Eydryth smiled as she walked, feeling the heavy purse weighing down the belt she wore inside her jerkin. Enough, and more than enough to purchase a fine mount. I’ll be in Lormt ere I thought possible!
As she set off across the nearly deserted tangle of tents and booths, Eydryth saw Dakar walking Monso not far from where they had first met. Shrugging her pack a little higher on her shoulders, the songsmith veered aside from her chosen path with the intention of thanking the youth.
Torchlight sputtered in the night breeze that had sprung up, its reflection again awakening that disturbing scarlet spark in the black stallion’s eyes. Eydryth halted, staring at the unlikely pair. After all, what did she know of Dakar? He rode a Keplian. It was therefore entirely possible—nay, probable—that he himself was of the Left-Hand Path, one of the Dark Ones. Legend held that they were often handsome, or beautiful… as fair outside as they were foul within.
As she wavered, on the verge of turning away, Dakar looked up, then waved cheerfully. “Lady Eydryth!” he called, as she came toward him. “Did you see the race?”
The minstrel nodded. “I did. Lord Faral’s horse could not have run more swiftly!” As she reached him, she added, in a lower tone, “Now I will be able to reach Lormt in only a few days, thanks to my wager. I am indeed in your debt.”
The young man shook his head. “Nonsense. We would have raced for the winner’s purse whether or not you were wagering on us, my lady. I am just glad that you will be able to continue your journeying well-mounted.”
Eydryth hesitated, tempted to ask where he and Monso would be going, now that the race day was over, but what was the sense in that? She would never see him—or his strange mount—again. The songsmith sighed, resolutely straightening her shoulders beneath the heavy pack. “Farewell, then, Dakar, and a safe journey to you on the morrow,” she said.
He appeared to hesitate in his turn, then finally nodded. “A safe journey to you… and may you find what you are seeking.” He held out his hand.
Eydryth clasped hands with him in a warrior’s grip, feeling the leather-callused roughness of his palm against her own harpstring-toughened fingers. She saw his eyes widen slightly at the strength of her grip; then he smiled, his clasp shifted, and he bowed formally over her hand in courtly fashion. “Fare you well, Lady Eyd—”
“Spawn of the Dark!”
“You cheated! That’s no ordinary horse!”
“Cheater! You witched my Grey Arrow!”
Eydryth and Dakar started, whirling to see a group of men approaching them, their shadowy forms huge and wavering in the wind-whipped torchlight.
Monso’s rider put up his hands in a conciliatory fashion as the figures ranged themselves around them, hemming them in past all escape. “Gently, goodmen, gently! If any of you feel that my horse did not win fairly, you should have spoken to the judges before Monso was officially declared the winner. There was no such protest entered.”
“That’s because we were all bespelled!” Grey Arrow’s owner, Hawrel, a tall, rawboned fanner with the fair hair of a Sulcarman, stepped forward. “You made fools of us all, but we’ve come to our senses now, and we demand you make right our losses!”
Monso lowered his head, snorting. One sharp hoof pawed in unmistakable challenge. Dakar grabbed the Keplian’s halter, whispering to him, and slowly the black calmed. “Very well,” his master said. “I want no trouble—for your sakes, as much as my own. I will give you what I have.”
Eydryth made a small motion of protest, but did not speak, as Dakar slowly withdrew his winner’s purse from within his jerkin. Five… six… She counted the figures in that grim circle, noting that several were armed with cudgels and one with a sword. Too many to fight. And Dakar did cheat… racing a Keplian against mortal horses is hardly fair—
—but neither is this! she thought angrily, watching the young man grimly weigh the purse in his hand, then toss it at Hawrel’s feet. “Take it, then, and leave us in peace,” he said, his shoulders sagging with sudden weariness. “I will leave your town, and nothing could induce me to return, I assure you.”
The protesters did not miss the bitter mockery in his words.
Stung, they surged forward until Eydryth could recognize other faces—Grey Arrow’s bowlegged little rider… the broad-shouldered blank-shield who had been standing near her in the crowd, the palm-polished grip of his sword gleaming faintly… the village blacksmith… the horse trader whose animal she’d rejected. The sixth man wore a muffling hood that hid his features.
“We’ll not stand here and be mocked by a cheating rascal of a boy!” the smith snarled, slapping the rasp he carried against his callused palm. “You and that unnatural beast both deserve a beating, and that is what you’re going to receive!”
“Wait!” Dakar held up both hands, genuinely alarmed now. “You must not! You could be killed! I want no bloodshed, please! At least allow the songsmith to—”
“At them, then, lads!” Hawrel shouted, and in deadly silence, the men rushed them. The songsmith dodged the one wearing the hood, her quarterstaff sweeping the ground, sending her attacker thudding heavily to the ground.
As he lay there, winded, Eydryth gave him a carefully calculated rap on the back of the head that stretched him out, unconscious; then she turned back to aid her companion. Dakar was holding onto his horse, shouting commands, while the heavyset blacksmith brandished his rasp at the young man’s head, all the while trying to pull Monso’s lead-shank away.
Hawrel grabbed the youth from behind, one hand clamping brutally over his mouth, his other arm tightening over his throat. The smith yanked the horse toward him, aiming a blow at the creature’s head with the rasp.
The Keplian went up on his hind legs with a piercing scream of fury, forehooves slashing. His eyes flashed bloodred in the torchlight as the demon-horse struck like a snake. He grabbed the smith’s arm, hoisting the man clean up into the air, his bared teeth ripping through heavy clothing and skin alike to lay the brawny forearm open to the bone. The injured man dangled, shrieking.
“Monso!” Dakar shouted, tearing his mouth free of Hawrel’s grip. “No! Touch them not!”
Monso shook the smith as though he were a rat, then dropped him.
The bronze-sheathed butt of Eydryth’s quarterstaff came down on the Sulcar farmer’s head, sending him staggering, freeing Dakar, who ran to his horse, drawing his belt knife. The blank-shield rushed at him, his own knife out. Dakar struck out, trying to fend off his attacker, but it was clear to the songsmith that the youth was far from an experienced fighter. Even as Eydryth leaped to defend him, the mercenary flicked the knife out of the youth’s grasp. Kicking it away, the big man advanced, his own blade weaving expertly before him.
Eydryth swung at his arm, but Hawrel’s cudgel struck her shoulder, deflecting her stroke and sending a lance of pain down her arm. Gasping from the hurt, she lashed out at him; then trained muscles took over, and she was in the thick of the fight, automatically dodging, parrying, rapping the four remaining attackers sharply with the staff every time they left her an opening.
Cursing, the townsmen staggered back, out of range, wary now. One of them stumbled over the hooded man; then they dragged him with him. The smith was gone. Panting, Eydryth spoke to Dakar without taking her eyes off their foes. “Are you hurt?”
For answer, something large brushed her shoulder, sending her staggering.
Monso!