Since then, the Herdlord had treated him with greater respect. For a time they had been circling blindly in the mist, but now , . . There, close by, was the looming form of the black stallion, its head hanging, its sides heaving, as it blew puffs of steam from its snorting red nostrils and glared at him with furious white-rimmed eyes.
Parric gasped. For the first time, he had a clear sight of his enemy—and for a moment he forgot that this was not a true beast, but one who could take on human form. As a horse, it was the most beautiful, magnificent creature he had ever seen. The Cavalrymaster looked in awe at the clean, powerful limbs; the finely sculpted head with its wild, dark, intelligent eyes; the tremendous curving sweep of the great arched neck; the liquid play of fine-etched muscles beneath the midnight coat that now was dull with sweat and blood, where Parric’s first knife had lodged in the thick muscle of the haunches.
Thank the Gods I didn’t manage to hamstring him! To destroy such a creature ... A horseman to the very depths of his being, Parric felt his heart melt within him in a surging wave of longing and joy—until this glorious creature gathered itself for one last, desperate effort, bared its great white teeth and charged.
Parric had been expecting something of the sort—and now instinct took over. As the horse came up to him, he sidestepped quickly, ignoring the grinding pain in his hurt knee, grabbed a handful of mane as the stallion hurtled by—and leapt. It was not a clean leap. The wrenched knee gave under him, and the Cavalrymaster found himself hanging on by his tightly tangled fistful of mane, one leg half across the horse’s back, and the other waving wildly in midair as he strove frantically to pull himself up. Seconds stretched out into an eternity as Parric, tensing his arms until his muscles screamed in protest, clawed himself onto the surging back, pulling himself up inch by inch from his perilous position in midair. At last he made it, found his seat and his balance—as the horse went berserk beneath him, The powerful body seemed to explode across the plateau in a series of jolting bucks that jarred every bone in Parric’s spine and rattled the teeth in his head. Twining his hands deeply in the long, flowing mane, he wrapped his wiry legs around the horse’s ribs and stuck to the stallion’s plunging back like a burr to a dog.
The creature reared, shrilling its fury—but Parric clung tightly, refusing to be unseated. It tried to run, and made an incredible effort, despite its injuries. The Cavalrymaster clenched his aching teeth and concentrated on staying on. From the tail of his eye, he caught blurred and dizzying glimpses of the plateau, the mountains—and the hundreds of Xandim, hidden by the fog until now, who had come to watch the challenge.
Dear Gods, Parric thought incredulously, how fast would he be if he were sound? Never in his life had he ridden such a beast!. Though the stallion’s abrupt, arrhythmic paces were giving his own wounds a fearful jolting, the Cavalrymaster was oblivious to the pain. He whooped aloud in his euphoria. “Father of the Gods! What a ride!”
But the stallion was tiring fast. His steps began to falter, and his sides were heaving as his breath wheezed in and out. Eventually, he came jerking to a halt in a series of stiff-legged bounces. With a sinking heart, Parric tensed as the horse dipped its head and rolled over, its long black legs flailing wildly. The Cavalrymaster leapt awkwardly to the side, to avoid being trapped beneath. He landed clumsily, and felt his injured knee give under him with an agonizing crunch. Curse it! He rolled quickly aside, out of danger-—but by the time he had struggled to his feet, it was plain that his opponent was finally spent.
Parric felt his throat tighten, as he watched the creature’s pathetic efforts to rise. “Perdition!” he muttered. “I didn’t want it to end like this!” But his attention was distracted from the struggling beast by an ugly murmur of rage from the watching crowd. The Cavalrymaster swore, and struggled once again to free his sword—but it was no good. The wretched blade was thoroughly jammed. Then a frantic figure burst through the milling ranks of the restive crowd, and came pelting across the grass toward him. Behind the Windeye, the crowd broke at last and came racing after him with weapons drawn.
Chiamh, to Parric’s surprise, ignored him completely. Instead, the Windeye came to a panting halt before the stricken Herdlord and raised his hands in a series of intricate, flowing gestures as he began to intone some words in the rolling Xandim tongue. It was as though the pursuing crowd had run into some invisible barrier. To a man, they stopped dead, their faces blank with horrified disbelief.
Parric glanced back at the Windeye—and his stomach turned over. Chiamh’s eyes had changed, horribly, from their usual soft brown, to hard, bright, blank quicksilver, giving his normal, rather daft expression a demonic, otherworldly cast. Parric shuddered. What the bloody blazes was going on?
At last; the Windeye reached the end of his blood-chilling chant. Tears streaked his face, and he looked as though he had aged a hundred years. As he approached the Cavalrymaster, sagging with weariness, Parric was relieved to see that the silver seemed to be draining away from his eyes, leaving them their usual, reassuring shade of brown. With his bruised ribs knifing him as he breathed, and his injured knee stiffening now, and hurting like perdition, Parric could not have run away if he had wanted to—and he didn’t want to, he told himself firmly. “It’s only Chiamh, you fool,” he told himself.
The Windeye took hold of his right hand—and it was all that Parric could do not to flinch from his touch—and flourished it aloft.
“Hear me, my people,” the Windeye cried. “This day a challenge has been given, and met, according to our ancient law. I give you, O Xandim, Parric—your new Herdlord Jeers and curses came from the crowd, and Chiamh blinked anxiously. “Quiet!” he yelled, abandoning his stately dignity of speech—and to Parric’s amazement, the roar of the crowd was instantly hushed, “You all saw what I did just now,” the Windeye continued. “I spoke the Words to trap Phalihas in his equine form, until the spell is removed again, I regret the deed, but it was the only way to ensure my own safety, and that of the new Herdlord and his companions. As yet, I have no heir to my powers ...”—he blushed self-consciously—” so I am the only one who can restore Phalihas to his human state—as I will, I promise, eventually, In the meantime, those who deny the new Herdlord will share the fate of the old one!”
Once again the crowd began to mutter restively, but he had them now. This time, Chiamh had only to hold up a hand for silence, and the Xandim obeyed. Parric, shaking now with pain, and hunger and exhaustion, was wishing heartily that the wretched Windeye would just shut up, and let him go somewhere quiet where he could put his feet up and have a large and well-earned drink while his wounds were being tended. But even he was forced to listen closely, as though bespelled by the Windeye’s words.
“My people,” Chiamh said sadly, “you think me a traitor for siding with Outlanders, yet I would not have done such a thing without a reason.” He straightened, eyes flashing, his long brown hair blowing back in the breeze. “O
Xandim—you must make ready for battle. The Khazalim have crossed the desert and formed an alliance with black sorcerers, and with our other foes, the warlike Winged Folk!. I have seen this in a vision—and I swear it is true!.”
Chiamh’s next words were drowned in an angry roar of protest, and once again, he was forced to bellow for silence.
“We are not a warlike folk! he said into the calm that followed. “Though we can defend ourselves fiercely at need, we lack the organization and battle skills that have permitted the Khazalim scum to raid us with impunity in the past. But this time it will be different!”