Greath galloped away surrounded by his standard-bearers. In orderly files the warriors followed until Balif and his companions were alone on their windy outcropping. Mathi suddenly realized she had been holding her breath. She let it out in a long sigh.
“Amazing,” said Artyrith. Mathi couldn’t remember so long a time the garrulous cook had remained silent. “They actually smell as badly as they look.”
“They are honorable folk,” Balif replied. “Far more so than most humans.” His handsome face appeared weighed down with sadness. “It grieves me to assist in their destruction.”
He admitted Speaker Silvanos would never allow centaurs, Hok-nu or not, to graze in his territory. Once Balif’s report reached him, he would summon the fearsome griffon riders of Silvanost to harry the horse-men out of the country.
Mathi said, “That is not just!”
“It is the Speaker’s will,” said Artyrith.
Balif watched the dust trails rising from the departing centaur horde. “The Speaker’s will can be shaped by what the Speaker knows.” He gripped his reins so hard the leather creaked. “Or does not know.”
They rode on to the ford. Because of the delay with the centaurs, they were unlikely to reach Savage Ford before dark, but Balif pressed on. With each mile, he rode a little faster, forcing the others to keep up. Treskan and Mathi, handicapped by the pack train, dropped back. The cook stayed with them, and together they watched Balif diminish in the distance as the gap between them widened.
Artyrith called to his master in vain. Annoyed, he reined up and watched Balif canter away. “What ails him?” he said, blotting sweat from his face with the back of one gloved hand.
“He pities for the centaurs,” Mathi suggested.
“They’re little better than beasts,” Artyrith replied. “Not fit company for our people!”
Inwardly Mathi wondered what Balif was up to. He felt bad about the centaurs’ future, no doubt, but he was not so emotional that he would let his anger or grief cause him to abandon the rest of his party. The three of them shared a quick drink-tepid water for Mathi, solid swallows of surplus Free Winds nectar for Treskan and Artyrith-and started after their wayward leader.
At least his path was easy to follow. Balif rode straight as an arrow through every clump of wire grass and scrub in his path. Then they found more troubling traces smeared on the foliage. Artyrith found blood on the leaves, still fresh enough to flow.
Artyrith rubbed the drops between his fingers. “This does not smell like elf blood,” he declared, puzzled.
“Is it from his horse?” asked the scribe.
It was not horse blood, either. Mathi yearned to sniff the traces herself. Her nose was keener than an elf’s, but she wasn’t prepared to answer the questions her prowess would raise.
Wrapping the reins around his fist, Artyrith urged his horse to a gallop. Mathi and Treskan had to follow as best they could, leading the stubborn pack ponies.
The bowl of the sky was blue streaked with crimson as the sun sank down to a well-earned rest. Wind was kicking up out of the north. A bank of dark clouds was building there, promising a wet night.
The terrain began to change rather quickly from uplands to riparian. Rocks and boulders dotted the landscape. Real trees reappeared for the first time since leaving the elves’ homeland.
Mathi’s pony stumbled into a draw and refused to climb the other side. Treskan started down after her. The pack-horses half tumbled in too and voiced their displeasure loudly. While the two tried to calm them, they heard another horse approaching fast. Treskan tried to draw his sword-it took three tugs to free it from its scabbard-and had only just gotten it out when a long-legged saddle horse hurtled around the bend in the draw, riderless. Mathi watched open mouthed as it passed. It was Balif’s horse. The saddle was torn to shreds and smeared with blood.
Hastily Treskan dismounted, tied the pack animals to a tree, and got back on his pony. Thumping his heels, he steered his horse after Balif’s fleeing mount. The general’s horse was almost out of sight. Mathi tried to get her blinkered pony to gallop, but the wise beast declined, shuffling off at an indifferent trot.
The wind picked up, driving in the storm from the north. The crimson sunset disappeared under a veil of clouds. The wind blowing down their backs was hot. Silent flashes of lightning threw the ground ahead into bright relief for an instant; then everything faded into the stormy dusk.
She rode a mile or more, blundering along the sandy bottom of the draw. Saplings and tree branches tore at her. Mathi had to throw an arm over her face to protect her eyes. Lightning flared again, followed by a growing hammer of thunder. By the flash she saw Treskan had caught Balif’s big horse up ahead. Mathi urged her mount on.
Her pony stumbled in a drift of sand, falling nose first. No equestrian, she was hurled headlong over the animal’s head and hit the ground. Something snapped loudly. Rolling head over heels down a short, steep bank, Mathi came to rest flat on her back. Her pony walked past, nickering loudly. It sounded as though the beast were laughing at her.
A dark figure on horseback loomed over her. “Are you all right?”
“I think my back’s broken,” Mathi answered. “I heard it snap.”
“Blink your eyes.”
Lightning snapped overhead. Mathi saw her interrogator was Lofotan. She bolted to her feet, exclaiming in surprise.
“No one with a broken back leaps around like that,” the old soldier said.
“The general’s horse! Did you see it?” asked Mathi.
Lofotan pointed. Off to his right, Treskan sat on his pony, holding the reins of Balif’s mount. It was shivering and foam flecked.
“Let’s find yours,” Lofotan said.
Together with Treskan they went up the draw and found Mathi’s pony cropping fronds. Returning to where the pony tripped, they spotted a fallen pine branch.
“There’s your back,” said Lofotan. Mathi had heard the limb snap and thought it was her back.
Mathi reclaimed her reluctant ride. It circled away from her, rearing more than a pony its size ever did.
“What’s the matter with the nag?” Artyrith shouted, coming over on foot. He seized the pony’s halter and held on. Eventually the disturbed creature calmed enough for Mathi to mount.
“Where’s General Balif?” she said.
Lofotan didn’t know. He was coming up the south bank of the Thon-Tanjan, looking for his comrades, when Artyrith appeared, riding like a madman after the general’s horse. Between the two of them, they cornered the terrified runaway, but still there was no sign of Balif.
They backtracked to the pack train. Everything was present except their leader. By the intermittent glare of lightning, they examined Balif’s horse.
The smooth leather saddle was scratched in long, parallel lines on either side of the seat. There were smears of blood on the saddle and on the horse. The quivering creature had a bad wound on the right side of its neck, four deep gashes side by side. It didn’t take eagle eyes to see they matched the scratches in the saddle.
“A predator must have attacked our lord, knocking him off his seat. It then mauled the horse before the horse got rid of it,” Lofotan said. “We’ll have to trace the trail back and find our lord.”
Artyrith strung his bow and hooked a full quiver on his belt. Lofotan armed himself with a spear of unusual style. It was shorter than a standard horse spear, with a thick shaft and a bronze crossbar set back about a hand’s span from the keen bronze head. When Mathi asked, Lofotan said it was a bear spear.
“Are there bears in this country?” Artyrith asked, but Lofotan let the cook’s question go unanswered.
Mathi remembered the phantom she had seen at Free Winds. The creature Lofotan expected to find was no bear. Another one of Vedvedsica’s children had trailed them from the outpost and struck when Balif was alone and vulnerable. Inwardly she shook with anger. Or was it relief? If the traitor Balif was dead, her task was finished, even if it did mean her effort had come to naught.