Sword-Maker(2)

“Mare?” I asked wryly.

But he was silent except for his breathing. A stallion, scenting a mare, usually sings a song loud enough to wake even the dead. He’d do the same for another stallion, only the noise would be a challenge. This was something different.

I saddled him quickly, while he was distracted, untied and mounted before he could protest. Because of his alarm I nearly drew the sword, but thought better of it. Better to let the stud run than to count on an alien sword; the stud at least I could trust.

“All right, old man, we’ll go.”

He was rigid but quivering, breathing heavily. I urged him with rein, heels, and clicking tongue to vacate the clearing, but he was having none of it.

It was not, I thought, the beasts I’d christened hounds. The stink of them was gone; had been ever since I’d left Staal-Ysta. Something else, then, and close, but nothing I could name. I’m not a horse-speaker, but I know a little of equine habits; enough to discard humans or other horses as the cause of the stud’s distress. Wolves, maybe? Maybe. One had gone for him before, though he hadn’t reacted like this.

“Now,” I suggested mildly, planting booted heels.

He twitched, quivered, sashayed sideways, snorted. But at least he was moving; insisting, I aimed him eastward. He skittered out of the clearing and plunged through sparse trees, splattering slush and mud. Breathing like a bellows through nostrils opened wide.

It was an uneasy peace. The stud was twitchy, jumping at shapes and shadows without justification. Most times, he is a joy, built to go on forever without excess commentary. But when he gets a bug up his rump he is a pain in mine, and his behavior deteriorates into something akin to war.

Generally, the best thing to do is ride it out. The stud has been a trustworthy companion for nearly eight years, and is worth more than many men. But his actions now jarred the half-healed wound, putting me decidedly out of sorts. I am big but not heavy-handed; he had no complaints of his mouth. But there were times he tempted me, and this was one of them.

I bunched reins, took a deeper seat, and slammed heels home. He jumped in surprise, snorting, then bent his head around to slew a startled eye at me.

“That’s right,” I agreed sweetly. “Are you forgetting who’s boss?”

Which brought back, unexpectedly, something I’d heard before; something someone had said regarding the stud and me. A horse-speaker, a Northerner: Garrod. He’d said too much of our relationship was taken up in eternal battling over which of us was master.

Well, so it was. But I hate a predictable life.

The stud swished his tail noisily, shook his head hard enough to clatter brasses hanging from his head-stall, then fell out of his stiff-legged, rump-jarring gait into a considerably more comfortable long-walk.

Tension eased, pain bled away; I allowed myself a sigh. “Not so hard, is it?”

The stud chose not to answer.

East, and a little north. Toward Ysaa-den, a settlement cradled high in jagged mountains, near the borderlands. It was from Ysaa-den that reports of beast-caused deaths had been brought to Staal-Ysta, to the voca, who had the duty to send sword-dancers when Northerners were in need.

Others had wanted the duty. But I, with my shiny new Northern title, outranked those who requested the duty. And so it was given to me. To the Southron sword-dancer who was now also a kaidin, having earned the rank in formal challenge.

I tracked the hounds by spoor, though with slush dwindling daily there was little left to find. Prints in drying mud were clear, but snowmelt shifted still-damp mud and carried the tracks away. I rode with my head cocked sideways, watching for alterations, but what I saw was clear enough: the beasts cut the countryside diagonally northeast with no thought to their backtrail, or anything set on it. Ysaa-den was their target as much as Del had been.

We had come down from above the timberline, now skirting the hem of upland forests, slipping down from bare-flanked peaks. Uplands, downlands; all terms unfamiliar to me, desert-born and bred, until Del had brought me north. Only two months before; it seemed much longer to me. Years, maybe longer. Too long for either of us.

The turf remained winter-brown and would, I thought, for a while. Spring in the uplands was soft in coming, tentative at best. I knew it could still withdraw its favor, coyly turning its back to give me snow in place of warmth. It had happened once before, all of a week ago, when a storm had rendered the world white again and my life a misery.

The trees were still bare of leaves, except for those with spiky green needles. The sky between them was blue, a brighter, richer blue, promising warmer weather. Beyond lay jagged mountains scraping color out of the sky. Pieces of the peaks lay tumbled on the ground, rounded by time into boulders scattered loosely here and there, or heaped into giant cairns like piles of oracle bones. Chips and rubble fouled the track, making it hard to read. The stud picked his way noisily, hammering iron on stone. Stone, as always, gave.