Songsmith

A coin spun into the case; another… then a third. Eydryth continued:

They raced along an ancient way,
Through misty moonlight, silver-grey
But dark seeks darkness for its boon
And mortal flesh meets mortal doom.

The one horse fell, and there were four
and one heart burst and could no more—

So three ran on into the dark
Then from that black whip came a spark
Of poison light; and there were two
And Miroch’s gelding threw a shoe—

By now she had collected a small crowd, and the music of her harp was augmented by hand-clapping and foot-stamping. Occasional coins thudded into the case, providing an irregular counterpoint. The minstrel swung into the final verses, playing as though her fingers were charmed:

And Faral then the Black Lord paced,
Step for step a time they raced
But oh, the mists grew cold and dread
And Faral’s stallion tossed his head.

“Abandon now,” the Dark knight said,
“For see, your brothers all are dead.”
“Far better here I make my grave,
Then let my people be your slave!

“I service to Gunnora vow,
Both hand and heart, both foot and brow,
And I shall never be forsworn
Though life from me and mine be torn!”

Then came a radiant, golden light
And lifted Faral into flight
His steed’s feet did not touch the ground
While the Dark horse tried to pound

Itself into the glittering stone
The Dark knight from its back was thrown
Crying out in agony,
The Dark did meet its destiny;

For they had come to Lady’s Well,
That holy place of which tales tell
For there, the Lady had prepared
A trap from which no Dark was spared!

As she finished with a final sweeping chord, her watchers pelted the harp case with coins. “Another, minstrel!”

A little old man waved his battered straw hat at her. “You sing as sweetly as a brown wren, songsmith! Tell me, d’you know ‘Hathor’s Ghost Stallion’?”

Eydryth hesitated. “I think so… it goes like this?” she strummed a few chords, hummed a tune.

“That’s it!” the old man cried. “Haven’t heard that in—”

He broke off with a squawk of terror at the sudden drum of galloping hooves. The crowd scattered as a big black horse burst into their midst, heading for the field visible between two wagons. The grandsire tried to scuttle away, but tripped and fell.

As the horse swept toward them, Eydryth, without thinking, leaped forward so she was between the charging animal and the fallen man. The horse, a stallion, slid to a halt so violently that it half-reared.

“Steady, fellow!” Eydryth called, in a low, soothing voice. “Steady!”

The stallion’s ears flattened even further against its head; its eyes sparked red in the light of the westering sun. With an enraged scream it reared again, its deadly hooves slashing the air just above Eydryth’s head.

4

Moving with the speed of desperation, Eydryth threw herself away from the stallion’s pawing hooves. She nearly tripped over the old man, who lay frozen with fear, mouth open in a soundless scream. Grabbing the grandsire by the shoulders of his homespun jerkin, the songsmith dragged him over to the perimeter of the gathering crowd. Only then did she turn back to confront the horse.

The beast stood scant paces away, its eyes white-rimmed, snorting as it dug a sharp forefoot into the trampled earth. Its hide was lathered with sweat; the rank smell of it reached her nostrils. Eydryth realized that anger was not the only reason for the creature’s attack—this animal was frightened as well as enraged.

A broken halter hung from the runaway’s neck, and its black coat was patched with tufts of thick winter hair, like a bearskin invaded by moths. An untidy bristle of upstanding mane crested the thick neck. Eydryth ran her eyes over its conformation, noting the powerful legs, broad, muscled hindquarters, and sloping shoulders. Not tall or slender-legged enough for a sprinter, she concluded, but he looks as though he could run all day. I wonder what breed he is?

The songsmith’s blue eyes narrowed as she frowned. Something about this creature was familiar—disturbingly familiar.

The animal snorted nervously, then rolled its eyes at the milling crowd of onlookers now surrounding them. It sniffed the spring breeze, as though searching for something—or someone.

“I’ll snare his forefeet and throw him. Bring a rope!” a burly man in the crowd called.

Eydryth saw muscles tense beneath that ebon hide as the stud sidled, muscles tensing. “Ho, son… easy now,” she whispered, extending one hand as she stepped forward. “If you jump into the crowd, you’ll surely hurt someone, so… whoa, now. Easy… easy…”

Black ears swiveled sharply forward to catch the crooning sound of her voice, but as Eydryth ventured another step, the horse flattened his ears, snorting an unmistakable warning. The onlookers gasped. The girl halted; then, remembering how she had soothed her own Kioga mare, Vyar, she began humming softly. The tune was the one the old man had requested only minutes ago.

Slowly, the black’s ears moved forward as it listened. Gradually, its shivering eased. The muttering of the crowd faded into silence as Eydryth began singing, the words floating liquid and eerie in the still air:

Lord Hathor and his horse were slain
By the traitor’s hand
Now in moon-dark, mist and rain
His stallion strides the land.

His soul is filled with vengeance
His eyes are filled with fire,
And he has promised treachery
Full venting of his ire.

Slowly, the songsmith stepped toward the creature… one step… two… a third…

Finally, she was at the animal’s side. Eydryth held out her hand, feeling the warm puffs of breath as the horse scented her. She had to force herself to hold steady, knowing only too well the size of the teeth that were barely a handspan from her flesh. But he made no offer to snap.

Lord Hathor, he was first to die,
All in his youthful bloom
But e’er death glazed the stallion’s eyes
The beast swore fearful doom.

The girl raised a hand to stroke the horse’s neck.

“No! Lady, touch him not! He will kill you!”

The frantic shout came from some distance away. Eydryth’s voice wavered, and the black ears flattened. Hastily, the songsmith resumed her soothing music. She did not turn around, but out of the corner of her eye the young woman glimpsed a running figure bursting out from between the farrier’s forge and the saddlemaker’s display. The newcomer began shoving a passage through the crowd.

Bending her head, Eydryth breathed gently into the red-rimmed, distended nostrils. They fluttered, but the animal did not move. She laid hand to the hot, sweaty neck, then began to stroke it gently, still singing.

Of moonlight is the horse’s mane
His blood is formed from death
His teeth are now a traitor’s bane
And fury now his breath.

When the stone-hard muscles beneath her fingers finally relaxed, the songsmith dared to grasp the broken halter. Reaching into the pocket of her jerkin, she took out a length of rawhide, using it to lace the leather straps together. All the while, she hummed softly.

Only when Eydryth was able to grasp the runaway by the now-repaired halter did she turn to regard the man who had shouted such a dire warning.

“Were you speaking to me, good sir?” she asked mildly.