Dark Horse

2

Help me! a voice cried in her dreams. Help me, Gabria.

She turned away from the insistent voice, wishing it would go away. The voice was strange, almost inhuman, and some sense told her it was female, but she did not care. Gabria just wanted to be left alone. She was so cold, she did not want to know who it was. Something warm nudged her cheek. She feebly pushed it away and wondered vaguely why her arm was so unwieldy. Not that it mattered; it was too much effort to find out. Sleep was more comfortable.

The thing shoved at her again with more force.

“Leave me alone,” she mumbled.

Suddenly, something heavy slammed down beside her head. The girl flinched and slowly pried her eyes open. The moon had long set, and the sky was overcast. The darkness was almost total. It was impossible to see more than a few feet beyond her outstretched hand. Groggy and chilled, Gabria rolled over and tried to sit up. It was then that she saw a gigantic black shadow looming over her. Fear shocked through her. She screamed, threw her arms up, and jerked away from the terrifying apparition.

Help me, the voice came again, pleading in her mind. Gabria crouched, staring about wildly. She had not heard a sound other than her own pounding heart. Where had that voice come from? The black shape had not moved, but stood, looking at her, its eyes glimmering with a pale, spectral light. It flickered softly, urgently.

Gabria’s breath expelled in a loud gasp of relief. “Hunnuli?” she asked.

She stood up, shivering uncontrollably, and stared at the horse in surprise. Something was terribly wrong. Gabria’s fear for herself evaporated. She fumbled to the horse’s side and was horrified to find the animal trembling violently and sweating despite the cold wind.

Gabria groped her way to her small camp and renewed her fire into a roaring blaze. The flames illuminated the Hunnuli and, in the unsteady firelight, Gabria saw her worst fears were confirmed. The mare was deep into labor; from the droop of her proud head and the tremors that rippled her mud-spattered coat, she had been for some time. Her hide was drenched in sweat and her ears wavered back in anxiety.

Slowly, so as not to startle her, Gabria stroked the horse’s neck and carefully moved along her side to her tail. She had never delivered a foal alone, but she had helped her father with stricken mares and knew well enough what to look for. The horse stood immobile, panting hoarsely as Gabria examined her.

“Poor Hunnuli,” said the girl. “What a time you’ve had. Your foal is so big. He may even be twisted inside.” She prayed fervently it was not a breech birth. The mare’s waters had broken some time before and her birth canal was painfully dry. If the foal was twisted inside, Gabria knew she did not have the strength to push the foal back against the natural contractions of the mare, straighten it, and pull it out again. She could only hope there was something else that was preventing an easy birth. She did not even know if the foal was alive, but something had to be done quickly if she was going to save it or the mare.

Rapidly, Gabria scraped some snow into her small water bag and set it near the fire. She sorted through her few possessions and picked out a pot of salve and her extra tunic. Then, working with all haste, she tore strips from the tunic and tied them with tiny knots into a soft rope with a noose fashioned at one end. As soon as the snow melted in the skin bag, she used the water to wash her hands and one arm clean. She took a liberal dab of creamy salve and rubbed it over her forearm and hand.

The girl picked up her rope, careful to keep it clean and moved to the mare’s side. What she had to do next was going to be uncomfortable for the mare and herself, so she hoped the horse was too exhausted to complain. Using the utmost care, she eased her hand, holding the noose, into the mare’s birth canal. The horse tossed her head, but she offered no resistance.

Gabria soon found the foal’s front legs. She inched the noose around the tiny hooves and pulled it tight, then she pushed her arm deeper past the foal’s knees, struggling against the mare’s contractions, which squeezed her hand with crushing force. When she found the foal’s head, she sighed with relief, for the baby was not breech. Only its head was twisted, jamming it tightly against the pelvic bone.

Gabria’s relief was pushed away by a feeling of dread. As she edged her fingers down the foal’s cheek, her heart sank. The body was very unyielding and had none of the wiggling, warm movements of a live foal. In despair, she straightened the head and withdrew her arm. The mare, as if sensing her release, lay down while Gabria took the rope. With each contraction the girl pulled steadily, softly talking to soothe the mare and hide her own fear.

At last the foal was born. It lay on the cold ground, its birthing sac wrapped around it, its eyes glazed in death. Gabria removed the sac and the afterbirth, and cleaned the foal’s nostrils, although she knew her efforts were futile. The tiny horse had suffocated during the prolonged labor.

The girl sat down abruptly and stared at the dead foal. It was not fair, her heart cried. Why was she always too late? The baby was a stud colt of perfect proportions, with a streak of white on its black shoulder. Gabria’s eyes filled with tears. If only she had not failed again, the colt would now be discovering its new life.

The mare lay motionless, half-dead with exhaustion. She made no move to examine her baby, as if she knew it was already beyond her help. Her eyes settled shut and her ragged breathing eased. Gabria sat with her arms on her knees and her head sunk in grief.

The fire slowly died to embers and its light was replaced by the glow of the rising sun. Night’s gloom faded. A bird piped from a nearby clump of gorse. The clouds withdrew from the mountains, leaving the peaks in a dazzling coverlet of snow. On the steppes, the air was clean and brilliant.

It was the sun that finally roused Gabria. Its warmth seeped into her chilled limbs and nestled on the back of her neck until she raised her head. She took a deep breath of the passing breeze and stretched out the stiffness in her aching muscles.

The sun felt delicious. It was so good to just sit in its warmth. But the heat on her back reminded Gabria of a possible danger. The mountain snows would begin to melt soon in this heat and the water would fill every available stream and wash. The last thaw that had formed the mud hole in the gully had only touched the foothills. Should the mountain run-off come down the eroded valleys, the gully she and the mare were in could be flooded. The water would take a little time to gather, but she did not want to dawdle. She had spent too much time here as it was. Her food supply and her strength were dwindling rapidly.

Gabria picked up a pebble and flicked it away. Was it really worth the effort to leave? She was so tired. She knew that on foot it would take her perhaps fifteen days to reach Khulinin Treld and then only if she were in good condition. She shook her head. It was impossible. She had never walked that far in her life. Her feet were already blistered and her boots were worn just from the two-day journey from Corin Treld. Her ankle, which was still swollen and weak, would never heal under the strain of constant walking. Her muscles were already strained, her hands were badly lacerated, and her stomach was empty. She would trade almost anything for a warm bed and a hot breakfast.

Then Gabria sighed and stood up. It did not really matter how many problems she could list. She knew in her heart she was not going to give up. She was the last Corin and she would never give Lord Medb the satisfaction of her death in a muddy gully.

Gabria gazed at the dead foal and planned her next move. The colt would have to be buried, she decided. She could not bear the thought of its small body torn by wolves and kites. The mare appeared to be sleeping, so Gabria lifted the colt and carried it to the hilltop. It was surprisingly light, even for a newborn foal, but its body was unwieldy and the hill was slippery with thawed mud. Gabria was limping badly by the time she reached the crest.

Sadly, she placed her burden at the foot of an outcropping of stone and there she built a cairn over the body. As she worked, she sang the death song she had sung when the flames devoured her brothers’ bodies. When she was finished, she sat back and gave in to the desolation in her heart.

“Oh, Mother,” she cried, “giver of all life, I am tired of this. Is this what I have come to? Burying everything that means something to me?”

Do not mourn for my son, a voice said.

Gabria jumped, startled out of her misery. It was the same voice she remembered from her dreams, a voice she could not hear. She gripped her arms, afraid to speak. The words had been spoken in her mind, and she knew of no mortal, except for the ancient sorcerers, who had telepathic ability.

The voice came again. My son is dead, but perhaps he will return to me after another mating.

“Who are you?” Gabria demanded, terrified by the invasion of her mind.

My true name is unpronounceable to your tongue. You may call me Nara.

In a flash of understanding, Gabria realized who was speaking to her. Dumbfounded, she closed her eyes and turned around. When she opened them, she saw the Hunnuli standing a few feet away.

“It is you!” she breathed.

Of course. The mare was filthy with muck and dried blood, her mane and tail were matted, yet her proud spirit had revived; her eyes glowed with a depth of wisdom that stunned Gabria. We do not often communicate with humans. Only a chosen few.

Gabria leaned against the outcropping for support. Her knees felt like melting wax. “Why?”

It is too difficult. Human minds are too confusing to us. With some though, it is worthwhile.

Gabria gestured weakly at herself. “No. Why me?”

I owe you a life. The voice became softer. And you need my help.

“Can you read my thoughts?”

No. I can only give you mine.

“If you could, you would know that I am unworthy of your help or even your offer. I am in exile.”

The mare ducked her head and looked at the girl sideways with her full black eye. I know what you are and what has happened. I understand much about you that you cannot see yet. The mare snorted. I am Nara. I am Hunnuli, daughter of the Storm Father. I choose whom I will.

“I am not worthy of you.”

You are stubborn. Forget worthy. You are my friend.

Her Gabria glanced away. Her green eyes brimmed with tears. “I could not save your foal.”

My son was dead before I came to you. In my pride, I wished to bear my first-born alone, but I was too weak.

“I’m sorry,” the girl said, feeling the inadequacy of the words.

There will be others. For now, I will go with you.

Gabria wanted to argue further. She was mortified that a Hunnuli, a creature of the legends she had grown up with, had offered her friendship. How could she accept it? She was an outcast with no clan to support her, no family to defend her, and no future. Her life was like a clay pot that someone had thrown carelessly away, so there was nothing left of the familiar comforting shape but fragments and shards, and the memory of what it had been. What did she have to offer one such as the Hunnuli? Only fear, uncertainty, suspicion, and death.

No. No matter how she might wish for such a fantastic thing, she could not consent to Nara’s offer.

Gabria’s stomach felt leaden, and she shivered with a chill that was not caused by the wind. “Nara, I do not think there is anything left in me that can return your friendship. I am so empty.”

If that were true, I would not have come back.

“I am seeking only revenge. After that. . .” Her voice failed. Gabria could not think beyond that goal. Although she did not care to admit it, she was terrified. Many had tried to kill Lord Medb, both in battle and duel, but he was a skilled and ferocious warrior. It was also said he was protected by forbidden magic. If that were true, and battle skilled men failed against him, how could she succeed? Her pride and grief would never free her from her duty, but she had no illusions about the future.

Nara dipped her nose until it was a hairsbreadth from Gabria’s face. The mare inhaled deeply as a horse will do to acquaint itself with another creature. Gabria could smell the mare’s warm, comforting scent that was a mixture of grass, sun, and the distinctive sweetness that was purely horse. The familiarity of the scent comforted her wounded spirit. Her objections faded to insignificance.

When Nara told her, Let the days come as they will. I am going with you, Gabria merely nodded, unable to speak.

In a daze, the girl limped down the hillside to her camp. She ate a quick meal and returned her belongings to her pack. Her torn tunic was useless and she threw it away. Her remaining tunic was as filthy as she was, and she thought how nice it would be for a bath. It might be the last one she would have in peace for a long time to come.

“Is there a stream or pool nearby?” she asked the mare, who was waiting patiently for her.

Yes. But farther from here are hot springs.

“Hot water?” Gabria breathed, unable to believe her luck. “What direction is it?”

Beneath the horned peak.

Gabria looked toward the line of peaks and smiled with relief. That had to be Wolfeared Pass, a strangely formed mountain with twin summits that stood to the south of the gully. She picked up her pack and her staff and threw her cloak over her shoulders.

“Lead on, Nara,” she said, pointing with her staff.

The mare glanced at her with a glint of amusement in her brilliant eyes. Do you not think it would be faster to ride me?

Gabria’s jaw dropped. “You would let me ride?” Her voice rose higher with each word.

You can ride, can you not?

“Of course, I just—”

I am not going to plod all day, waiting for you to keep pace. Besides—Her telepathic thought turned wistful—I would like warm water, too.

Gabria was stunned. She had never imagined this! “But Nara, women may not ride a Hunnuli.”

The mare whickered in a way that surprised Gabria. It sounded much like laughter. Could that be a tale spread by men who fear the ambitions of their women?

The girl laughed and a great load of worry fell from her shoulders. She threw her walking staff away and climbed up a large rock. From that added height, she clambered onto Nara’s broad back. Gabria was astonished by the heat of the Hunnuli’s body; it was the vibrant, glowing warmth of a fire barely dampened. She reached out to touch the horse’s ebony, arched neck and marveled at the power and intensity that flowed beneath the slick hide. It was as though the lightning bolt emblazoned on Nara’s shoulder hid in reality within the horse’s form.

Nara trotted out of the gully, and, once onto the treeless hills, she moved into an easy, mile-eating canter.

Gabria held onto a fistful of mane, not for support, but merely for something to do with her hands. She did not need to find her balance or even use her legs, as the mare moved with a surprising fluidity and grace for a horse so large. She felt herself mold into the movement of the horse as if they had been fused together by the heat of Nara’s being. The girl settled back, letting the wind brush through her hair and the sunlight flow over her face. She began to relax in the delight of the ride.

They swept over the land as one, like the shadows of clouds pushed by the wind, until the gully in the Hornguard became a memory and the southern peaks of Darkhorn reared like sentinels in their path. Perhaps, Gabria thought for a fleeting moment, there was a little hope.

They made camp that night in a small valley of thermal pools and mineral springs. To Gabria, it was an eerie place of shifting vapors, strange smells, and pools that bubbled with odd colors and noises. But Nara, unperturbed by the strange landscape, found a water hole formed by the run-off of an erupting mineral spring. There they bathed and soaked away the aches of the past days. Before long, Gabria had forgotten her dislike of the valley in the bliss of the relaxing water.

They stayed in the valley for several days while their bodies mended. Gabria used her salve to dress Nara’s neck wound from the wolf attack, as well as the other cuts and scrapes they both had. Nara, in return, gave the girl the rich, nourishing milk that had been meant for the foal. Gabria had heard stories of the effects of Hunnuli milk on humans, but her stomach had a stronger voice than the vague hints from old legends, so she drank the milk gratefully and attributed her fast recovery to the reviving waters of the spring.

When two days had passed, Nara sensed the coming of another spring storm. Reluctantly, Gabria packed her gear and mounted the mare for the final journey south. The Hunnuli and her rider cantered for three days through the foothills hugging the Darkhorn’s towering ramparts. The country slowly changed as the air became warmer and more arid. The trees retreated up the mountain flanks, giving way to tougher shrubs and grasses. The hills, worn by wind and erosion, lost their sharp outlines until, to Gabria’s eye, they looked like a soft, rumpled carpet. The Himachal Mountains on her left fell behind, and the eastern horizon flowed away on the endless rim of the steppes.

Sooner than Gabria imagined, the mountains began to veer west. She could hardly believe they had come so far in such a brief time. Visitors from Khulinin Treld to Corin Treld usually needed seven days on horseback, yet Nara had covered most of that distance in three.

On the evening of the third day, they came to Marakor, the Wind Watcher, the isolated, cone-shaped peak that guarded the northern entrance into the valley of the Goldrine River.

Behind Marakor, the mountains strode westward, then swung around in a great arch to return to their southward trek into the desert wastelands. There, in the crescent valley where the Goldrine River spilled from its deep gorge, the Khulinin clan had its wintering camp. For generations, the Khulinin clan had roamed the steppes in the summer, pasturing their herds on the richest fields, and every winter they returned to the sanctuary of the valley. In the shelter of Marakor and Krindir, the twin peak to the south, they lived and danced and celebrated the Foaling as their fathers had done for countless years.

From where Gabria and Nara stood—on a crest just below Marakor—they could see black tents spread out like huge butterflies and the encampment’s few permanent buildings. Gabria was stunned by the size of the treld. She had never seen all the Khulinin together in one place and, in spite of the dim tales she remembered her mother telling her, she was not prepared for the camp’s sprawling size. Her clan had been small; they barely numbered a hundred. But this! There had to be many hundreds of people in the valley below.

She tore her fascinated gaze away from the encampment and looked at the pastures where the animals grazed. The number of horses and livestock was an indication of a clan’s wealth, and Gabria could tell from the size of the herds that grazed along the river that the Khulinin were rich indeed.

As she made camp that night in a copse of trees, Gabria tried to recall every detail she knew of Savaric, chieftain of the Khulinin. There were not many. Although he was chief of her mother’s clan, Gabria had only seen him a few times at the summer clan gatherings and she had been too busy then to notice very much. What she did remember was an image of a dark-haired, bearded man who constantly carried a falcon on his arm.

She knew her father had liked and respected Savaric. The two men had been close friends in boyhood, but Gabria did not know how far their friendship had extended or whether it would have any influence on Savaric’s decision to accept her.

She wished she could learn more about Savaric before venturing into his domain. How was he going to react to the sole survivor of a massacred clan dropping the horrors and problems of her continuing existence at his feet? If he did not see through her disguise, would he accept her into his werod? He had ample food and wealth to support many warriors, even one as poor and inadequate as herself, but in all likelihood, he had as many warriors as he needed, Besides, Savaric probably would not want to risk taking such a dangerous exile into his clan.

Still, Gabria thought as she ate her evening meal, the fact that my mother was of Clan Khulinin, coupled with my father’s friendship, might sway Savaric’s mind. And of course, there was the Hunnuli. So few men rode the magnificent horses, Savaric would think twice before denying Gabria’s plea and ignoring the honor Nara would bring to his people.

On the other hand, if he discovered her true sex, the question of her acceptance would be meaningless. Clan law strictly forbade any female from becoming a warrior. The chieftain would have to have Gabria killed immediately for masquerading as a boy and trying to join his werod.

She could only hope he would not find out, for she had no other chance for acceptance—and no chance of gaining her revenge against Lord Medb without the Khulinin’s help. She would have to trust to luck and the guidance of the goddess, Amara, when she rode into Savaric’s camp tomorrow. Until then, she decided to ignore her anxiety. Curling up under her cloak, she tried to rest, but it was a long while before she drifted off to sleep.

Gabria was awakened at dawn by the echoing, sonorous summons of a horn. The eastern stars were dimmed by a pale light that gleamed on the sharp ridges of the mountains. The horn sounded again, swelling through the valley with an urgent appeal to the sun. Gabria scrambled to her feet and walked to the rim of the hill.

Far below her, at the entrance to Khulinin Treld, an outrider of the dawn watch sat on a light-colored horse and lifted his horn to his lips for the third time. Darkness faded and the colors of day intensified. A red-gold sliver of fire pierced the dark horizon and painted the earth with its glow. The meager light of the stars was banished.

They do well to welcome the sun.

Gabria glanced at the mare standing beside her. “I went out on the dawn watch once with my twin brother, Gabran,” she said slowly. “Father did not know or he would have whipped me for going with the outriders. But I begged and pleaded and Gabran finally let me come. We stood on the hill above the treld, and he blew such a blast of eagerness and joy, his horn burst. To me he looked like an image of our hero, Valorian, the Lord Chieftain, calling his people to war.”

I know of Valorian. He taught the Hunnuli to speak.

Gabria nodded absently, her gaze lost in the memories of other mornings. In the valley, the outrider returned to the herds and the treld came alive with activity. The girl continued to stare where the rider had been, her face grim and her jaw clenched. A tear crept unheeded down her cheek.

Nara nudged Gabria’s shoulder gently and broke her reverie. Gabria sniffed, then laughed. She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve and laid her fingers on the healing slash on the mare’s neck.

“It is time to begin this game, Nara. You have brought me this far, but I do not expect you to go farther.”

Nara snorted and dipped her head to give Gabria a sidelong look through her thick forelock. This game began long ago. I would like to see how it is played.

The girl laughed and, for a moment, she leaned gratefully against the mare’s strong shoulder.

They returned to their camp, and Gabria added the final touch to her disguise. She had not washed her clothes, so they were still filthy with mud, sweat, and dried blood. She wrinkled her nose as she slipped on the black tunic. It smelled horrible and three days had not inured her nose to the stink. She rubbed din onto her face and hands and into her hair. If all went well, no one would look past the filth to realize she was not a boy. Later, she would have to devise another trick to hide her face until the clansmen became used to her. She did not want to remain filthy forever.

She fastened her short sword to the leather belt around her waist. Her father’s dagger, with its silver hilt encrusted with garnets, was thrust into her boot. She picked up her pack, threw her cloak over her shoulder, and took a deep breath.

Nara sprang to the top of the ridge and neighed a bold, resounding call of greeting. The Hunnuli’s call pealed through the pastures of Khulinin field and echoed from the far hills. Every horse below raised its head, and Nara’s cry was greeted by the clarion neigh of a stallion.

The game had begun.