backup. I did that because nobody else ought to risk his life-or sacrifice it,
if that’s what’s going to happen here… because this is a matter between
pairbonded partners.”
The horse snorted disapprovingly, as if to remind Crit that it knew he was
trying to cover his own fear. Then it slowly turned around, so that its rump was
no longer facing him, and ambled toward him.
The big, liquid, obling-centered eyes said: Strut is mine, too; horses and men
are partners; mount up and let’s stop playing games. He’s waiting.
“Strat, damn you to hell,” Crit whispered, shaking his head to clear it of
horse-thoughts and horse-needs and horse-loyalties. This wasn’t even a living
horse, just a ghost, something Ischade had conjured from a dead animal.
But the thing kept coming, head high, feet carefully placed to avoid stepping on
its dangling bridle reins.
Bridle reins? Had they been there before? He didn’t think so.
The horse, now an arm’s-length away, stopped still. It whickered softly and the
whicker said, / love him too. The forefoot, pawing the ground impatiently,
added. We don’t have much time. And then the horse, in the manner of high-school
horses like Tempus’s Tros, bent one foreleg at the knee, curling it and lowering
his forequarters, the other front leg outstretched, while it arched its neck in
a bow meant to enable a wounded man or a high-bom lady to mount up without
difficulty.
“Crap, all right,” Crit said through clenched teeth and strode resolutely toward
the bowing ghost-horse, trying hard not to think too much about what he was