moments earlier. ‘Kick your feet from the stirrups,’ said Skilgannon.
Rabalyn did so, glancing down as the warrior adjusted the height of each stirrup. ‘Gently take hold of the reins. Remember that the horse’s mouth is tender, so no savage jerking or pulling.’ He led the horse away from the others, then glanced back at Rabalyn. ‘Do not grip with your legs.
Sit easy. Now merely walk him around for a while.’ Releasing his hold on the bridle Skilgannon moved back to where Braygan was standing.
‘These horses don’t like me,’ said Braygan.
‘That is because you are standing there staring at them. Come forward.
Keep your movements slow and easy.’ He helped the priest to mount, then adjusted his stirrups, repeating the advice he had given to Rabalyn.
Lastly Skilgannon sprang easily into the saddle of a steeldust gelding and rode alongside the two nervous novices. ‘The horse has four gaits,’ he said, ‘walk, trot, canter and gallop. Walking, as we are now doing, is simple. You just sit lightly in the saddle. The trot is not so simple. The horse will break into what is known as a two-time gait.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Braygan.
‘The horse will step from one diagonally opposite pair of legs to the other. Near-fore and off-hind together, then off-fore and near-hind. This will create a bouncing effect and your backsides will be pummelled until you learn to move with the rhythm. Stay tall in the saddle. Do not slouch.’
They spent an hour in the open fields behind the farmhouse. Rabalyn learned swiftly, and even cantered his mount briefly at one point. For Braygan the entire exercise was a nightmare.
‘If I strapped a dead man to the saddle he’d show more rhythm than you,’ said the warrior. ‘What is wrong with you?’
‘I am frightened. I don’t want to fall off.’
‘Kick your feet from the stirrups.’ Braygan did so. ‘Now let go of the reins.’ Once more Braygan obeyed him. Skilgannon suddenly clapped his hands and yelled. Braygan’s horse reared then broke into a run. The movement was so sudden that the priest fell backwards, turning a somersault before striking the soft earth. Shakily he climbed to his feet.
There,’ said the warrior. ‘Now you have fallen off. As ever the fear of it was not matched by the actuality.’
‘You could have broken my neck.’
‘True. The one certainty about riding, Braygan, is that — at some time -
you will fall off. It is a fact. Another fact you might like to consider, in your life of perpetual terror, is that you will die. We are all going to die, some of us young, some of us old, some of us in our sleep, some of us screaming in agony. We cannot stop it, we can only delay it. And now it is time to move on. I’d like to reach those far hills by dusk. We can find a campsite in the trees.’
CHAPTER SIX
RABALYN ENJOYED THE DAY’S RIDE MORE THAN HE COULD
EXPRESS. HE knew that he would always remember it with enormous affection. If he was lucky enough to live until he grew old he would look back to this day as one of the great, defining moments of his life. It was an effort not to let the horse have its head and ride off at ferocious speed towards the distant hills. As he sat in the saddle he could feel the power of the beast beneath him. It was awesome. As Brother Lantern had instructed him he chatted to the gelding, keeping his voice low and soothing. The gelding’s ears would flick back as he spoke, as if listening and understanding. Rabalyn patted its sleek neck. At one point he drew rein and let the others ride on for a while, then gently heeled the gelding into a run. Exhilaration swept through him as he settled into the saddle, adjusting his rhythm so that there was no painful bouncing. He and the horse were one — and they were fast and strong. No-one could catch them.
As he approached the others he tried to rein in. But the gelding was at full gallop now and swept on by them, ignoring his commands. Even then, with the horse bolting, Rabalyn felt no fear. A wild excitement roared through him. Dragging on the reins he began to shout: ‘Whoa, boy. Whoa!’
The horse seemed to run even faster.
Brother Lantern’s steeldust came galloping alongside. ‘Don’t drag on the reins, boy,’ he shouted. ‘It will only numb his mouth. Gently turn him to the right. As he turns keep applying gentle tugs to the reins.’ Rabalyn followed the orders. Slowly the gelding began to angle to the right. He slowed to a canter and then a trot. Finally, at the gentlest of tugs the gelding halted, alert and waiting for the next instruction.
‘Well done,’ said the warrior, drawing rein a little way from Rabalyn.
‘You will be a fine rider.’
‘Why did he bolt? Was he frightened of something?’
‘Yes, but he doesn’t know what. You have to understand, Rabalyn, that a horse in the wild uses its speed to avoid danger. When you pushed him to the gallop ancestral memories took over. He was running fast, therefore he was in danger. Panic can set in very fast in a horse. That is why the rider must always be in control. When he broke into that run you relaxed and gave him his head. Thus, left to his own devices, he panicked.’
‘It was a wonderful feeling. He is so fast. I bet he could have been a racer.’
‘He is a young war horse,’ said the man, with a smile, ‘skittish and a little nervous. A Ventrian pure blood would leave him for dead in a flat race. On a battlefield the Ventrian would be a liability. It is not as agile and its fleetness can be a hazard. But, yes, he is a fine mount for a young man in open country.’
‘Should I give him a name, Brother Lantern?’
‘Call me Skilgannon. And, yes, you can call him what you will. If you have him long enough he will come to recognize it.’
Braygan approached them at an awkward trot, the young priest bouncing in the saddle, his arms flapping. ‘Some men are not made to ride,’ said Skilgannon softly. ‘I am beginning to feel sorry for that horse.’
With that he swung his mount and continued on their way.
By late afternoon they were climbing ever higher into wooded hills.
Through breaks in the trees, Rabalyn could see a vast plain below them to the northwest. He saw also columns of people walking, and occasionally mounted troops. They were too far away to identify as friend or foe.
Rabalyn didn’t care which they were. His gelding was faster than the winter wind.
That night they camped at the base of a cliff. Skilgannon allowed no fire, but the night was warm and pleasant. A search of the saddlebags produced two wooden-handled brushes and Skilgannon showed Braygan and Rabalyn how to unsaddle the mounts and then groom them. Lastly he led the horses out a little way to where the grass was thick and green.
Then, with short ropes also from the saddlebags, he hobbled them and left them to feed.
Braygan was complaining about his sore legs and bruised backside, but Skilgannon paid no attention, and soon the young priest wrapped himself in a blanket and settled down to sleep. The night sky was clear, the stars brilliantly bright. Skilgannon walked a little way from the camp and was sitting alone. Normally Rabalyn would not disturb him, but the man had -
for the first time — spoken in a friendly way after Rabalyn’s horse bolted.
So, with just a hint of trepidation, Rabalyn walked across to where the warrior was sitting. As he came up Skilgannon glanced round. His gaze was once more cold and distant.
‘You want something?’
‘No,’ said Rabalyn, instantly turning away.
‘Come and join me, boy,’ said Skilgannon, his voice softening. ‘I am not the ogre I appear.’
‘You seem very angry all the time.’
‘That would be a fair judgement,’ agreed Skilgannon. ‘Sit down. I’ll try not to snap at you.’ Rabalyn sat on the ground, but could think of nothing to say. The silence grew, and yet Rabalyn found it comfortable. He looked up
