“That is a reasonable question, Tahnoon,” said Ming and closed his eyes while he took several breaths. Then he opened them and nodded his head with a quick, short motion, “We should pretend that we are strong if we hope to dissuade Corancil from his invasion plans or at least cause a delay. We should do the opposite if we want him to invade before he is ready in the hopes of catching his armies in a weakened condition.”
The fat man nodded his head, “Well stated, the final decision is yours to make.”
“I will consider further on the subject. We have four days to wait and we do not know the nature of these spies. It might prove necessary simply to kill them,” said the Black Rider as he watched a pretty girl with flimsy yellow robes that covered her completely from cheek to foot but somehow hinted of flesh enter into the room and set down a tray in front of Tahnoon. “Now, you will enjoy my hospitality so that my reputation will not be sullied? You don’t mind if I drink my dark wine?” he said as a girl brought him a small goblet filled with a deep red liquid that had the aroma almost of chocolate.
“You darklings and your strange tastes; no please, go right ahead but if you could refrain from bringing in those cheeses, they reek,” said Tahnoon and wrinkled his nose.
“As you wish, you are my guest. Now, do you think we can determine how they will communicate their espionage back to Corancil. Some magical device no doubt but one that perhaps we can detect and even eavesdrop upon?” said Ming as he inhaled deeply from the glass. “Mmm, delicious. One more thing, Tahnoon.”
“Yes, oh mighty one?” replied the large man with a smile.
“That rider, find out who he is and give him his own patrol. We need more like him in the ranks of captains.”
“It will be done,” said Tanhoon. “He is from a good family and they will be pleased with his promotion. You have angered some of the families with your decisions of late.”
“If war is coming to the Sands then we need our best leaders in front not those whose family hold a dear place in the history of the Black Horsemen,” said Ming. “I will not make useless political appointments. It saps the entire army from within.”
“I understand your philosophy, oh great master of the desert,” said Tanhoon with an indulgent smile on his face. “But sometimes the best warriors do not come from the families with the finest breeding stock nor the most wealth. An army is made of soldiers certainly but they must have proper equipment and mounts or they cannot defend the nation.”
“Pragmatism over idealism, then?” said Ming with a rueful smile. “That is a language I’m beginning to understand all too well.”
Chapter 12
“This is a horse!” said Milli as they cantered across the desert floor. Her hair flew out behind her like an invading army’s golden banner and now, after a few nervous days at being so far elevated from the ground, she even had the nerve to throw out her arms as the wind rushed past her face. “Wheeeee!”
Not far back Petra sat hunched over her own horse, holding on for dear life as the animal gobbled up the ground at a speed that defied her understanding. The horses of the nomads bore no resemblance to the steeds she dealt with in the northlands. It wasn’t that they looked all that different but they were… more horse. They cantered at a pace that no horse she knew could hope to match even in a full gallop, and these steeds seemed capable of churning out mile after mile without any sort of rest. She suspected they had covered more territory in the last two days than she had traveled in a year with her wagon. The dwarves and the halfling girl probably couldn’t even begin to comprehend the vastness of the desert and astonishing power of the horses. They simply didn’t know any better.
Brogus appeared of the same mind as Petra about the powerful horses as he sat low in the saddle and clung to the reins with white-knuckled ferocity. Dol rode more like Milli as he sat high with his eyes ablaze with a strange fire and a small smile on his mouth. He was tall for a dwarf and his legs fit comfortably around the sides of the animal that bore him. The loose fitting nomadic gear was quite comfortable in the saddle and the ride was surprising in its smoothness. The canter, as explained by Manetho, was a good speed for long distance travel. The gallop, which only Milli had so far dared, was for shorter distances at a great speed, but the worst of all was the bone jarring trot that the nomads seemed to enjoy but that, so far, had sent Brogus to the ground on two separate occasions. Luckily the big dwarf was thick skinned and emerged from the incidents without serious harm although he insisted on further support in the saddle in the way of a tether. The nomads laughed at this and tried to dissuade him, but when he proved intractable ended up tying him to the saddle.
Manetho steered his horse to where Petra rode and smiled at her with a nod of his head, “It gets easier with practice. It is said that we nomads were born in the saddle and although it is not true, it is far from completely inaccurate. We have only a few more hours before we arrive at the camp.”
“I’ll be glad to trade in my horse,” she yelled back over the howling wind that stole the words from her mouth. “I’ve never ridden at a speed like this. It’s astonishing! It’s frightening.”
“These are not even the finest stallions,” yelled Manetho with a shrug of his shoulders. “The Black Rider, the chieftains, they all ride horses swifter yet.” The chubby nomad sat easily in the saddle and barely moved with the motion of the horse. He looked at perfect ease as they cantered along, hour after hour, through the scrub desert.
“That doesn’t seem possible,” yelled Petra with eyes squinted against the sudden blasts of sand that came now and again. The face masks of the nomads made more sense now that she understood the power and speed of their horses and she was grateful for the one she wore. It had not fit properly the first day but a few adjustments by her experienced companions and she found riding no less terrifying but certainly more comfortable. Now, with near two days of riding under her belt, Petra managed to take in the world that flew by rather than simply hang on in terror as she had the first day of travel. She noted that the desert seemed to be blossoming with life as they continued towards the encampment. She suspected there might be a river or lake nearby and this would provide a good place for many nomads to gather and share their stories. Fresh water sounded good; she and the others subsided on the stale leftovers in their skin and that which the nomads carried for two days while they waited for the return of the horses and the journey to the encampment.
“How many miles can a horse run in a day?” shouted Petra and for a moment she thought the nomad didn’t hear her for he carried a puzzled expression on his face. She started to ask the question again but he interrupted her.
“I heard you well enough. I’m just curious as to the magic of the stone,” giving a tap to the translating device around his neck, “and how it can interpret a concept like a unit of distance.”
Petra cocked her head at an angle and thought for a moment, “That is an interesting question. What do you consider a mile, how does it translate the word, does it convert the number you give me from your unit to mine?” She paused for a moment, “I guess it doesn’t really matter. We have traveled far. How do you judge a distance?”
“We judge in what we call leagues and furlongs. They are distances a horse of good breeding should be able to travel in a certain amount of time. A league is about the distance a horse can canter in twelve minutes and a furlong is the distance a horse can gallop in fifteen seconds. Now, these numbers will vary depending on the horse but in this way we can express the distance between two points accurately enough.”
Petra looked down at the pounding hooves, but the sight made her instantly dizzy and she looked back up again. As they approached the encampment the desert began to burst with trees and flowers and the witchy woman was able to pick out a few landmarks. She spotted a yellowish bush coming up quickly and began to count as they flashed past it. Fifteen seconds later she dared turn slightly in the saddle to see how far behind them the bush lay and nodded her head. “I suppose it’s as good as any other system of measurements,” she shouted.
Manetho watched this entire episode with a narrow frown on his face and nodded his head when she completed her experiment. The woman was intelligent although he found that witches often were. Local tribesmen ostracized those who took up the magical arts and he wondered if it might be the same in the north. Therefore they often disguised their quick minds with witchy ceremony in order to further their work. A good witch made her money selling potions and herbal remedies to the average superstitious lout and airs of superior intelligence did
