Vermin? We are the vermin, Gilden. I am not in danger from them. Go and tell Alahir we need to talk.
We’ll wait here.’
Gilden took a deep breath. ‘You are not thinking straight, boy. Our job is to kill these monsters. What do you think is going to happen when Alahir gets here? You think he’s going to talk? Of course he isn’t.
He hates these beasts as much as any of us. Come on, Stavut! See sense. Just ride with me.’
‘I would be glad to see Alahir. He is my friend. As you are, Gilden. I wanted to tell him of the army’s approach. However, you can do that. I shall stay with my lads.’ Stavut turned, as if to walk away. Then he swung back. ‘We will do you no harm. We are merely moving north. You come after us, Gilden, and you will regret it.’
‘You are siding with them against us? Are you mad?’
‘Put up your bow and ride away, Gilden.’
‘You know we will be back.’
‘I’ll tell you what I know,’ hissed Stavut. ‘I know your patrols usually number around fifty men. I have fifty Jiamads. Now it may just be that you Legend Riders are all great heroes, with the strength of ten.
But we just wiped out around your number of the Eternal’s soldiers. Killed them all. We lost no-one.
Come after us at your peril.’
‘You would send these beasts against your friends?’ said Gilden, aghast. He looked into Stavut’s eyes, and saw they were glittering strangely.
‘You come after my lads,’ the merchant said, ‘and I’ll rip your heart out myself.’
‘I shall remember that, renegade, when next we meet,’ said Gilden, tugging on the reins and riding back to the hills.
Skilgannon could scarce believe it when he saw the horse. It was pure white and beautiful, strong-limbed, with powerful hindquarters. Its neck was long, its eyes fierce and proud. It was standing with six other mounts, all saddled, with no riders in sight.
Telling Askari and Harad to remain where they were, for fear of causing the horses to bolt, Skilgannon walked slowly down the hillside towards them. He could not take his eyes off the white stallion. He had not seen such a horse in this world, and knew instantly it was a Ventrian purebred. In his own time it would have cost hundreds of gold raq. It was a mount for princes, kings or conquerors.
As he approached he saw all the horses staring at him, ears pulled back. Slowly he sat upon the grass and began to speak to them, in a soft, soothing voice. ‘How is it that you are here, my beauties?’ he said.
‘And where are the lucky men who rode you? Hmmm?’ Reaching down he tugged a handful of long grass from the earth, then another. Keeping his movements slow and un-threatening he angled towards the horses, holding out the grass. ‘You should be eating grain,’ he said, ‘but this will have to suffice.’ His easy manner calmed them, though the great white stallion — he estimated almost seventeen hands tall -
eyed him warily. ‘Come, eat with me, Greatheart,’ he said, offering the grass. The horse dipped its head, and took the grass from his hand. Skilgannon stroked its sleek neck, and noted there was dried blood upon the ornate, silver-mounted saddle. Two of the other horses carried cuts, and one had a broken arrow hanging loosely from the skin of its flanks. ‘Ah, you have been in a battle,’ said Skilgannon. ‘And your riders were slain, or unhorsed.’ Moving alongside the white he carried on stroking it, while taking hold of the reins along with the long, snowy mane. Then he raised his foot into the stirrup. The animal immediately reared and bolted. Skilgannon heaved himself up and swung his leg over the saddle, seeking out the second stirrup. The speed of the gallop both astonished and exhilarated him. In his previous life he had possessed some truly great horses, and this stallion would take his place among the best of them. He had no idea yet as to the beast’s temperament, but its power was outstanding. Gently, but firmly, he guided it into a wide turn, heading back up the hill towards the waiting Askari and Harad. Drawing on the rein brought an instant response. The horse slowed and stood quietly. Just as Skilgannon relaxed it leapt and bucked. He was almost unseated, but clung on. The stallion bolted again, leaping and twisting. Then it slowed once more. Skilgannon sensed what was coming. Kicking his feet from the stirrups he sprang clear just as the horse rolled. As it struggled to regain its feet Skilgannon vaulted back into the saddle.
‘Nice try, Greatheart,’ he said, patting the long sleek neck. ‘Are we done now? Do we know each other yet?’
They did not. The stallion bounded off again.
Askari watched in silent wonder, struck by the awesome beauty of the horse, and the almost uncanny skill of the rider. She had ridden only twice in her life, and had enjoyed the experience. However, the horse she had borrowed from Kinyon was a sway-back more used to pulling carts than carrying people.
There was no comparison between old Shavu and this magnificent creature. She glanced at Harad.
‘Have you ever seen a more beautiful horse?’
‘It is big,’ he said.
‘Have you ever ridden?’
He smiled. ‘Once when I was a lad. Didn’t like it. Couldn’t find the rhythm. After an hour I was wearing my arse round my shoulders.’
Askari laughed, then leaned in and kissed Harad’s bearded cheek.
‘What was that for?’
‘Good to see you smile, Harad,’ she told him.
His face darkened, and she thought she had offended him. Then she saw he was staring down the hillside. A group of heavily armed riders had emerged from the trees and had spread out as they rode towards Skilgannon.
The Armour of Bronze, wrapped in blankets, was being carried on the back of one of the spare mounts, and Alahir had once more donned his own armour. The chain mail hauberk had been worn by his grandfather at the Battle of Larness, and by his father at the Siege of Raboas. The coif head and neck protector had been a gift from his uncle, the warrior Elingel, and he had worn it proudly during the Four Year War that saw the end of the Gothir Successors. His sabre was the oldest piece in his armoury, and was said to date back to the War of the Twins, though that conflict was now considered to be mostly fable. Alahir felt more comfortable in his own armour.
Not in a physical way, he realized. The Armour of Bronze, as the voice had promised, fitted him perfectly. It was lighter than his own chain mail. Truth was it just felt wrong to be wearing it. Regnak, the Great Earl, had first donned it at Dros Delnoch, in the mighty war that claimed the life of Druss the Legend. Other heroes had worn it. That a farmer’s son from the high country should now be in possession of it seemed almost sacrilegious. He was also uncomfortable with the way the men reacted to him; men he had known since childhood seemed in awe, and responded to his every word with undue courtesy.
Alahir had become a man apart. And he didn’t like it.
After the second quake they had all waited for him to make a decision as to their actions now. Were they to ride back to camp, or was there some wondrous plan that the new earl had for them? It was all too much for Alahir.
Then he remembered the white horse. Was it an omen? Was this horse meant to be ridden by the new Earl of Bronze? Alahir had no idea, but tracking a runaway stallion at least gave the men something to think about. Indeed, it gave Alahir time to think about all that had happened.
He was no nearer a conclusion when Gilden came riding back over the brow of the hill. The veteran rode up and saluted — something Alahir could never remember him doing before.
‘What are you doing back here, Gil?’ he asked. ‘Is there trouble ahead?’
‘Could be. I just saw your friend Stavut.’
Alahir’s mood brightened. Stavut was a clever man. He might offer some answers to the problems Alahir faced.