had been right, that this was exactly what they needed to do to get their minds clear, at least for a little bit.
The last light of the sun was gone, and the blue dim of twilight on them. Mags felt Dallen decide for a gully scramble, taking the field as he had before, but the “low road” rather than the high, running through the ditches and gullies instead of leaping them. Dallen wheeled and made for the nearest, which was barely big enough to fit them. Mags felt the walls of the ditch brush his legs, and made himself even smaller on Dallen’s back.
Up and out of the ditch, and then down into the next, along it for three lengths until it ended and then up and down into a twisting bit of natural run-off gully with better sides but worse footing.
Dallen gathered himself, leapt and came down again in a third ditch, scrambled along it and scrambled out again at the end.
He wheeled, intending to execute an uphill leap and scramble, taking an obstacle the opposite way from what was intended, starting low and ending high. It was a mad maneuver for a horse, only slightly less mad for most Companions, but Mags knew this of old, and was ready for it.
And a blow to his mind knocked all sense and all preparation out of him.
It was a scream of incredible rage, hate, loathing—a howl that was only mental, but nevertheless it was like a dagger through the eyes.
Mags’ mind had brushed up against something murderous, so vicious it was like a swipe of razor-sharp claws across his mind. He cried out without meaning to, and the thing was gone, but the damage was done. Dallen had been caught and thrown off in mid-stride; he came down wrong on his leap, blundered and slipped, felt himself toppling, felt Mags about to go head-first into the ditch where he would surely break his neck.
Mags felt the jump go wrong, felt Dallen falling out from under him, knew he was not balanced at all, could not get his balance and saw his own death coming at him too fast to stop.
Then Dallen somehow flung himself over sideways. Mags found a balance-point, instinctively kicked himself free of the stirrups and tumbled off to the side.
Just as he heard the terrible double crack of both of Dallen’s forelegs breaking, and felt as well as heard Dallen’s scream of agony. He convulsed. Dallen, thank the gods, was paralyzed by the pain.
He screamed too, mentally as well as physically, dropping all his shields and shrieking a mindless call for help.
He scrambled on hands and knees to Dallen and weeping, sat on Dallen’s shoulder so he wouldn’t thrash, clasping his hands around the breaks to make sure they didn’t get worse. He could feel the bones grating under his hands, but they hadn’t broken the skin.
And meanwhile, he screamed for help, again and again, until his mind felt as raw as his throat. Dallen was voiceless now, mentally as well as physically, paralyzed by the pain, his sides heaving and his breath wheezing through clenched teeth.
This was a killing injury for a horse; any horse that had broken both legs like this, unless he was extraordinary indeed, would be put down. They’d done that to one of the mine ponies once, even though Master Cole was a man who would have—and did—work his ponies until their hooves were worn down to the frog and their hocks and knees were as swollen as ripe squash.
Finally, after what must only have been a few heartbeats, but felt like an eternity, rescuers swarmed the field. A flood of lanterns poured down the hill from the Collegia, people shouting at one another to “get this” and “bring that.” They leaped the fence and completely overran the two on the ground, shoving Mags carelessly off Dallen. He stood up and was further shoved off to the side, and kicked when he didn’t move fast enough.
Healers were there first, and in moments had shunted much of Dallen’s pain away, blocking the part of his mind that felt it. When the pain had been eased, they grabbed his forelegs in the light of the lanterns, and the bones were quickly aligned properly and roughly splinted to keep everything in place.
Mags shut down his shields, hugged himself, and shivered, weeping without any shame. All he could think about was Dallen, and how this surely was all his fault. He should have been smart enough to see this was a bad idea . . .
His eyes poured hot tears; he could scarcely breathe, his chest hurt so much. He would have given anything to take the last candlemark back.
More men came running, bringing a huge pieces of wood and metal, and more lights. Once they could see, they assembled an enormous frame of beams and bars and pulleys, while the Healers continued to keep Dallen eased. Some of the rescuers dug under Dallen’s body to slip a sling under him, then bit by painful bit he was hoisted up until there was no weight resting on his legs at all and he dangled from the frame like a trussed chicken in a market.
Now two of the huge, patient horses that hauled enormous carts were brought up; they normally towered over Dallen by a good four to six hands. His sling was fastened to their harness, so that they carried his weight; he was let down off the frame so that they carried him between them, like two men carrying an injured fellow between them on a stretcher. They moved off; Mags followed, speechless with grief and guilt.
Behind them, the men disassembled the frame as quickly as they had put it together. The sound of hammers followed them up the hill.
They made their way, step by painful step, toward Healer’s Collegium. It took another eternity, and every step was as painful to Mags as if he walked on knives, as if it was his legs that were broken, and not Dallen’s.
He wished that they had been. He wished with all his might that Dallen had not saved him.
But this was all his fault! He knew that going that hard and fast over the course was bad enough by day, and yet he had agreed to it! And it had been his mind that the Other had brushed against! He was too open, it was his fault, he must have let some shields down without realizing it. It was all, all his fault, and he could never say he was sorry enough to make up for this.
Limping, bruised, and bleeding heavily from a cut on his forehead, Mags followed, ignored by everyone intent on getting Dallen safely into his stall in a special small area at Healer’s Collegium, a little stable especially for injured Companions who were too badly hurt to be in their own stalls.
When, after an agonizingly long time, they finally reached the stable, it was to find the waiting stall already prepared. There was another sling arranged on the rafters above the stall, one with a pulley so that Dallen could be let down from time to time to sleep on his side. But now he was transferred to this sling, the big, patient horses were led away, heads nodding with each step they took. Healers swarmed over the Companion, properly setting his legs, then encasing them in strips of cloth dipped in plaster wound around and around them so there was no way for the broken bones to move. Then a bottle was thrust between Dallen’s teeth and he raised his head, head and neck trembling, so the contents poured down his throat. Then he set his chin down into a second sling so that his head didn’t have to dangle and let the drugs take over.
And slowly, for the first time since Dallen had Chosen him, Dallen’s Mind-presence faded from Mags’ mind, leaving only a vague and undefined something in the back of his head.
Mags curled up in a miserable heap on the straw in Dallen’s stall, crying silently. Dallen hung from the sling like a lifeless chunk of meat, and only the slow heaving of his sides and the vague presence still like an echo in the back of his mind gave him any indication that Dallen was even alive.
All he wanted to do was die. How could even a Companion survive something like this without being crippled for life? If he hadn’t been so... so stupid, so despondent, Dallen would never have suggested the reckless run. If he hadn’t been so careless as to let down his shields, even though he didn’t remember doing so, this wouldn’t have happened. If only he had insisted on not doing this at all, or insisted on stopping as soon as the last sun vanished, it wouldn’t have happened. It was all his fault.
A heavy, horrible silence hung over everything here, a silence that was not even broken by his sobbing. He had learned the hard way how to cry silently a long time ago. So when Lena came running into the stall, his presence took them both by surprise.
He sat up at the sound of frantically running footsteps, and turned toward the stall door, and Lena’s shocked face stopped the breath in his body and the sobs in his throat.
“Da—” she began, then registered his presence. Her face changed from anguished distress to—well, he couldn’t read it.
