When he was satisfied that all three of his companions could wrap their bolas around the base of a tree twenty feet away, seven throws out of ten, he led them on down the road.
“And what shall we do if we meet this pouka of yours, Lord Wizard?” Sir Orizhan asked.
“It’s not mine,” Matt answered, “though we might be able to change that.”
“Have you not had enough spirits haunting you for the time being?” Sergeant Brock asked.
“Yes, I have—so if you do see a stray horse, just try to make friends with it, okay?”
“Better us than you, eh?” Sir Orizhan grinned. “Nevertheless, if you say it, Lord Wizard, we will try it. My lady should not have to walk, after all.”
“You are gallant, Sir Orizhan.” Rosamund smiled with affection. “But where would I find a sidesaddle in this wilderness?”
“Why, I should ride behind you, and hold you on.”
“If they do,” Matt told Sergeant Brock, “you be ready with that bola.”
“Never fear, Lord Wizard,” the sergeant assured him. “But how shall we know if it is a pouka or a real horse?”
“If we can tame it, it’s real,” Matt told him. “If it tries to tame us, it’s a pouka.”
They found the signpost, followed the arrow that said “Innisfree” to the right-hand road, and found the horse about a mile farther. She looked very ordinary—medium height, tawny coat, and big brown eyes that watched them with mild curiosity as she chewed a mouthful of grass.
“Just keep walking,” Matt told them.
“She might be only some farmer’s mare turned out to pasture for the day,” Rosamund protested. “It is the growing season, is it not?”
“Yes,” Sergeant Brock told her. “The plowing’s done and the reaping not yet come. There’s little work for the farm horse now.”
“Especially since most peasants plow with oxen,” Matt said.
The horse came ambling over to see what was going on.
“Battle stations,” Matt muttered.
Rosamund glanced back over her shoulder at the large brown eyes, then looked again with a tender smile. “How sweet!” She turned around and began to stroke the horse’s velvety nose.
“You really should ride, my lady.” Sir Orizhan went over to stroke the horse, too, along the neck and down to the shoulders, then along the back.
Matt throttled impatience and left them to it while he fingered the coil of rope behind his back. It took a while, with Sir Orizhan leaning on the horse’s back, putting more and more of his weight on her, then swinging one leg up to half lie, then swinging it farther so that he sat up astride. The horse looked back at him as though to say, What are you doing there? But Sir Orizhan leaned down to catch Rosamund’s forearm. “My lady, will you ride?”
“Willingly, Sir Knight!” Rosamund swung up before him, both legs on the horse’s left—and the mare took off like a skyrocket.
“Now!” Matt shouted. He twirled the lariat, letting the noose spin wide. Sergeant Brock shouted as he loosed his bola.
The bola almost missed. It swung past the horse’s rear legs completely, but one weight caught on a front leg. The other whipped about, wrapping itself three times around the horse’s knees, and the mare fell, rolling onto her side with a whinny that was more like a scream. Sir Orizhan shouted in alarm, catching Rosamund to him as he shot off the horse to the left. Rosamund landed on her feet just as the lasso spun through the air and settled over the horse’s head.
The mare screamed—it was far past a whinny—and reached for the rope with her teeth. Matt raced toward her hindquarters, a long arc from twenty feet away, and managed to keep the rope out of reach of the mare’s head. She lurched to her feet—and promptly fell again, still tangled in the bola.
Sergeant Brock drew his long knife and paced toward her, his face grim.
“No, Sergeant!” Rosamund cried. “She is a sweet horse, and has done nothing to deserve death!”
“If she is only a horse,” the sergeant snapped.
“If she is not, you cannot hurt a spirit!” Sir Orizhan cried as he picked himself up.
“Cold Iron can,” the sergeant returned.
The horse went crazy. She screamed, she thrashed—and turned into a bear, a she-bear with Matt’s lasso still around her neck, roaring as she threw herself to her hind feet and began to walk toward him, bola-bound paws rising to club him.
Matt ran to the side, straining to keep the rope taut. He didn’t doubt for a second that the pouka would maul him to death if she could. He ran around a little tree to the bear’s rear and pulled hard The bear tumbled off her feet but changed even as she fell. By the time she hit the ground she was a doe who struggled to rise but fell with her feet still tangled, then a wild ox who set her forefeet and lowered, then tossed her head, catching the rope with a horn. Matt obliged and flipped his wrist, sending a loop to wrap around the horn, then pulling hard. The ox bellowed in anger as her head tilted to the side, straight out. She tried to toss her head again, to pull the rope out of Mart’s grasp, but Sergeant Brock threw himself onto the strand, too, and the ox turned into an otter who sprang through the loop of the bola. Matt shouted and pulled hard, just in time to tighten the lasso around the otter’s body—and she turned into an eagle who leaped into the sky, beating her wings. But the lasso tightened even more around her body, pulling her back to earth.
“Parley!” Matt shouted. “Give us a chance, and maybe we can talk this thing out!”
The eagle glared at him—eagles have the right kind of eyes for that sort of thing. Then its form blurred—though the eyes stayed clear—growing to human size, and the whole body stretched and narrowed here, broadened there, until a young woman stood before them, gloriously naked, tossing her head to flip back the long tawny hair that might have cloaked her charms. Her face was beautiful, with a high forehead, high cheekbones, small straight nose, full ruby lips, and the huge brown eyes of the mare, though narrowed and angry now. Her only garment was the rope, settled around a slender waist above swelling hips.
Sergeant Brock stared, face lengthening as his tongue grew thick with desire. Matt knew how he felt, and fought desperately to remember Alisande in a similar state when she had just saved him from Sayeesa’s clutches, proud and as full of dignity naked as she had been clothed, a sword whirling in her hand, her eyes bright with scorn. The image didn’t change his responses to the pouka’s nudity, but it did channel it in a more healthy direction.
Sir Orizhan, however, cried out in dismay and stepped over to the pouka, swirling his cloak around to cover her.
She batted it away with a vindictive smile, her glare still on Matt and Brock. “I thank you for your gallantry, Sir Knight,” she said in a brogue so thick Matt could scarcely understand it, “but I’m not about to release these two from the torture that is the punishment they deserve for having treated me so roughly—and if they’re fools enough to seek to touch me, they’ll deserve what they get.” Then she glowered at Brock alone and said, “Yes, you ache to reach out and touch, do you not? But you don’t dare, for you know I’d likely turn into something with claws that would rip you from breastbone to groin.”
Brock groaned, eyes bulging, and tried to turn away, but couldn’t.
“If you hold me with a rope, I shall hold you by your own lust,” the pouka declared, then turned her gaze to Matt, frowning. “You, though! I know the lust is there, but you are free of my hold! How is this?”
“I’m married,” Matt explained, “and more in love with my wife than ever.”
For a moment she only held his gaze, then sighed and seemed to wilt. “Would such love were known to my kind! But I’ve watched you mortals long enough to know how rare it is even among you. Say, then, why you have sought to capture a pouka! Not that I will admit you have, mind you.”