Yet it must be done. Nothing else short of war—and Carriol was not strong enough now, crippled by the dark, to make such war—could prevent Venniver’s slaughter of the Seeing children. Could prevent Venniver’s insane and false religion from creating untold destruction and pain.
And if he had ever thought, as a child, that the gods were not truly gods, were, as he had once told Tayba, only different from men, he trembled now at that thought.
Soon he entered a valley that rose steeply toward a grove of young trees thrusting up between stones of black lava. Beyond the trees rose steep grassy banks. He saw the winged horses suddenly, for they were standing in shadow by the grove, motionless, watching him approach, five winged ones, their dark eyes knowing, their wings folded tight to their bodies to avoid the low branches of the wood. They seemed—they were waiting for him, yet their thoughts did not touch him. His horse stared uncertainly, smelled them, saw their wings, and wanted to bolt A big russet stallion came forward lifting his wings, touched Ram’s cheek with his muzzle, ignored Ram’s mount utterly. He pushed at Ram’s red hair with his nose, a gesture of respect and love. They had some need, these winged ones, some trouble. Ram tried to understand and could not, the dark held impenetrable silence over them, silence between those who should speak with one another as easily as breathing. At last, unable to communicate, the stallion led Ram deep into the wood. The four other winged ones followed.
There, just in the dappled shade, a winged colt stood twisted into ungainly position, caught in a rope snare. Ram dismounted, drew his knife. The colt was big, a yearling, and had been cut cruelly by the ropes as he fought to free himself. Ram could see where the stout lines had been chewed by the other horses. He began to cut the snare away.
He had cut nearly all the ropes when suddenly his arm touched a rope yet uncut, saplings hissed and a second snare sprang, jerking and choking him as he fought, engulfing him in tangles. And he heard a human shout and suddenly five riders came plunging down the hill. He fought in desperation, slashed at ropes. The winged ones turned, screaming, to battle the riders. Ram, fearing more for them than for himself, shouted them away, saw the colt leap skyward, then the others, as bows were drawn against them with steel-tipped arrows, heard a mare scream as she took an arrow in the leg. The five horses lifted fast into the wind.
The riders circled Ram. A dark Herebian warrior swung down from the saddle, his leather vest marked with the black cross of Kubal, his brutal face close to Ram’s as Ram struggled in fury against the ropes. He was a head taller than Ram and stank of sweat. He jerked Ram up, signaled that Ram’s horse be brought, did not speak, seemed furious that the colt had escaped. But he was sharply interested in Ram, kept staring at his red hair and grinning. The other two men jumped at his bidding like puppets on a stick.
They brought Ram’s horse. Ram fought them uselessly, was too tightly bound to do little more than give them a bruise or two as they tied his hands and feet, then removed the snare and threw him over his saddle, tied him down like a sack of meal so tight the wolf bell pressed sharply into his ribs and the saddle tore at his healing wound. The men reset the snare, then led Ram’s horse lurching up the hill.
Ram’s wound burned like fire. Surely it was torn open. He thought he could feel blood running. Evening fell, the night deepened. Every bone in his body ached from riding belly down across the saddle. The journey seemed to go on forever. It was very late indeed when his horse was led at last into the Kubalese camp.
FIVE
Lights swung wildly in Ram’s face, voices shouted, more lights were flung up so men could stare at him. His horse shied and spun. He wanted to kill every man in the compound, but was helpless as a babe. Numb and cold, likely all his ribs broken after that abominable ride, and the wolf bell had gouged a raw place and his wound was a screaming pain. If he could get his hands on just one . . .
A lantern was shoved into his face, blinding him. When his vision cleared at last, he could see corral fences in the swinging lights, and some sheds. Men crowded around him. Someone poked his wound, bringing pain like a knife. Someone jerked his plunging horse until it stilled.
“Fires of Urdd, a Seer! AgWurt has brung us a Seer!” A hunk of Ram’s hair was pulled, bringing a roar of laughter.
“A better day’s work than one o’ them unnatural winged horses, I say!”
“Where’d they get a Seer?”
“Look, ’e’s a young one, looks—them’s Carriol clothes, this . . .”
“It’s the wolf one, Brage! They call Ramad! Ramad of wolves, this! Why . . .”
“They’ll pay a price for this one in Carriol! Better than a flying horse, AgWurt! Better . . .”
Ram was poked and exclaimed over, then at last was left to himself, still tied face down across the saddle. Much later he was cut loose and jerked roughly off his horse to drop in the mud, so stiff he could hardly roll away from the gelding’s hooves. Someone jerked him up, and he was dragged, still bound, to a pen of thick crossed bars, was shoved inside with such force that he fell against a post and lay with his head reeling.
No one bothered to untie him. The mud in which he lay was redolent with manure. He was too weary to try to rise. He heard a lock snap shut. He must have slept in spite of pain, for when he was aware of anything again the night was still and much colder and there were no lights, just the thin glow of the two moons that had risen higher and were reflected in puddles in the mud. What had waked him? His hands and feet were numb from the bindings, and icy cold. Someone whispered close beside him, a girl’s voice.
She was reaching through the bars, holding out a mug. “Try to move your hands, I’ve taken off the ropes. Try—can you move your feet?”
He reached out, could hardly feel the mug, had to consciously direct his fingers to close around it; drank greedily.
“You are in Kubal,” she whispered. “My father caught you in a snare meant for . . .”
“For the horses of Eresu.” Ram’s voice was hoarse.
“Yes. I tried—I can’t reach your bandage. It’s bloody. Is the pain very great?”
“I’m all right.” He touched numb fingers to his side, felt the wetness; then pulled himself up until he could lean against the wooden cage. She drew back, startled, seemed suddenly uneasy at his closeness. He caught the smooth, slim turn of her cheek, a brief glimpse in the thin wash of moonlight, then she was in shadow again; a strange, stirring glimpse that unsettled him for no reason.
She had lifted her hand, now she touched the fence, seemed lost in some depth of thought he had no way to follow. She said at last, urgently, “Why were you there in the foothills? Did you mean to come to Kubal, Seer?”
“I—I am of Carriol.” She was watching him so intently, almost as if he frightened her. Why was she here in the dark by his pen, why was she helping him? “I was traveling away from Kubal, I was traveling toward the mountains.”
She moved until she could see his face more clearly in the faint moonlight. He was covered with mud and dung, a pretty sight. She almost reached again, drew her hand back. “You are . . . you are Ramad.”
“How did they know me, those men?”
“There are fifteen Seers in Carriol. Jerthon of Carriol is older than you. There are some old men, some women. There is only one other young man, and he is thin and freckled, older. There is only one as young as you and red of hair. And brazen sometimes, so the captives say.”