‘Yes,’ said Jareg doubtfully. ‘But I’m not so sure it was a good idea. He looked all right at the market, and he’s a fine creature-Muster stock. I thought he’d be good to breed from. But something seems to be wrong with him.’
Hawklan took the horse’s handsome black head in his two hands, and spoke to it.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked it.
The horse made no reply, but showed the whites of its eyes and looked for a moment as if it might shy away from him. Hawklan spoke again, gently, laying his hand on its forehead. ‘Don’t be frightened. Tell me what’s the matter.’
The horse still looked fearful, and did not answer.
‘You bought this at the Gretmearc, you say?’ Hawk-lan asked. Jareg nodded.
Hawklan was puzzled. Animals were as subtle and sensitive in their feelings as humans, not infrequently more so, but they were usually much more straightfor-ward to deal with. He began to wonder if indeed a Riddin horse would speak a different language from an Orthlundyn horse, but that was nonsense. He was sure this one understood him and chose not to reply… or could not. And it was in some kind of pain. He tried again, but again there was no response.
‘What’s the matter with it?’ Jareg asked. Hawklan’s lean face showed his doubts.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It won’t talk to me.’
‘It’s a Muster horse, but that should act in its fa-vour,’ said Jareg. ‘They work them hard but they look after them very well.’ He patted the horse anxiously. ‘Thinking about it, there must be something wrong with it. I don’t think the Muster normally sell their horses. But… ’ he laughed good-naturedly. ‘Those Gretmearc people would sell you your own shirt, and send you away feeling you’ve got a bargain.’
Hawklan nodded. He had heard of the Riddin Mus-ter from Isloman and Loman. It was a relic of some ancient time but it was now deeply embedded in the culture and hearts of the Riddinvolk. At the appropriate command, an elaborate and rapid system of messengers could bring thousands of people riding to the defence of the land, working in highly organized and trained groups of anything up to twenty thousand riders.
The Muster always trained regularly, a strict rota of duty and work sharing ensuring that the disruption of the normal working lives of the people was minimal. And everyone-men, women, and even children-participated without exception. It was its continual state of readiness that enabled it to hold off the Morlider raiders until help came from Fyorlund and Orthlund some twenty years or so ago when the Morlider had attacked with such suddenness and such unprecedented viciousness.
In more peaceful times, its meetings were full of ceremony, hectic merrymaking, and displays of horsemanship, but never at the cost of basic effective-ness. The down-to-earth Riddinvolk always assumed that the Muster had been formed to deal with the Morlider in the distant past and never lost sight of that fact. Folklore however, took its formation back into legend and a myth, and linked it with great wars in times beyond remembering, when a terrible evil had arisen and had been defeated only after many years of bitter and bloody strife.
The quality of Muster horses was legendary. Hawk-lan nodded. ‘It certainly seems to be in excellent condition,’ he said, as he walked quietly around the horse, stroking it soothingly and feeling its responses under his hands. ‘Yes. Excellent. But… ’
He stepped back, his face furrowed into an unchar-acteristic frown. Healing involved, amongst other things, entering into the pain of the sufferer, and when Hawklan felt a sinister, strangling, restraint deep within him, he recognized it as belonging to the horse. His green eyes narrowed.
‘I thought it was just shocked in some way,’ he said thoughtfully, as if to himself. ‘But it feels as if someone has laid a stifling hand on its heart to silence it.’
He seemed puzzled by his own words. The idea was horrific and a spasm of pain passed over his face as he turned away from the horse. ‘Yes. That’s what’s happened,’ he said, laying a hand on the horse again. ‘There’s something deep inside it that I can barely reach, let alone move. Who would do such a thing? And how?’
A cloud passed over the sun briefly, echoing the feeling of darkness that Hawklan’s concern had brought to the group.
Hawklan reached up and, putting his arms about the horse’s neck, rested his forehead against it and closed his eyes. For seemingly endless minutes, the group stood still and silent, like the mountains themselves. Slowly the horse’s great head sank lower and lower, and it began to breath noisily, in unison with Hawklan’s own breathing. Then, abruptly, it jerked upright and whinnied slightly. Hawklan stepped back, his eyes wide and watering tearfully, his forehead glistening.
‘What have you done?’ said Jareg anxiously.
Hawklan shook his head, and wiped his eyes with a kerchief offered to him by Jareg’s wife. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said quietly. ‘I think I might have helped it. It don’t think it’ll get any worse, and it may be better able to help itself now; it’s a powerful animal in every way.’
‘What should I do with it?’ Jareg asked. Hawklan smiled and patted him on the shoulder.
‘Just look after it as you have been doing. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks or so and I’ll look at it again. I’m sure I’ll be able to help it some more. Don’t worry. It’s a fine animal.’
His reassurance restored everyone’s good spirits and they spent some time showing him their gifts and purchases and talking about the excitement and wonders of the Gretmearc, before eventually continuing on their way.
Hawklan watched them thoughtfully as they left.
Gavor spoke. ‘What did you see in the horse, Hawk-lan?’ he asked.
Hawklan shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never felt the like. But it was nothing natural, that’s for sure. It felt primitive-very old. It was horrible.’ He shuddered.
Gavor cocked his head to one side at this untypical response. ‘If it wasn’t natural then it was unnatural,’ he said. ‘Who would do such a thing, dear boy? Come to that, who could do it?’
Hawklan pondered. Isloman, a First Carver, slipping with a chisel. A tinker with unclean wares that deceived the sight of the Orthlundyn-and disturbed his own equilibrium. A fine animal ruthlessly invaded. He stood silent for a moment, then he smiled ruefully. ‘I don’t know that either, Gavor, but I fear we’re being manipu-lated and that we’re destined to find out why at the Gretmearc.’
Gavor nodded. Hawklan had told him all that words could offer. ‘Very well, dear boy,’ he said. ‘I’ll continue to watch your back.’
Hawklan turned round to look at the departing family. They were on the skyline and they turned to wave before dropping out of sight. He saw the horse throw its head back, and he bent forward to catch the faint, distant sound.
‘What did it say?’ Gavor asked.
Hawklan frowned as if in pain. ‘It said, "Take care at the Gretmearc-old enemies are abroad." ’
Gavor turned a beady eye on him. ‘That’s not much use,’ he said.
Hawklan looked at him crossly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But it cost that horse dear to say it.’
He rested his hand on the pommel of the black sword, and the spring sun sparkled in a tear than ran down his face in memory of the pain he had felt in the horse.
Old enemies, he thought. And I’m walking-being drawn?-towards them. I wonder if I’ll know them when I see them?
Chapter 12
It was with some relief that Eldric welcomed the last of the three Lords he had summoned following Hrostir’s news of the suspension of the Geadrol.
Lord Darek rode into the courtyard with his small, yellow-liveried escort, and dismounted stiffly.
‘I’m sorry,’ were his first words to Eldric. ‘I came as quickly as I could, but I don’t ride like I used to.’
Eldric smiled warmly and took his hand. ‘Nonsense. You’re here a good day earlier than I thought you’d be,’ he said. ‘It’s a long journey. I’m only sorry you’ve had to make it under such circumstances, and at this time of all times. You must rest a while before we talk.’