Whistling happily, and thinking how good it would be to see his wolf cub, he hitched the bridle over his shoulder and headed into the northwest.
Brighid stood at the edge of the Centaur Plains and drew in a deep, joyous breath. It had been worth it. Yes, there were deer much closer to their cave than the plains, but Cuchulainn would be gone at least a couple of hours. She’d have plenty of time to track, kill and gut a deer, and get back to their cave before Cu had even returned, or at least that’s how she’d rationalized her decision to ignore the weariness in her body and slide down the last of the gentle tors to hunt the venison of the plains.
Weary or not, it felt good to have her hooves in the rich soil of her homeland! She’d chosen a different life and she’d left her home believing she would never return-and she had made that work within her mind. But now she could admit that her spirit had never been easy with her choice. Inside of her there had been a yearning to return, and a restless stirring that she now realized had been the dormant High Shaman.
No more, she promised herself. From here on I will use the gifts granted me by Epona and I will take the position I was born to.
She decided quickly not to take herself back into a meditation trance to locate a herd of deer. This was her homeland. If she couldn’t hunt venison here she didn’t deserve to be called Huntress. Her sharp eyes scanned the land in front of her. At the edge of her vision she could see the familiar green dotting and a dip in the horizon that signified an area of cross-timbers. There were always small creeks or streams that meandered through the plains, and they were surrounded by a sandy grove and hardy trees. Even in times of drought, water from underground springs fed the crosstimbers area. Where there was water deer usually congregated. And there’s where she would hunt.
She forced her body into a smooth canter and smiled as the wind and grass swept past her.
By the time she’d reached the cross-timbers line she was almost ready to admit that her decision to hunt the plains had been a hasty one-if not an outright mistake. Sweat soaked her body, and she was having trouble concentrating. She’d crossed several different centaur tracks, though she hadn’t met anyone. She could see the dark spots of bison not far to the east, but she hadn’t found any deer tracks at all, which was decidedly strange. Unless a centaur village was near, there should be plenty of deer all around a cross-timbers area-and she knew of no centaur village so close to the borders of Partholon. The luster of hunting on her homeland was definitely wearing thin. If she didn’t find sign or spoor of deer soon, she would have to use her spirit powers to locate one. Just the thought of it made her groan in exhaustion.
The grasslands began to give way to the blackjack and post oaks that predominated the cross-timbers, and she let herself slow to a listless walk.
She just wanted to find the deer and get it back to their camp. With gratitude she thought about Cuchulainn waiting there. He could do the cooking.
Later, she couldn’t decide if it had been her weariness or their stealth, but she heard and saw nothing before the rope snaked around her neck. Her hands were instantly up trying to pull the noose free, then she felt another rope catch her hind leg. She was jerked roughly off her feet, hitting the ground so hard that the air rushed from her. Her head cracked against a rock and blackness engulfed her.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Consciousness came back in a painful rush. Hard hands were holding her on her feet. She felt battered and bruised and her head ached with a hot, piercing pain that beat in time with her pounding heart.
“Stand up by yourself!” a rough voice said. “Dragging you here was hard enough. I’ll be damned if we’re going to hold you upright, too.”
Dragged? I’ve been dragged?
Hands tied behind her back she struggled suddenly and violently. Half blind with pain she tried to strike out with her powerful equine hind legs-and her throat closed. The harder she struggled the tighter the rope that cut off her breath.
“Be still or choke yourself to death!” the voice boomed.
Trembling, Brighid forced herself still and the rope around her neck loosened enough for her to suck in a breath and cough spasmodically.
“Don’t fight it and you’ll be fine. Fight and you won’t breathe.”
Trembling, Brighid blinked her vision clear and time seemed to slow. She felt as if she was moving under deep water as she tried to comprehend the contradictions in what she saw. She was standing in the middle of a centaur tent-that much was easy for her to understand. It was one of the large, five-sided tents made of beautifully dyed and elaborately decorated bison skins that her mother used to insist be erected and readied for her with every luxury in place well before she arrived at wherever she was visiting. The opening was directly across from Brighid and through the half-pulled-back flap she could see that it was dark. How long had she been unconscious? Her mind struggled to clear. Everything was wrong and she was unable to understand what had happened to her.
The tent was familiar, but the interior wasn’t richly appointed with the thick pallets and low-standing tables centaurs preferred. The only decoration was several free-standing iron candelabrums that cast shadowy light around the tent. The rest of the tent was empty-except for the four male centaurs who surrounded her. She tried to pull her hands free again, but they were securely tied behind her back. She could feel ropes on her neck and body. In a haze of disbelief, she saw that she was standing, with her torso cross-tied, between the two center poles of the tent. Her front legs were hobbled. Two ropes were tied around her neck. Each of them was attached to a noose around each of her rear legs-she could feel them chafing painfully just above her hooves. The hobble and the cross-tie made certain she could not move. The neck-leg restraint rendered her hind legs impotent. She was very effectively trapped. Brighid raised her eyes to the centaur who stood closest to her and his sneer of superiority had time and noise and sensation flooding back to a normal tempo.
“Fully awake now, my beauty?” he sneered. “Good. No sense in damaging your pretty neck-that is any more than it has already been damaged.” He chuckled and the other three centaur males laughed, too.
Thunder rolled in the distance and lightning flashed in the opening of the tent, helping her to identify the other centaurs. They were Bregon’s pack. She’d thought of them as that since the day they’d killed the young girl. They went everywhere with her brother, following him in everything he did. Like the pathetic sheep they are, she thought.
“Gorman.” Brighid pitched her voice to perfectly mimic her mother’s most angry tone. “Release me at once, you coward!”
Lightning flashed again, and from the edge of her vision she saw one of the other centaurs, Hagan, flinch at the familiar sound of her voice. The other two males were brothers, Bowyn and Mannis, and their eyes went large and round as she spoke. But she kept her attention focused on Gorman, Bregon’s best friend, and partner in all he did.
“You sound like her. You even look like her. But you are not her.” Gorman spat into the grass in front of her. “You were never as strong as Mairearad. You never will be.”
“Define strength, Gorman,” she shot back, forcing the exhaustion from her voice and mind. “Is it the ability to manipulate and use others? Or would your definition of strength be dependent upon ropes? No, wait. I seem to remember that you enjoy terrifying small girls. Pity you had to sneak up on me and tie me up. Was there no wagon available to conveniently roll over me?”