip; a shortsword for them… and a black
tsepan
dirk for himself. Its triple edges would be preferable to being taken back alive.

The boy straightened with an effort, choosing with pathetic pride to be found standing rather than grovelling in the mud. He fell twice, for the ground had been hammered into greasy mud by the downpour, but at last remained steady enough to draw the blade. He glanced down at the dirk, waiting loose in its sheath; there would be no dignity for its use, no ceremony or ancient ritual phrases. Just a hasty inward stab before they could lay hands upon him. But they would be cheated. He almost smiled bitterly at that. And then he waited, while the rain fell steadily. And while nothing else happened.

Even the curses he began to howl were swallowed up by a long rumble of receding thunder. As the courage of desperation ebbed away his shoulders drooped and at last he began to cry, softly, like a child.

Suddenly the boy stopped abruptly and wiped his face with one muddy sleeve. There was a feeling—a tingling deep within his brain—that he knew from previous experience. He was no longer alone. Panic welled up again, and he would have run if only he knew which way was safe.

Then a hand came out of the dark and gripped his injured arm. With a croaking gasp the boy lashed out and staggered away, but made only two swaying strides before his knees gave way and a deeper black than the night closed in around his eyes.

He did not hear the footsteps padding closer until they stopped beside his head…

Autumn sunshine warmed Gemmel’s whitewashed cottage and gilded its thatched roof, making him smile. In the fifty years since he had first come here, he had often compared the modest dwelling unfavourably with his other home under Glaselyu Menethen, the Blue Mountains dimly shading the western horizon. But on days like this such criticism was out of the question.

The locals called him
an-pestrior
, the wizard, and he was content to let them do so. There were no words in the Alban language—or in any other, for that matter— to adequately describe what he really was. Which, when he gave the matter thought, was just as well. Even so, over the past few years he had done little to warrant his title. Gemmel Errekren had retired from active sorcery… and he was bored.

One of a long-lived race, during his years of exile he had performed spells, travelled the known lands and some unknown as well, learned the martial arts of half a dozen kingdoms. He
had
... and there lay the problem. Everything had been done, was completed, past tense, and now ennui gripped him in soft and cloying paws.

The sun dipped behind a cloud and brought the old man out of his reverie with a yawn. He eyed the changing sky and decided it was time he prepared something to eat…

Outside was dark and blurred with rain, a curtain of drops briefly sparkling as they passed through the wash of lamplight from the cottage windows. Inside was snug and smelling of hot food as the master of the house, who could have stopped the storm had he chosen, sat down to his meal.

Gemmel stopped with a mug of ale halfway to his lips. The sound had reached his ears was nothing to do with any storm. It seemed more like the howling of a wolf, he reflected as he finished his drink. Then he set the cup down with a sharp little click and turned to stare out into the night. There were words in this wolf’s howl.

The sorcerer’s eyes flashed green in the lamp-glow and a smile tugged at the corners of his thin mouth as he stood up. Hung over the fireplace was his
athame
, an iron knife inlaid with silver runes and whetted to a razor edge. It was a weapon potent against any foe, human or… otherwise. There were other weapons too, but Gemmel ignored them with an effort. He had made a vow not to use such things without good reason, and even a possible werewolf was not sufficient justification for him to unclip them from their racks. Instead, as he stepped out into the rain-swept night he drew the
athame
, holding it point-up like a practised knife fighter. Which he was.

The howling continued barely long enough for him to guess its source. Then it faded away and the hiss of falling water filled his ears once more. Despite the deluge he moved slowly, ready with the
athame
or matter-ripping spells should anything spring from the darkness. Neither was required. Before long a new sound reached him and Gemmel stopped, eyes narrowing as he listened to the wretched, heartbroken sobbing that had no place here. He hesitated, then sheathed the knife and walked on, peering warily through the gloom.

Then he came upon a vague, ragged figure crying bitterly as the sky opened above him. Moved to pity, Gemmel put out one hand to lead the stranger back to his cottage—and almost lost fingers as a blade hacked feebly at them. The muddy-faced youngster choked and wrenched away, wide-eyed with such terror as the enchanter had seldom seen. Then he tried to run, but after two wobbly paces went down in a heap.

Gemmel blinked, then rubbed his hands together. They felt sticky, and when he glanced down .there were dark smears across both palms. With a surge of strength ill-matching his venerable appearance he lifted the slack-limbed body and bore it carefully back to his house. At every stride he felt warm blood soaking through his sleeve.

The wizard’s guest lay on a hastily cleared table while Gemmel boiled water and rummaged for Jong-forgotten jars and bottles. Cutting away the boy’s clothing, he swore softly when he saw what attempts to free the arrow had done to an originally clean puncture. The old man cursed again, damning the oversight that had left his proper healing materials back under the mountains. Then he shrugged and resigned himself to making the best of what means were at hand.

As he washed after dropping some instruments into the boiling water, a groan made him turn round. The youngster’s eyes were open, wide and white in a mask of bloodied mud. “Get out!” he gasped. Weak though it was, his voice had a commanding edge that made Gemmel stare. “I’m being followed! I can’t lose them. Get…
out
, you fool! Kill me clean… then… run…” The effort cost him dear, for his staring eyes unfocused and rolled shut as his lifted head dropped with an ugly thud to the table. With no reason to disbelieve him, Gemmel moved fast. Seizing a few items, he ran from the house. But not to hide—he was, after all, a wizard.

The rain had stopped as suddenly as it had begun and wind was shredding the remaining clouds. Instinct, mingled perhaps with a forlorn hope, raised the old man’s gaze toward the remote glint of stars, searching… Then he snorted and marched around the cottage, muttering under his breath. At each compass-point he stopped, bowed, drew a sign in the air and flicked pinches of dust from the leather bags he carried. Both sign and dust glowed blue for an instant afterwards. At the front door he raised one hand and pronounced one of the lesser Charms of Concealment. As the spell took effect a bluish haze shimmered briefly, and though when it faded nothing had apparently changed, Gemmel breathed more easily. Now at least he would have enough time to patch up his visitor so that they could both get well out of the way. But charm or no charm, once inside he bolted the door. Twice.

Before long he had the arrow out, the wound bandaged after a fashion and his blanket-wrapped patient set in a chair by the fire. The wizard poured himself another drink with the feeling that he deserved it. Apart from where Gemmel had been working, the boy’s skin and clothes were caked with muck until they were hard to tell apart. Knowing Albans perhaps better than they knew themselves, the sorcerer stoked his bath-house fire and turned the pine tub right-side-up.

When he reentered the front room, his guest’s eyelids fluttered up, only to squeeze shut again as pain seared his torn back. Gemmel hastily offered him a wooden beaker. “Drink this,” he instructed. “It should ease the effects of my surgery somewhat.”

Obediently the young man put back its bitter contents in a single face-twisting gulp, and after a time felt the throbbing dwindle. He nodded gratefully. “Thanks… for the surgery as well.” His wry little smile went crooked when a determined twinge worked through the drug. “If you will excuse my ill manners, I will not bow just yet.”