But every moment I wasted trying to convince the stud was time away from Del and Sula.
One day there, one day back. And magic to recover in between.
In desperation, an answer occurred. Umir had ordered I be given a burnous. Now, faced with a recalcitrant stud and needing to ride on, I tore off the burnous. I dug a hollow in the sand, spread the burnous over it. Squirted all of the bota’s contents into the cloth-lined basin, emptied a second as well.
“There,” I said. “Drink. And hurry up before the water soaks through!”
The stud, of a wonder, drank.
“Should have thought of this first,” I muttered.
The stud’s water was gone quickly. The last sips remaining in the two botas ran down my throat. Not enough, but I wasn’t doing the work. The stud was.
I grabbed the wet burnous from the sand, slung it up and over the saddle. The bota strings went over my shoulder. I swung up hastily, botas flapping against my ribs, and kicked the stud back into a run.
“Sorry, old son. Just no choice.”
The sun went down. The moon came up. Light was muted, but I could see well enough. Now Punja sand was intermixed with rocks, scrub, low trees, dry and stickery grass. Snake and vermin holes. But there was also a track, a well-worn track with better footing, because this was the main route across the Punja.
Sweat lay on the stud’s neck, reins rubbing it into white foam. Sweat rolled down his flanks. He wasn’t laboring yet—he was much too fit—but I didn’t doubt that he felt the exertion.
I halted him. Jumped off. Dug a basin. Threw burnous across it, emptied two botas. This time I didn’t need to tell the stud to drink.
I drank, too. A live horse with a dead rider would do me no good, especially if I was the dead rider. Four of ten full botas remained, but it wasn’t much under the circumstances. Umir had thought of water for riding. He hadn’t thought of water for running.
Sweat rolled down the stud’s face. The hair beneath his headstall and halter was soaked. As I stood before him, he pressed his head against me and commenced to rub. I nearly fell down.
It wasn’t affection. He was wiping off his face.
Burnous across the saddle. Botas flapping against me. Back up and into the saddle.
“Sorry, old son. We’ve got to.”
And on we ran.
The next time we stopped, his nostrils worked like bellows. The interiors were very pink. He shook his head up and down. Shook his entire body. Nearly pushed me aside before I could fill the burnous basin.
He drank it all, then peed.
I hadn’t needed to pee since we’d left Umir’s palace. And that was dangerous.
I unfastened another bota. Sucked a third of it down my throat. Realized how badly I needed it.
The sun was down, the night was warm, not hot, but our pace was what mattered under the sky, not the temperature.
I rested my forehead head against the stud’s sweaty face. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
Trot. Walk. Lope. Over and over again. Trot. Walk. Lope. Julah was far away. The canyon father yet, and the broken stone formation that housed a broken sword.
I watered him. I watered myself. Both of us needed more. But the moon was far gentler than the Southron sun. I urged him onward. Not far, not far, I said. Not so far, I lied.
Sunrise. Heatrise.
Gods above and below, my back was killing me. And when I finally peed, the blood in it was bright.
He was winded. He labored. We had somehow wandered off the track. I couldn’t remember why or when.
I reined in. Practically fell out of the saddle. Got down. Dug the basin. Emptied two botas. Kept some sips for me. He plunged his muzzle down as deeply as he could into the shallow hollow, sucking water. Under the circumstances, a pitiful amount.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, from a throat that felt dry to bleeding.
He drank the basin dry. He swung his head into me as I sat upon the ground. I collapsed backward into the dirt, the rocks; the scrubby, stickery grass.
“No more,” I told him. “Not until tomorrow.” I could barely move. “Tomorrow. For now, a short rest. Catch your breath. I’ll catch mine.”
I woke when the stud moved. I had tied his halter rope around my wrist so I wouldn’t sleep too long. He was stretching to reach another hummock of grass. By the sun’s position, it was past time for us to go.
Too long, too long, I thought. No time was ever enough.
I climbed up into the saddle, swearing at the pain in my lower back. That punched kidney was mightily offended. I bit into my lip, settled down into the saddle, and told the stud it was time to go again.
Once again, we ran.
The choppiness of his gait roused me. I’d fallen asleep in the saddle. The halter’s lead-rope hung down to the ground. Just about the time I was coherent enough to understand, the stud stepped on the rope. It stopped him dead, and I nearly came off.
He fought the rope. He didn’t realize that he was standing on it. Until he moved, it wouldn’t. I swung a leg over the saddle, let my weight follow it down, and ended up on my butt. I pounded a fist on his fetlock. “Move it. Move it.”
Outraged, he lifted his hoof. I yanked the lead-rope from under it.
No stopping now. No delay. We had to reach Beit al’Shahar. Had to reach the sword.
“—sorry,” I gasped.
I dug, I poured. The stud drank it up.
Not enough. Not enough.
And I realized, all of a sudden, that we were not upon the track that cut the Punja in two. We were entirely elsewhere, and I had no memory of going there.
I grabbed the stirrup. Pulled myself mostly upright. Changed my grip from stirrup to saddle. Breathed hard, then stuffed my foot into the stirrup and hauled myself up. Butt in the saddle, reins in my hands, I sat very still. There were no words for the clenching, the cramping of my back.
“Let’s go,” I said. Nothing more was in me.
The stud’s gait ran ragged. I roused, realized he’d been carrying me without direction. Now he wanted direction. Now he needed it.
I reined him in. Dragged my right leg across the saddle. Crossed his rump with a flopping foot. Tried to lower myself carefully. Instead, I fell.
The reins were in my hand. The halter rope as well. Sudden tautness in leather, in rope, pierced the fog in my head. And I watched, in stupefaction, as the stud surrendered.
He stood with all four legs spread. He tried to equalize the weight, to prop himself up. Instead, his knees gave twice. Snapped back into place. Then he canted forward, folded his forelegs, and awkwardly went down. The hind legs followed where the front legs led.
The expulsion of breath was loud. The stud bobbed his head, then let the weight of bone take him. His muzzle went into soil and rock. He propped it there, blew dust from the soil. After a moment he heaved himself up partway, splayed front legs, then rolled onto his side.
Gods gods gods.
So little left in him.
I peeled back his upper lip. Set the bota between cheek and teeth. Pressed it, squirting what liquid was left into his mouth. He did not protest this time.
I lay on my belly. Swung an arm across his neck. Into the soil, I laughed for no reason I could think of. Small clouds of dust puffed up.