“Close the gate,” he said to the gate watch; to the groom he said, “Don’t chase—he’ll settle in a bit.” The gate creaked shut. The groom went into the stable and came out with a few oats in a bucket. The pony stared, ears pricked, and then took one step toward the groom. Arcolin noted that the reins were not loose but tied up neatly so they could not dangle and trip the pony; the lead rope was looped and wound in the military fashion. So … the boy hadn’t been thrown. Maybe. The saddlebags weren’t on the saddle—had the pony escaped while Dattur and the boy were eating lunch? Why hadn’t they tethered the pony?
The groom finally got a hand on the bridle and led the pony—its nose in the bucket—into the stable. Arcolin looked at the gate guard. “Signal Assembly,” he said. He went into the stable as the horn blew its long three-note call. The stablemaster had anticipated his orders; he had the chestnut out of the stall, almost ready to go. Arcolin went to the pony, checking the tack for any message that Dattur might have sent. Nothing. He frowned at the knotted reins—neat, but not a knot he recognized.
He came out of the stable, heading for the officers’ court to get his helmet, when he saw Calla in the archway.
“Jandelir …?” she began, then paled. “Jamis?”
“Dattur’s with him,” he said. “He’ll be all right, I’m sure. But the pony came home. I’m going to find him.” She stared at him, eyes wide, but did not try to stop him as he jogged across the inner court, took his helmet off its hook just inside the door, caught up his heavier cloak, and came back toward the main courtyard. He gave her a quick hug as he passed. “I will find him, Calla.” I will not let him be killed; not my son.
Cracolnya’s cohort was just outside the gate—open now to let Arneson bring the recruits in. Cracolnya’s unit was mounted. Arcolin swung up onto the chestnut and said to Arneson, “Jamis is missing—the pony came in without him. I’ll take a tensquad from Cracolnya; you organize things here.”
“We’ll all come,” Cracolnya said. “We don’t know what the problem is.”
They rode north into a biting north breeze, veering westerly to pick up the line of the gnome boundary. Cracolnya’s face showed nothing but a tightness around the eyes that might have been from the sharp wind. Arcolin knew he would be thinking about the same thing: Kieri’s wife and children, killed on an outing into the hills. Arcolin held the chestnut to a strong trot, trying to figure out how far the pony would have gone at Dattur’s pace … and had it galloped all the way back or only partway?
His eyes watered from the wind; he blinked repeatedly, trying to see everywhere at once. Then he saw the gnome boundary off to his heart-hand, the thin line surprisingly clear, for the melting snow had frozen again to ice, reflecting the sun. It ran straight toward horse nomad country, and they rode along it on the human side.
The ground rose under them, dropped again; when he looked back, Arcolin could not see the stronghold. Ahead was another rise; they were into the tumble of hills that would end with the steep lift to the steppes beyond. Orc country, in Kieri’s day, though no trouble lately. Surely Dattur would have known, and told him, about any orcs on the border of the stone-right. Patches of brush and stunted trees grew in some of the hollows, pickoaks, bird plums, sourberries, chainvine, brambleberries, still leafless and bleak in this season though the bare stems showed some color. The gnome line still ran straight on up the next slope.
They climbed that and had just topped it when the chestnut threw up its head and snorted, ears pricked sharp forward. Cracolnya’s chunky dun stopped, too, looking the same direction, toward the cluster of pickoaks and bird plums at the bottom of the hill. The wind was right to have brought them scent, or perhaps they had seen movement. Arcolin could see nothing, but he could not ignore such a warning. He studied the terrain. “See anything?” he asked.
“No. Three tensquads each side, four with us down the middle?”
“Yes.” Arcolin drew his sword; Cracolnya signaled the cohort, and they started down the north slope of the hill at a walk, allowing the two wings time to swing out and pull ahead a little. They picked up speed as the others moved into place.
They were almost to the flatter slope near the pickoaks when eerie screams raised the hairs on his arms and dark figures emerged from the trees, long black cloaks flapping in the wind. All the horses shied, including Arcolin’s veteran battle mount. Neat formations dissolved into chaos as the horses bolted, bucked, swerved, even collided; some riders fell off; many dropped their weapons and grabbed for mane. And the tall, thin, graceful dark figures came on, faces now seen clearly. Blackcloaks. Kuaknomi. Iynisin. By any name feared, and rightfully so. Arcolin felt a chill colder than the wind seize his body. He had not imagined these ancient dangers here, in his domain. They had had orcs before but not these …