The Black Horseman

and struck. Instinct told Gwaynn that the blow was coming a fraction of a second before it was to land, and he jerked his face out of the way. Still, the very tip of the razor sharp weapon sliced through his upper cheek, less than an inch from his right eye. Gwaynn dove away, hitting the sand with his shoulders, rolling and coming to his feet, instinctively running from his opponent. Navarra took another swing at him but missed by a good margin. He risked a look over his shoulder and spotted two figures rushing down the path. Both carried weapons. He watched as his men turned to engage them. When he turned back, he had just enough time to skip back from another attack.

              ‘The boy’s relentless,’ Navarra thought, with a hint of admiration. He would make an excellent Executioner.  He shrugged off the thought and sent a blow at the Prince, which would have cleanly parted his head from his shoulders, had it landed, but Gwaynn blocked it with relative ease. The cut on his face was bleeding freely now, but that did not keep him from coming on. Navarra blocked another attack and sent a kick that connected solidly with Gwaynn’s injured cheek. He sprawled backward in the sand, Gwaynn was back up quickly, but obviously stunned. Navarra was dimly aware that one of his men was down and screaming from a mortal wound, but he had the boy now and moved in for the finishing blow.

“You fought well,” Navarra purred, as the Prince staggered, shaking his head to clear it. But as Navarra began to move closer, he noticed three more figures top the rise at a run. Without hesitation they raced down the path toward him. Weapons Masters all. Navarra cursed, but did not hesitate. He turned and ran down the beach away from Gwaynn and away from his new enemies. Up ahead, not more than a quarter of a mile away, a half dozen Deutzani men, waiting by a long boat.

“Prepare!” Navarra yelled. Though winded, he managed to make himself heard. He was gratified to see three immediately begin to push the boat into the water, while the other three rushed forward a bit. All had bows and quickly notched arrows. They let a volley fly over Navarra’s head and into the direction of his pursuers. He heard a loud grunt which told him that one of the arrows had struck home. The pursuit broke off as he ran out into the water and pulled himself into the boat. Once aboard he finally glanced back, the Massi Prince was still attempting to come after him, fighting against the Tar who held him.

              The men navigated the boat quickly out of the breakwater, far enough from shore that they all knew that they were now safe, at least for the moment. Navarra jerked a bow from the hand of a man nearest him and held out a hand for an arrow, which quickly appeared. He drew back the string as far as he was able, and though the boat was rocking and pitching in the waves, he let fly a near perfect shot and the instant it was gone he knew it would hit its mark. But the man holding Prince Gwaynn looked up into the impenetrable black sky and seemed to see the missile coming; with slow, deliberate movements he pulled Gwaynn to the left just before the arrow buried itself in the sand where the boy had stood a moment before. Navarra glared at them for a moment as another arrow was placed in his hand. He did not draw it, however, and turned from the receding shore.

“Let’s get to the ship quickly. They will launch against us as soon as they are able,” he said to those with him. “We must be well away when they do.” He received no argument on the matter, just stronger pulls on the oars.

It was Nev who held Gwaynn back; Nev, who kept him from exposing himself to more arrow fire; Nev, who kept him from racing out into the water to chase his enemy.

              “You’ve done well lad,” Nev whispered in his ear, but did not relax his grip.

              Krys and Vio ran up to the beach to join them and together they all watched as the long boat moved farther and farther from shore, until at last it was lost into the darkness.

              “Who was it?” Krys asked confused and upset by the murder of the local girl. At first no one said anything, but then Gwaynn shrugged off the hold of his new mentor. He looked up the beach. Lane, Shari, and the rest of the family were coming, along with Tar Amon and Kostek.

              “It was Tar Navarra,” he said evenly, much more calmly than he felt, “the Executioner who killed my mother and sister, the High Executioner for the Deutzani.”

              Vio groaned but said nothing, and without a word they all turned and moved back up the beach toward the others.

              That night Gwaynn was once again hanging from the awful scaffold in Solarii, the dogs fighting over his mother’s entrails, and Gwynn weeping at his side. But when she turned to him, she was suddenly transformed and it was Mille who gazed at him, a look of horror on her face.

              “Keep the dogs away! Please, keep the dogs away.” She pleaded.

IX

              It was a full week before Gwaynn and Tar Nev set off toward Mount Erato and the forests of Noble Island. They waited until after Mille’s burial, which was held on an absolutely gorgeous day; spring was coming fast to the islands. Gwaynn stood stone faced next to Leek during the ceremony, while Lane and his family grieved around him. Mari sported a thick white bandage that covered most of the top of her head, but she was recovering nicely. She smiled shyly at Gwaynn several times during the day but he didn’t smile back.

‘No one should be buried on a beautiful day,’ Gwaynn thought, feeling guilty about Mille’s death though the family did not blame Gwaynn for the tragedy, and their goodbyes, though brief, were heartfelt and sincere.

              Once on the road Gwaynn said little, which suited Nev just fine. Living alone as he did, he was accustomed to silence and believed most people talked far too much in any case.

Gwaynn rode on Prolly.

“A loan,” Leek had said, telling Gwaynn he could return the mare when he finally left the Island. Nev rode a large strawberry roan named Ardent, who tried to bite Gwaynn every time he got too close.

“Ardent’s not partial to company,” Nev said by way of explanation, so Gwaynn kept his distance. They stopped in Herra for a night and were treated as distinguished visitors. The next morning they left early and entered the forest, the home of the Solitaries. They followed a path barely wide enough to accommodate the horses, and Gwaynn had to constantly watch for low branches that hung over the trail. It was hard and slow riding but within a dozen miles the forest opened into a wide grassy meadow that was set at the foot of the Erato Mountain. On a hill, near a bubbling stream that would eventually become the Parm river, sat a cabin, white washed and brilliant in the late afternoon sun. There was a flower garden to the south and behind Gwaynn saw a corral and a small out building.

Gwaynn frowned when he saw the picturesque, almost feminine setting. Nev noticed his look and chuckled.

“I’m a Solitary, not an animal,” he said with a smile. “The cabin was built almost fifty years ago by the folks of Herra for Tar Chillar, my Master. Now and then they travel up and repair what needs repairing and give it a new once over with paint.”

Gwaynn looked at Nev for a moment then back to the cabin and nodded. “The flower garden?” he asked.

“Oh, I tend to that,” Nev said, as they rode the rest of the way in silence.

“That man,” Nev said, after they had unsaddled the horses and set them to grazing, “on the beach….the Executioner.”

Gwaynn glared at Tar Nev wondering why he would bring that up at this moment.

“I don’t want to ever hear you call him a “Tar” again,” Nev ordered flatly, then pulled two sets of katas from inside the out building and tossed a set to Gwaynn. “And now I will show you why.”

Gwaynn caught the katas out of the air. He was tired from riding all day and a bit hungry, but that did not diminish his desire to discover what skills this Solitary possessed. Gwaynn had been curious about the Tar ever since the Council meeting. Everyone held him in high esteem, but outwardly Gwaynn could not tell why this was so. Nev was well passed middle age, though perhaps not yet old. He was less than average height, almost stocky, with broad, powerful looking shoulders and thick wrists, not someone you would believe possessed any speed or finesse.

Nev led him into the fenced area that Gwaynn had taken for a corral earlier. Inside the dirt was soft and loose. Nev headed toward the center then turned to face his new acolyte.

“Prepare,” he said and it was his only warning, because once Gwaynn raised his katas, the Tar