The mindspeak had been weak and Hari had closed his eyes in concentration. When he opened them, the tears spilled over and coursed through the dust coating his stubbled cheeks. His gauntleted fist beat upon his armored thigh with enough force to all but dent the princegrade Pitzburk plate.
Of Vaskos he inquired, “Did you receive, my son?” At the shaking of the steel-encased head, he said, “It is Red Death—my brother. He is … is badly hurt. That slimy bitch! She failed to slay you, so she struck at the only other creature she knows I love! He has a festered wound, cannot rise, and is being guarded by the young stallions. And he … he thirsts. Give me your water bottle.”
With Hari’s departure, Vaskos recrossed the glade, now beginning to fill with Freefighters as they debouched from the forest. Wordlessly, he signed them to dismount and rest or see to their horses. When Captain Linstahk, his blond mustachios sweat-plastered to his face, emerged from amongst the trees and brush, Hari’s son kneed over to the officer.
“Gaib, pass back word for the column to halt in place. They can probably use the rest since we’ve been on the march for nearly nine hours now. My father was mindspoken by his king stallion, who lies injured nearby, dying, from what he told me. He loves that horse in a way that you possibly cannot understand, and nothing is now more important than that he go to him, take him water, try to ease his suffering.”
When the captain raised his visor, there was deep sympathy in his green eyes. Laying his swordhand on the big man’s shoulderplate, he said, “But I do understand, Vaskos. My own father, Vahrohnos Djahsh Linstahk, breeds horses, you know. Between him and his king stallion there is a … a … well, it is as if the two of them were of the same birthing.
“But this still be hostile territory, Vaskos. The lord should not be alone. Let us go to him and … wait, my squadron has a horse-leech, nor is he far down the column, as I recall; I will pass word for him to join us. Perhaps he can do something.”
Djehsz Reeguhn truly loved horses and exercised all possible gentleness in his examination of Red Death’s grievously infected wound. Nonetheless, the stallion’s neck and legs jerked, his eyes rolled, he snorted and snuffled, and twice he screamed. Arising, his sensitive face set in hard lines, the horseleech wiped foul-smelling greenish pus from his hands with a handful of leaves torn from the bush, then approached the komees who sat weeping unashamed tears onto the big, scarred head cradled in his lap.
“My lord, I suspect that the weapon was envenomed or at least dungcoated, for the infection is far advanced. Were he a man, I would say, ‘Dose him with brandy, club him senseless and saw off the leg.’ I have seen such done with horses, but, weak as he is, he would not survive that shock. He cannot live for long, in any case, and, as you know, he suffers greatly. Believe me, my lord, I sorrow with you, but there is only one thing we can now do for him.” His hand strayed to the short, heavy axe cased at his belt
Hari nodded, his tear-shiny face glinting in the noon sun. “Thank you, sergeant, thank you for everything. But I … we know, we knew even before, but I had hoped …” He broke off, chokedly.
After a moment of silence, Sergeant Reeguhn uncased his mercy-axe and placed it on the well-cropped grass of the tiny glade, straightened and stepped back. “My lord, considering his position, a deathstroke would be difficult with a sword but very easy with my axe. If my lord wishes, I have sent many a brave, suffering horse to Wind—”
“No … again my thanks, sergeant, but no. He is my brother. I will do what must be done for him. Please leave us now, but send my son to me.”
Vaskos squatted beside his father, laid his big, callused hand on Red Death’s damp cheek and stroked him tenderly. As always, physical contact made mindspeak easier, and the dying stallion bespoke him.
“Get of my brother, Red Death knows but little of you, for you were already gone a-warring when he first saw Sacred Sun. You have pleased my brother, he mindspeaks of you often and well, mindspeaks of your valor and weapons skills and of your glorious deeds and of how highly your captains regard you. These are things Red Death can understand and admire, for he was long years the brother and warhorse of King Ahlbehrt of Pitzburk.
“Red Death loves battle, get of my brother, loves the feel of plated thigh forking him, loves the peal of the bugle and the ring of the sword, loves the wild gallop of the charge and the shock of its arrival, loves the sensation of rending flesh under his steelshod hooves… but Red Death has fought his last fight, get of my brother.”
Komees Hari sank his chin upon his breastplate, and bis steel-cased body shook to his grief.
Red Death snorted weakly. “Why weeps my brother? All creatures must go to Wind, soon or late, and Red Death has known near twenty-four summers, long and long for a war-horse. Shortly, my brother, Ahlbehrt, will take up the little axe of that good two-legs and end Red Death’s pain. Then he will be one with Mighty Wind. He will gallop the endless plains of the Home of Wind … mayhap, he will find his brother, Alin, there—”
The dying stallion mindcalled, and two younger stallions hesitantly paced from the surrounding forest. Though one was a steel gray and the other a dark chestnut, their noble paternity was clearly etched into every line of their splendid bodies—heavy, rolling muscles; large but fine heads; deep chests; and proud, spirited bearings.
“Brother Hari and get of my brother, these are two of my own get. They call themselves Arrowswift”—the chestnut nodded his head, snorting—“and Swordsheen”—the gray stamped a hoof lightly.
“Red Death has taught them all that he has learned, and, as they are both intelligent and good mindspeakers, they should make good warhorses even without the refinements of proper training.
“Brother and get of my brother, you ride to battle now. Red Death cannot share your joys as he would like, but his loyal sons can. Will not you both ride to the good fight on Arrowswift and Swordsheen?”
Blinking his eyes rapidly against the sting of his unshed tears, Vaskos rose and strode over to the young stallions, a hand outstretched to each. When he had a palm on each of their foreheads, he mindspoke them. “This is as you would wish, my brothers? You would be the war steeds of my father and me?”
“Yes, brother,” replied both together, the gray adding, “Red Death avers that no other way can a stallion prove himself fit to breed.”
“This is true, brothers,” agreed Vaskos. “And the strength and bravery of the noble Red Death be rich heritage indeed. It must continue to flow in the veins of Daiviz foals.”
So it was that while Vaskos and Gaib and the sergeant transferred the saddles and armor and gear from the two horses lent them by Thoheeks Bili to the waiting gray and chestnut, Hari bid his last farewell to his beloved Red Death. Beyond the screen of brush, Vaskos saw the brief, metallic glint of sun on steel, followed immediately by a meaty tchunk. A butcher sound.
The old komees walked out of the glade, moving slowly, heavily, his reddened eyes filled with a frustrated fury which Vaskos had never before seen in his father. He shuddered strongly, thinking that he would hate to be the very next man against whom the grief-ravaged nobleman swung his sword.
But Komees Hari’s sense of direction and knowledge of these oft-hunted woods were unaffected by his sorrow and anger, and they had ridden onward a bare half-mile when, at a lightning-scarred tree which seemed no different to Vaskos than many a similar one seen on this trek, his father led the column east. Soon, almost imperceptibly, the forest began to thin, with here and there vine-grown stumps, marks of axe and saw showing through the brush. Then they chanced on the camp.