her. She was tiny against the measureless grass, the infinite sky, yet its euphoria was with her and she wasn’t alone.
The sounds of the campsite had all but faded. Triq leaned back, bringing the mare to a halt.
She sat, breathing.
Faintly over the sound of the river, she could still hear them – a scattering of distant hilarity snatched away by the wind. If she looked back, she could see the tiny, red fire-points of the campsite, and the faint, glimmering skein of the ribbon-town’s windows. Brighter in the dark mid-air was the great, white eye of the Lighthouse Tower at Roviarath, heart and hub and lynchpin of the Varchinde’s lifeblood trade. “Here is help,” it said, “find me to find safety.”
Triq turned her back on it and tightened her thighs. The mare moved into an easy walk.
Banned and soldiers faded into the grass.
Away from rocklight and fire, the moons dusted the sea of sward to yellow and white, washing past her like water. The mare walked calmly, her head up and her ears forward. Triq rested in the ease of her movements. She’d known this creature from a foal, raised her and trained her – and she was a friend.
Face turned to the wind, eyes closed, Triq rested her hands on the warmth of her soft hide.
At the gesture, the mare stopped, throwing her head up and back. One forehoof thudded uneasily. Triq tensed, eyes snapping open, hand going for her small belt-blade. Her thighs urged the creature forwards.
The little mare refused. She danced back several paces, snorting.
Nervousness tickled her skin, Triq trusted the animal’s moods instinctually, relied upon her. If she smelled something, something was there.
She was chillingly aware of how small they were – herself and the horse, two sparks of life – tiny in the emptiness.
She had come out without her saddle, no tack, no weapons – only a belt-knife more useful for cutting dinner than pouncing bweao. Holding tight to her alarm and keeping absolutely silent, she stroked the mare’s shoulder and allowed her to back up. It was a Range Patrol, perhaps, or maybe late-night road-pirates. The big predators didn’t come this close to a ribbon-town – and the recent rumours of monsters were tavern-tales to scare the city dwellers.
Weren’t they? There were no such things as monsters.
She listened.
Wind, water. Grass. She shivered – how had it got so cold? – and made herself sit absolutely still. Her shoulders prickled with tension.
Slowly, she turned around.
But there was only the white eye of the lighthouse, the rippling wash of the light.
Triq’s heart hammered, but her gaze was steady. She inhaled and the slim muscles across her shoulders tensed, flexed. Belt-knife or no, she wasn’t about to open the odds on being any beastie’s late-night snack.
Silence.
Then something moved.
Close by.
She turned sharply but didn’t see it, it was below the level of the grass tops. The gentle wind-ripple of light was uninterrupted – she had no idea where it was. The mare’s ears were flat against her skull and she lifted her forehooves, skittering like a Padeshian dancer.
Was there a bweao, belly-down in the darkness? Some nightmare creature of legend and fang? Triq’s heels were holding the mare – just. If she relaxed the command, she’d gather her legs and flee.
She was fast – could she outrun it?
“Please...”
The word was barely a hiss, and utterly unexpected. It froze the breath to the sides of her throat.
For a moment, she was so damned scared she couldn’t move.
“Please...!”
It came from in front of her. She still couldn’t see it. Any minute now it was going to call her by name...
That was it – she was getting the rhez out of here.
Instead of calling her name, the voice sobbed, gave the cry of something despairing beyond endurance. She heard movement, clumsy. The moonlight scattered as something shifted in the grass.
She tensed her hands, ready. Decl– ! No sound passed her lips. She tried again, “Declare yourself!”
“There is someone there, oh thank the Goddess!” Movement again, pained, terrible movement. “I can’t stand up any more. Please, help me.” The words dissolved into a gasp.
The voice was young, hurt, male – she had no clue what he could be doing out here.
But she was fireblasted Banned and if it was some forgotten monster or some phantom figment, she’d slit it straight up its daemonic middle. Keeping her hand firmly in the mare’s mane, Triq swung one leg over her rump and slipped down into the long Varchinde grass.
It wasn’t a monster.
It was a boy.
Perhaps fifteen or sixteen returns, shock haired, badly injured and alone. His skin was parchment white, his garments black with blood. Beside him lay a crude, scratch-built crutch.
He looked oddly familiar.
She stood stunned, shook her head helplessly when he begged her for water and wondered what in the name of the Gods she was going to do with him. She was no cursed apothecary – something about not shifting him because of his back?
“You’re injured,” she said. “I don’t know –”
“I do.” He shifted painfully, gulping air. “My ankle’s broken – it’s not serious. But my hip... please, be careful... I have to get to Roviarath... my teacher... need to tell them about the monsters... need to tell someone what they
He was desperate, babbling, Triq didn’t really hear him. She’d have to let go of the ever-more-skittish mare to retrieve the boy, she wasn’t betting the horse would stay put.
The boy coughed and something liquid splashed over his fingers.
Annoyed with her own hesitation, she let the mare go and knelt by him. His eyes were glazed – pain, fear, relief – there was a heavy, dark stain soaking through his garments at his hip.
The mare had backed, but not bolted, the whites of her eyes were showing. As Triq called her, she came to whuffle at the boy’s fallen form and laid her ears flat back. There was froth specking on her chest.
“What’s up with you?” Triq wondered out loud. “Blood doesn’t bother you, you’ve smelled enough of it.”
The mare blew snot, ears flicking. The boy tried to smile, reached a hand to touch her mane. When Triq asked him if he could stand, he heaved himself to his good foot, hand on the horse’s shoulder, and she boosted him over the little mare’s back.
White faced under the moonlight, he passed out.
Triq fixed her attention on the lighthouse, aimed a little to the left, and began the long walk back to the tavern.
Her little mare sweated fear every step of the way.
9: STONE
THE MONUMENT
Amethea’s existence was nightmare and death, the smell of cold stone and hard metal, the feel of blood-wet flesh.
There had been something before this, something she’d been seeking, a friend she’d forgotten – but such things were worlds away, shadows of another time. She was a wraith, a ghost that flickered with loss.
Hollow, she watched listless as the girl died.
