Four
Moving with the speed of desperation, Lydryth threw herself away from the stallion’s pawing hooves. She nearly tripped over the old man, who lay frozen with fear, mouth open in a soundless scream. Grabbing the grandsire by the shoulders of his homespun jerkin, the songsmith dragged him over to the perimeter of the gathering crowd. Only then did she turn back to confront the horse.
The beast stood scant paces away, its eyes white-rimmed, snorting as it dug a sharp forefoot into the trampled earth. Its hide was lathered with sweat; the rank smell of it reached her nostrils. Lydryth realized that anger was not the only reason for the creature’s attack-this animal was frightened as well as enraged.
A broken halter hung from the runaway’s neck, and its black coat was patched with tufts of thick winter hair, like a bearskin invaded by moths. An untidy bristle of upstanding mane crested the thick neck. Lydryth ran her eyes over its conformation, noting the powerful legs, broad, muscled hindquarters, and sloping shoulders. Not tall or slender-legged enough for a sprinter, she concluded, but he looks as though he could run all day. I wonder what breed he is?
The songsmith’s blue eyes narrowed as she frowned. Something about this creature was familiar-disturbingly familiar.
The animal snorted nervously, then rolled its eyes at the milling crowd of onlookers now surrounding them. It sniffed the spring breeze, as though searching for something-or someone.
“I’ll snare his forefeet and throw him. Bring a rope!” a burly man in the crowd called.
Lydryth saw muscles tense beneath that ebon hide as the stud sidled, muscles tensing. “Ho, son . . . easy now,” she whispered, extending one hand as she stepped forward. “If you jump into the crowd, you’ll surely hurt someone, so . . . whoa, now. Easy . . . easy . . .”
Black ears swiveled sharply forward to catch the crooning sound other voice, but as Lydryth ventured another step, the horse flattened his ears, snorting an unmistakable warning. The onlookers gasped. The girl halted; then, remembering how she had soothed her own Kioga mare, Vyar, she began humming softly. The tune was the one the old man had requested only minutes ago.
Slowly, the black’s ears moved forward as it listened. Gradually, its shivering eased. The muttering of the crowd faded into silence as Lydryth began singing, the words floating liquid and eerie in the still air:
Lord Hathor and his horse were slain
By the traitor’s hand
Now in moon-dark, mist and rain
His stallion strides the land.
His soul is filled with vengeance
His eyes are filled with fire, And he has promised treachery Full venting of his ire.
Slowly, the songsmith stepped toward the creature… one step . . . two … a third . ..
Finally, she was at the animal’s side. Lydryth held out her hand, feeling the warm puffs of breath as the horse scented her. She had to force herself to hold steady, knowing only too well the size of the teeth that were barely a handspan from her flesh. But he made no offer to snap.
Lord Hathor, he was first to die, All in his youthful bloom But e’er death glazed the stallion’s eyes The beast swore fearful doom.
The girl raised a hand to stroke the horse’s neck. “No! Lady, touch him not! He will kill you!” The frantic shout came from some distance away. Lydryth’s voice wavered, and the black ears flattened. Hastily, the songsmith resumed her soothing music. She did not turn around, but out of the comer other eye the young woman glimpsed a running figure bursting out from between the farrier’s forge and the saddlemaker’s display. The newcomer began shoving a passage through the crowd.
Bending her head, Lydryth breathed gently into the redrimmed, distended nostrils. They fluttered, but the animal did not move. She laid hand to the hot, sweaty neck, then began to stroke it gently, still singing.
Of moonlight is the horse’s mane His blood is formed from death His teeth are now a traitor’s bane And fury now his breath.
When the stone-hard muscles beneath her fingers finally relaxed, the songsmith dared to grasp the broken halter. Reaching into the pocket of her jerkin, she took out a length of rawhide, using it to lace the leather straps together. All the while, she hummed softly.
Only when Lydryth was able to grasp the runaway by the now-repaired halter did she turn to regard the man who had shouted such a dire warning.
“Were you speaking to me, good sir?” she asked mildly.
The newcomer frankly gaped at her as she stood beside the now-placid horse, still humming. Of medium height and whipslender, he gave the impression of a wiry toughness and strength. His hair was as black as the stallion’s mane, his eyes dark grey. By the cast of his features he was young, but there was something ageless about him. Plainly, he was of the Old Race . . . and yet-
-yet-
For a moment Lydryth sensed something different about the newcomer … something that set him apart from the townspeople and farmers milling around him. Somehow, he seemed more distinct than the others. The songsmith blinked, startled; then the fleeting impression was gone. Facing her was naught but a young man, dressed simply in an unbleached linen shirt with a leather overjerkin, tan buckskin breeches, and battered, knee-high riding boots.
The stranger gave her a wry grin accompanied by a congratulatory bow. “I said, “Thank you for capturing my horse, minstrel.'” His voice was a low, pleasant baritone, and his accent was that of an educated man, at variance with his rough clothing. A ripple of laughter went through the crowd, which then began dispersing, seeing that the excitement was now over.
Lydryth smiled, still patting the horse. “You are welcome, sir. Tell me, how did he come to be loose?”
The young man rubbed the back of his neck as though it pained him. “It was my fault,” he admitted, unwrapping a leather lead-shank from about his waist and fastening it to the runaway’s halter. The beast rumbled a low greeting deep in its throat. “I was careless. I took him to graze along the riverbank, and two ruffians evidently decided that it was easier to steal a mount than to acquire one honestly.”
6Z “They attacked you?”
“They were upon me before I knew they were there! One moment I was turning, thinking I heard a sound, the next I returned to my senses stretched out on the ground, with my horse nowhere to be seen. One of the brigands lay an arm’s length away, trampled and dead, while the other was just disappearing into the forest, cradling an arm that will.require splinting, if I’m any judge.”
The man shook his head ruefully as he scratched behind the horse’s ears, causing it to rub its head against him, nearly knocking him over. “This fellow has been trained to let no one else touch him. I was certain that you were about to share his would-be thieves’ fate. But I was wrong.” The newcomer gave Lydryth a searching look that made her cheeks grow warm. “Such lovely singing was too much for even Monso to resist.”
Monso. Lydryth stared at the newcomer in shock. That means “wind-swift” in the Old Tongue. But. . . how does this man come to know the Old Tongue?
Her mind racing, Lydryth walked over to pick up her harp where it lay on the ground. After running her fingers over the wood and strings, she returned it to her pack.
“Is your harp damaged. Lady . . . Lady Songsmith?” the man asked worriedly.
She shook her head. “It is fine. I am Lydryth . . . and you are?”
He hesitated for a bare second, then bowed again. “I am called Dakar, Lady Lydryth.”
Again the bard was careful not to betray any outward reaction to his words. Dakar means “shadow” in the Old Tongue. Who is this man? Could he be from Arvon?
Dakar ran a hand down Monso’s neck, then across the broad chest. “He’s still sweating. … I should walk him, lest his muscles cramp or stiffen. Will you … will you walk with us for a moment. Lady? I have scarcely thanked you.”
“It was nothing,” Lydryth demurred, but she slung her pack over her shoulders, then followed him as he led the stallion away from the fair booths toward an open meadow lying near the racecourse. It was late afternoon now; the sun was dropping toward the dark shadow of the surrounding forest. The tiny white- andgold lover’s knots dotting the turf were beginning to close their petals. The bustle of the fair faded to a faint murmur far behind them as they walked.
Dakar glanced over at the racecourse, where the track was being smoothed by a heavy stone block dragged behind two oxen. “Soon it will be time for the day’s race,” he muttered, resting a hand on Monso’s neck. He felt between the animal’s forelegs, then, satisfied that the horse was now cool, halted him, allowing his mount to crop eagerly at the spring-green grass.