Part Two - years later
The sound of hunting horns—faint at first, then swelling louder—filled the air and silenced the forest. Startled, Dain lifted his head from the shallow pool of water where he’d paused for a drink. He listened intently. The wailing blat of the horns came again, from his left, the southwest. Dain glanced at the gray clouds scudding low above the treetops, and tried to gauge distance and time. He knew he must be nearly out of the Dark Forest. Rising to his feet, he listened, straining to hear hoofbeats.
Ah . . . yes, crashing like the muted thunder of a distant summer storm. That meant the hunters were Mandrian, for no one in Nold hunted with such noise and fanfare. Most especially not now, when the dwarf clans were at war, their drumbeats throbbing late at night and the smoke from burned-out burrows hanging in the air.
Dain swallowed hard. Never before had he ventured this close to the border. But now was no time to lose his courage. Thia’s life depended on what he managed to accomplish today.
Down deep within the knot inside his belly, he felt an ache of fearful despair, but he ignored his emotions and set off at a ground-eating trot, determined to get help for his injured sister.
Dodging and darting through the undergrowth of dense forest, he angled toward the approaching sound of the hunters.
If he was close enough to the border for men to be venturing into the forest, that meant he was nearing settlements and villages, places where he could steal food and perhaps a horse.
Sudden terror, alien and fierce, burst through his mind. With it came a stag that burst from cover and bounded across Dain’s trail. The animal passed so close to him that he saw the blood splattering its dusty coat, the heaving flanks, the white of its eye, the dark pink flare within its nostril. Awash in fear and pain, the creature’s mind swept across Dain’s, making him stagger to one side and grip a tree trunk for support. Dain closed the stag’s senses from his own, shaking his head to clear it.
Seconds later, he heard a deep baying sound that made the hairs rise on the back of his neck. A pack of tall, brawny red dogs came crashing through the thickets and closed in on the faltering stag.
Dain felt the purposeful flick of their minds: chase/chase/chase/chase. He dived for cover, for now the horses and riders were upon him, crashing and blundering through the undergrowth and trees. They were shouting and blowing their horns in great excitement. One rode past Dain so closely he was nearly hit in the face by the rider’s spurred foot.
In a heartbeat, they thundered past, kicking up dirt and leaves behind them. He left his cover and followed them, knowing the stag could not run much longer. Indeed, only a few minutes later the stag went down in a small clearing. The dogs leaped on it with yelps and snarls. For a moment there was milling confusion while the hunters beat off the dogs. Someone shot an arrow into the stag’s creamy throat. The noble creature turned its gaze toward its killer for a moment, then its head sank to the ground and it lay still. Whooping, the hunters surrounded their prey. They were four youths, each about Dain’s own age. Richly dressed in velvet cloth and furs, gilded daggers gleaming at their belts, their bows held slack in their hands, they slapped each other on the back and congratulated each other. Three older men in chain mail and green surcoats without crests and one muscular man wearing the crossed-axe crest of a protector stayed in the saddle and watched the proceedings silently. Dain crept closer, focusing all his attention on the bulging saddlebags of finely worked leather. He could smell food inside—the pale tender bread baked in a puff, wedges of cheese, hanks of cold meat all wrapped in neat waxed-linen bundles. His own hunger was like a living thing inside him, driving him forward, almost making him forget caution.
With his mind, he stilled the nearest horse, turning it around and luring it toward him at the edge of the clearing. Snorting, the handsome animal tossed its head and came forward a few steps, then nibbled at a few blades of grass before coming another few steps closer. Finally it stopped and began to eat in earnest, its reins dragging on the ground.
Dain admired its sleekness, seeing how well groomed and cared for it was. Its splendid leather saddle and cloth alone would bring a fine price. Dain could sell the trappings and the horse for enough gold to support him and Thia for a year. But most of all, he wanted the food in those saddlebags. Hovering at the edge of the thicket, Dain dared not venture into the open. Keeping a wary eye on the armed men, he crouched close enough to a tangle of briars for the thorns to snag his tattered clothing, and used his mind to lure the horse into coming yet closer.
The young hunters joked and yelped in high spirits. The largest one, with shoulders as burly as a grown man’s, passed around a wineskin with a furtive giggle while another boy knelt to dip his fingers in the stag’s blood. He smeared crimson streaks across his face, then marked the faces of his companions.
Fascinated despite his sense of urgency, Dain stared at these Mandrian youths, who were his own age and size, yet as different from him as night from day. He had seen Mandrians before, of course. Jorb had done much trade with the nobles, who valued a well-crafted sword. But it was seldom that Dain saw boys of such wealth and magnificence, with such beautiful horses and fine leather tack. Bold youths indeed, to enter the Dark Forest after game. Dain had heard many tales among the dwarves, tales of the foolish Mandrians who quested in the Dark Forest for the legendary Chalice of Eternal Life or the mythical Field of Skulls, which Jorb said was no place for any common mortal to see. Such searchers often failed to return. The Dark Forest was a mysterious place, full of impenetrable sectors and traps for the unwary. Even the dwarves knew there were parts of the forest where no living creature should go. But these young hunters laughed and sucked blood from each other’s fingers and boasted, each claiming in turn to have shot the arrow which first wounded the stag. The red dogs twisted and circled among them, panting and whining for attention. Dain returned his concentration to the horse, which would not quite venture to the edge of the clearing, despite all his enticements. Perhaps he should risk being seen. If he mounted the horse, he could outrun the others and lose himself quickly in the dense undergrowth. After all, what harm could such boys do him? They were nothing but brave talk and blowing wind. Right now they were discussing whether they should break off the stag’s antlers or cut off its entire head. The rich, wasteful fools weren’t interested in its flavorful, dark meat or the beauty of its hide.
A corner of Dain’s mind urged him to wait out of sight, safe and quiet, until they left with their prize. Then he could help himself to all the venison he could carry. He knew how to build a slow, smoking fire, how to cut the meat into strips and dry it into leathery jerky.
Wait, he cautioned himself.
But the horse was so close. A fleet-footed, strong animal that would carry Thia to a village large enough to support a healer. The Bnen arrow point had snapped off inside her. It festered there, bringing her much pain and fever. Right now she needed tending as much as they both needed food. Drawing a deep breath, Dain cautiously sent his thoughts in the direction of the four men overseeing their charges. Look at them, he urged. Watch what they do. Help them. The protector turned his mount to ride toward the hunters, who were now hacking inexpertly at the stag’s head. The other men looked that way. Quick as thought, Dain slipped from cover and went to the horse. Alarmed, it lifted its head from the grass, but Dain soothed it with a thought and swept his fingers gently across the animal’s shoulder.
Reassured, the horse bent its head again to eat. Dain drew in scents of warm horse, leather, the boy who’d ridden the saddle, and the ham that was so enticingly close. He gathered the reins and put his foot in the stirrup. Without warning, the horse squealed in fury and swung away from him. Hopping on one foot, Dain tried to climb into the saddle, but the horse reared, lashing out with its forefeet.
Attack/attack/attack. Its mind was awash with heat. It lunged at him, snapping with huge, yellow teeth. Dain smacked its muzzle and stumbled back, falling in the process.
Across the clearing, the boys stood frozen, staring at him with astonishment. Then the handsomest, best dressed of the lot stepped forward and pointed at Dain.
“A thief!” he called out. “Sir Los, he’s stealing my horse!” With shouts, the armed men drew their swords and came rushing at Dain. He was busy trying to escape from the horse, which sought to trample him, but a shrill whistle from the boy in the blue, fur-trimmed tunic swung the horse away from him. It trotted to its master, and Dain jumped to his feet and ran. At that moment, two more riders—one clad in chain mail and green surcoat, the other in plain green wool, with a horn slung across his barrel chest and a pointed cap on his head—galloped into the clearing between Dain and his pursuers. The men swore at each other, while the boys ran to mount up. The dogs milled and circled, barking.
“It’s an eld!” someone shouted in a shrill voice.
“It’s a thief!” said someone else.
“Get him!”
One of the men bore down on Dain, but he ducked to one side, evading swing, and scrambled away. He dived into a briar thicket where the horseman couldn’t follow. Burrowing deep, Dain scratched his hands and face and snagged his clothing. Squinting his eyes to protect them, he wiggled deeper into the thicket, his heart pounding too fast, his breath coming quick and short. There was no time to curse the horse that had turned on him, no time to tell himself he should have just stolen the food and been satisfied. The Mandrians valued their horses the way dwarves valued their treasures. He was in for it now.
“Dogs, go’t” came the command, and with yelping barks the brutes came after Dain the same way they’d coursed the stag.
Hearing one dog bay over the noise of the others, Dain felt a chill go through the marrow of his bones. He was now their prey, their quarry, and the dogs would run him until they caught him and tore him apart.
With a little sob, he burst clear of the briars on the other side, gaining himself a few seconds of time, and ran for his life.
Dodging and darting on foot, unable to take cover in an underground burrow because the dogs would only dig him out, he ran with all the fleetness he possessed. Dogs and horses drew ever closer, and only his quick wits and sudden changes of direction kept him ahead of them.
His best chance of escape was to head deep into the forest, but his pursuers seemed to know what he would try. They kept driving him the wrong way, pushing him more and more toward the west. He tried to double back and slip between them, knowing that the depths of the Dark Forest would save him. But an arrow hit him, slicing through the meat of his forearm, just below his elbow. The pain came swift and sharp. He stumbled and fell, then rolled desperately back onto his feet while one of the boys shouted, “I hit him! Did your highness see? My arrow caught him.”
Clamping his left hand on his bleeding arm, Dain struggled on, but by then a horse and rider blocked his path east. Dain turned west yet again, cursing to himself and wishing he had the powers of a sorcerel that would char them to ashes. He called on Fim and Rod, dour gods of the dwarves, to bring a war party of Bnen forth to attack these trespassing Mandrians, but the dwarf gods did not hear the prayers of an eldin boy. No one interceded. No one rescued him. He had only his wits and his nimbleness, and all the while his pursuers kept maneuvering him the wrong way, until the dense thickets grew sparse and the trees spread apart, thinning into open country.
Beyond the edge of the forest, Dain could see a wide, empty marshland—all water and sky. On the horizon, a black rim of trees stood along the opposite side of the river, too far away to offer him any hope. Out there in the open, he could not outrun them. They would hunt him down and kill him without mercy, the same way they’d killed the stag.
For sport, with no need for meat or survival.
He was pagan, with pagan blood. They would not let him go—
With his breath sobbing in his throat, he dropped down into a briar-choked gully where the horses couldn’t go. He doubled back, ducking low to keep himself hidden beneath the canopy of shtac and perlimon saplings growing thick on the banks. Pushing apart their intertwined branches, the smell damp crimson and orange-gold leaves thick in his nostrils he splashed through a trickle of ankle-deep water and ran along the course to throw the dogs off his scent. Then he dived into a stand of russet-leaved harlberries and crouched low and still, making no sound or movement, even to breathe deeply while the riders cantered past him, up on the bank of the gully. He was a hare, his clothing the dappled color of bark and leaves, his hair dark, his pale skin dark enough to blend with the land. Blood from his wounded oozed between his fingers. He could smell it, hot and coppery. He feared the dogs would smell it too. When the riders went past him, he waited a little while, then scuttled out from beneath the bush and went on until the gully ended and he had to climb out. But ahead of him, blocking the way back into the Dark forest, was one of the guards, the oldest and wiliest of them, gaze sweeping the area without mercy, his drawn sword silver in his hand.
Dain hissed softly, cursing the man in his heart, and slithered back unseen down the damp, leaf-strewn bank of the gully, retraced his steps until the gully grew shallow and wide, opening to the bank of marsh. Ahead of him lay open country, a a of mud, water, and weeds with a river flowing beyond. The boys milled about on the bank with their sleek horses lathered and steaming. The dogs whined and snuffled, casting back and forth for the scent they’d lost. Careful to stay upwind, Dain crept along behind the boys and angled his way into the marsh unseen.
When he stepped into the water, he nearly yelped aloud was icy cold, so cold it burned. He plunged forward as fast he could without splashing until he reached the freshly reeds growing in the water. Shivering and breathing hard, he struggled through them, bruising his feet on the sharp stalks by the cutters. Reaching some taller, uncut reeds, he crouched there, his head level with their tops. His lungs burned in his chest; his muscles ached with exhaustion. Clouds as dirty as undyed wool scudded low over the marsh. No wind blew, but the cold air was numbing enough. With his breath fogging about him, Dain waited a moment, then waded through the knee-deep water even farther into the reeds and crouched again. Constant shivers ran through him, as much from fear as from cold. He clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. He had to be silent now, as still and silent as the mist lying upon the river that flowed behind him. The wound in his right forearm dripped pale blood into the water. He held his arm beneath the surface in hopes of stanching the bleeding and hiding the smell from the dogs.
The coldness of the water burned his skin and raised huge goose bumps across his body. Sucking in his belly, he bowed his head and let quick breaths hiss in and out through his gritted teeth. His pulse thumped so fast it bruised his throat. His mind was wide open, receiving the crimson bloodlust of the dogs—chase/chase/chase; kill/kill/kill—and the flick, flick, flick of men-minds, blurs of thoughts, shapes, and colors he could barely shut out. A whimper came from between his jaws. He held his breath, savagely starving himself for air. He’d already made enough mistakes today. No need now to lead them right to him because he could not hold his fear silent. To his right he saw a great levee built of dirt to hold the marsh back. A road paved with stone topped the levee, which curved to accommodate the lazy bend of river. Beyond, trees stood silhouetted against the dirty sky. Spangled in colors of gold, scarlet, and rust, most of them were dropping their leaves. Distant, thin spirals of smoke rose into the sky. A village, he thought, feeling a faint measure of hope. If he could get there, get to the smithy and call himself Jorb’s apprentice, he might find refuge of a sort. Most Mandrians were suspicious of strangers, let alone those of his kind, and were inclined to toss those of the bent eye into the nearest horse trough or stream, for despite their priests and large churches, the old beliefs of Mandria claimed that those of pagan blood melted in water.
Dain glanced down at the muddy water enclosing him at the rib line and grimaced. He wished at this moment that the superstition were true. Melting would be a more merciful end than what the hunters planned for him. He tried to calm himself. Jorb always said no good came of panic. He understood now that he’d tried to steal a war-trained horse, one taught not to let a stranger mount it. Even had he it into the forest, he could never have gotten on its back without being thrown. It would have been useless for his purposes. Well, the mistake had been an honest one. It was past. He set it aside and wasted no more thought on self-recrimination. Only let these hunters go, he thought impatiently, holding his muscles rigid against the shivers which racked him. Let them go before he froze to death in this icy water. Keebacks perching in a nearby copse of trees on the rose with a sudden flurry of wings. Their harsh squawking startled Dain. A cry choked in his throat, and he nearly burst his miserable hiding place on the force of their instinct. But he could not run another step. His legs were spent, muscles cramped and trembling. His stomach felt as though it had been knotted and was being drawn up by slow degree; his throat to choke him. He crouched lower in the icy water, his gaze on the boys still searching for him among the trees though at this distance he could not distinguish their wore could hear the frustration in their voices as they called to each other.
Dain grinned to himself, feeling his whole body shake. His toes had gone numb. He could barely feel his feet now. Clenching his jaw tight to keep his teeth from chattering, he watched his baffled pursuers and knew they hadn’t expected him to actually come out here into the open.
Go away, he thought with all his might. But he was too and spent now to focus his thoughts enough to really persuade them.
“A track!” shouted the huntsman. “He took to the water!” Hoofbeats came thudding across the muddy banks of the marsh. A horse neighed as it floundered belly-deep in water. The dogs’ noise changed note, and Dain stopped breathing, watched the dogs rush to the water’s edge, only to leap 1 With lolling tongues and waving tails, they barked in his direction as though they could see him in his paltry hiding place. The riders rode back and forth, discussing the matter. Go away, Dain thought fiercely while the terrible numbness crept up his legs. His strength was waning. He did not think he could hold himself crouched there and still in the freezing water much longer.
Two of the dogs jumped into the water, then scrambled out to shake themselves and whine at their masters.
For an instant the sun broke through the storm clouds to shine upon supple leather, velvets, and fur-trimmed caps. It tipped the hunting spears with gold. “He’s gone to the water, right enough,” said one of the men in chain mail. His gnarled voice carried clearly across the marsh. “Morde a day, but he’s sly as a vixlet. Yer highness’s fine dogs cannae catch scent in yon marsh.” The boy he spoke to snatched off his cap to reveal hair that shone as bright as gold coin. It was the handsome one, the boy whose horse Dain had tried to steal. “I’m aware of that,” he said angrily. His voice rang out in a clear tenor, like the song of crystal. “But he’s not gone far. He’s spilled enough of his cursed white blood to weaken him. I’ll wager a gold dreit he’s out there in those very reeds now, shivering and trying to cast a spell on us. Thum! Mierre! Attend me, both of you. What say you to it?”
Dain shrank even lower in the water. His eyes were wide and unblinking, focused on nothing save the hunters. His heart thudded harder than ever. Why had fate crossed his path with that of a prince? And gods, this prince guessed his intentions too plainly.
The youth called Thum made no answer to the prince’s call, but the other one—burly in the shoulders and moon-faced—kicked his mount closer to his prince. They faced each other at the water’s edge, their bodies slack in the saddle while their horses drank. Overhead, the keebacks sailed the skies, crying out their harsh call. In the distance, a bell began to ring, and another hunting horn blew.
“Hear that?” Thum said. “We’re being called in.”
The others ignored him.
“I say aye, my prince,” the boy called Mierre answered. “Our quarry’s nearby, all right. The marsh is narrow this way between the road and the river. If he goes on he’ll have to swim the river, and I doubt he can do that. Not after the run he’s had.”
“Cornered,” the golden-haired prince said in satisfaction. “Prince Gavril,” Thum said, his voice fine and clear. “It’s to be a damned cold wetting, riding into that muck just to fish out a thief. A poor end to fine hunting. Let’s leave the wretch to freeze and go back to the hold as we are bidden.”
His sensible words gave Dain a trickle of hope.
“No!” Prince Gavril said. “I’ve not run my horse hard to go home now. If you’re afraid of wet feet, go in and yourself fire. I’m not finished here.” The boys glared at each other. Even at a short distance I could feel Thum’s exasperation and Gavril’s iron-hard determination.
“He’s nothing, the poor wretch,” Thum said quietly. “Not worth our trouble.”
“He stole from me,” Gavril said. “Such an offense cannot go unpunished.” “He was after food, nothing more, I wager,” Thum said refusing to back down. “He looked scrawny enough. Maybe a refugee from the clan wars.” Mierre laughed. “He’s an eld, you fool, not a dwarf, haven’t you seen either before?”
Thum’s freckled face turned red. “A starving thief is not worth a flogging for failing to come in when we are called.” Gavril pointed at him. “You,” he said loudly and contemptuously, “are a fool. I fear no flogging. Lord Odfrey would not dare.”
Thum’s face turned even redder. He bowed low over his saddle, and Dain could feel the force of his angry embarrasment. “As my lord prince says,” he replied curtly.
Gavril wheeled his horse away. “You and you,” he said to the men, “spread yourselves along the bank. Sir Los, go there. Mierre, you and Kaltienne stand ready to catch him when I flush him out. Thum, you are excused.” The freckle-faced boy gave his prince a small salute wheeled his horse harshly around. Spurring the animal with unnecessary force, he went galloping away, his horse’s hooves throwing up big chunks of mud behind him. Mierre shrugged his burly shoulders and muttered something to Kaltienne, who laughed unkindly.
Prince Gavril raised a curved horn that he wore slung across his shoulders by a long leather cord. He blew a note that made the dogs howl. It pierced Dain’s head. He clapped both hands to his ears in pain, and when the sound faded, taking his hands away, he found Gavril splashing halfway to his hiding place. On the bank, the dogs milled and circled around the legs of the horses, the plumes of their tails waving proudly, while the riders spread themselves along the bank in readiness.
Dain shifted his feet in the water, feeling increasingly cornered. Behind him stretched the expanse of marsh, dotted with reeds and little hillocks of mud that gave way to the channel of the river. Out there, the water ran swift and deep. Dain knew he could not go that way, for the river’s current would suck him under in a twinkling should he try to swim it.
Thia, he thought in despair. Forgive me. I have failed you. But Thia was too far away to hear him. Would she wonder when he did not return tonight? Would she surface from her burning fever long enough to worry about him? Would she ever know of her abandonment as she slipped closer to death? Would she have to go into the hands of the gods unshriven and unsung, lacking salt on her tongue to ease her journey into the third world? Would she die without his hand gripping hers, alone in the darkness? His grief was like an anvil in his chest, holding him down. Dain tried to stay in his hiding place, hoping that if he did not move he would remain unseen. However, the rational part of his mind knew that the uncut reeds provided too thin a cover to hide him for more than a few moments longer. If he jumped up, all would see him. He couldn’t outrun the horse, even in the water. No, his only chance was to completely submerge himself in the shallow water and try to crawl to safety.
Breathing ... He needed a hollow reed, but there was no time to search for one. The reeds growing around him were green. Their centers would be full of a pale, fleshy substance. Fighting desperation, Dain crouched lower in the water. Gavril rode closer, urging his reluctant horse onward with little nudges of his spurs. By now, Dain could see the boy’s white, set face, the dried streaks of blood still on his cheeks. The look of murderous intent in his violet-blue eyes made Dain’s blood run cold.
Those vivid blue eyes flashed over him and beyond, searching the marsh, then flashed back. They stared right at Dain and widened. It was as though the curtain of reeds had been swept aside, leaving Dain exposed. Time froze to a standstill in which Dain saw every detail of his pursuer, from the clenched knuckles of Gavril’s rein hand, to the golden bracelet of royalty upon his wrist, to the purple stitching on the chest strap of the horse. Gold and purple ... colors of the Mandrian king’s household. Dain felt small and faint. Even when he’d tried to steal the horse, he hadn’t noticed the colors, hadn’t paid heed.
I am not your rightful prey! flashed his thoughts.
Gavril winced. “Get out of my head, damn you!” he shouted. He drew a short hunting javelin from his stirrup quiver and hurled it.
Time remained slow, while the fear in Dain swelled like a wineskin. He had to move, had to dodge, had to ...
The swelling inside him burst. Fear scalded the back of throat and burned through his chest like acid. The paralysis holding him prisoner broke away, and at the last possible second he flinched aside. The javelin skimmed him harmlessly and thunked into the water near his foot. One end quivered in the air moment, then the entire javelin sank slowly beneath water. Dain gulped in relief along with air.
Gavril glared at him in even greater fury. “Damn you! The next shaft will come at you so hard none of your accursed spells will cast it aside.” He reached for another javelin, but his quiver was empty. Dain could have bent and seized the weapon now settled into the mud at his feet, but he thought the chase must at last be over. He rose dripping to his feet and held his hands out to his sides in a silent plea for mercy.
Now that his panic had calmed somewhat, all he had to was push a little at Prince Gavril’s mind—a man mind, and therefore hard to master, but not impossible—and there would be mercy. He could go free, go on to the village and get help for Thia there. . . .
Gavril’s head jerked. Color flared into his face. “Go on! Run amok in the village? What spell are you casting on me? Begone! Begone, in the name of Tomias!”
As he spoke, half in fury and half in hysteria, his hand ral at his doublet, loosening it. He drew forth a shining, spiral circle of gold upon a fine chain and brandished it like a weapon. “Get back, demon!” There was no power in his amulet, but the emotion crackling through the prince was of such intensity Dain backed up a step. The naked fear in Gavril’s face faded, to be replaced by a surge of new confidence. He brandished the amulet again, his blue eyes alight with something unpleasant. “So you do fear some things, monster,” he said in a voice of such hatred Dain backed up another step. Gavril pressed the sides of his horse, and the large, snorting creature sidled closer. Dain’s nostrils were flooded with the strong scent of sweaty horse, stronger than Prince Gavril’s man scent, stronger than the fishy stench of the mud.
“Bow to the Circle of Tomias, monster. Bow to it!” Dain had heard the name of Tomias spoken before, but he did not understand why a god should have a man-name. He had seen the man-god’s name chiseled on the lintels of village churches. He had heard others call out to this man-god in fear or invoke the name as an oath. But Dain did not live under the power of Tomias. Jorb had taught him to beware the ways of Mandrians and their religion. They took insult quickly, especially from those they considered pagan. Dain had been warned long ago that if he ever spoke Tomias’s name in the hearing of a Mandrian, chances were his tongue would be cut out for defilement.
Thus, he could not obey this angry boy’s command, even had he wished to, which he did not. There were currents of falsehood and entrapment running through Gavril’s voice.
“Bow to this emblem of our holy prophet,” Gavril said, “and I shall let you live, though you be a wretched pagan and a miserable thief.” Dain glared up at him, then laughed with harsh disbelief. “You lie.” Pink stained Gavril’s pale cheeks, clashing with the dark streaks of blood. He stared, his blue eyes bulging, as though he could not believe Dain’s defiance. “Your prophet has naught to do with this day,” Dain said, his tongue curling around the peculiar inflections of the Mandrian language. “You hunt with a full belly and own many horses. Why care you if I take what I need? You are not beggared by it.”
Gavril dropped his circle, letting it swing free by its gold chain. He said nothing, but reached for something off the opposite side of his saddle. Dain stepped back, but he was unprepared for the thin, black blur that came at him. He threw up his wounded arrn to protect his face, and the whip snapped across his wound so viciously he screamed.
“Pagan spawn! Monster! I’ll be done with you this day,” Gavril shouted, whipping Dain’s head and shoulders again and again. “I’ll crush the life from you for daring to steal from me. There’ll be one less pagan alive to taint the air I breathe!”
With every other word a blow cracked down. Dain reeled under burst after burst of agony. He tried to dodge the whip and couldn’t. The horse snorted and trampled around him, cutting him off at every turn. Every lash of the whip was a white-hot brand that choked off the breath in his lungs. Staggering to one side, he slipped and fell into the water. The horse’s hooves splashed down just a finger’s thickness from his skull. Dain floundered, trying to get away. His feet slipped in the mud, giving him no purchase. In the distance he could hear a voice shouting in protest. “Stop it!” one of the men was saying. “My lord prince, that’s enough!” But Gavril either did not hear or he ignored the man. He wheeled his horse around so sharply it reared, and tried to make it trample Dain. Frantically Dain rolled to one side, swallowing muddy water as he did so, and floundered out of the way as the horse swung around again. Dain groped through the mud for the javelin. Half-stumbling, half on his knees, he scrabbled and searched in desperation. If he could find the javelin, he could defend himself. The whip caught Dain across the back of his neck, directly on bare skin, with such force his mind went sheet-white, then black. He toppled forward, no more than half-conscious. Dimly he thought that his head must have been severed from his body, which he could not feel.
He hit the water, facedown, and sank like a stone. But the cold water on his cuts awakened a fire so brutal it revived him. He jerked and pushed himself from the water, and his hand found the javelin in the mud. Slinging back his dripping hair and dragging in a deep breath, he coughed up some of the water he’d swallowed.
Somewhere to his left came another shout and the sound of splashing, but Dain paid that no heed. He rose to his feet, his gaze locked with Gavril’s. “Leave me be!” he shouted, or tried to, but his voice was choked from the water he’d swallowed and came out with little force.
Gavril glared at him. “Why won’t you die, damn you? Why do you fight me? You’re dead already. Surrender to it!”
As he spoke, Gavril drew his dagger, and the blade was thin and well honed and deadly. Dain recognized in a single, trained glance how tempered it was, how beautifully balanced. He could smell the strength of the metal, and the intent in Gavril’s eyes was just as deadly.
Dain shook his head. Inside him came an explosion of rage so hot it charred away his intestines and seared his very bones.
He lifted the javelin.
Alarm replaced the mad fervor in Gavril’s dark blue eyes. On the bank, the protector shouted, “Your highness! Come away!”
“I can handle him!” Gavril shouted with a brave gesture. But Dain could see his fright.
It wasn’t enough. Dain wanted Gavril to choke on fear, to feel it in his own bile, to scream with it, to have his liver melt to a puddle and all his strength flow out of his body. He wanted Gavril to beg for mercy, to feel his breath come short, to fall off that brute horse and grovel in the mud. But most of all, Dain wanted to ram this spear into the soft part of Gavril’s belly, to grind it in until steel grated on spine bone and caught there.
“You dare not strike me,” Gavril said. He held up his wrist to make his sleeve fall back and reveal the gold bracelet. “Do you know what this means, monster? To strike at me is to strike at the king, and that is treason punishable by ...” Dain stopped listening. In a flash of cunning he realized he must first attack the horse to unseat Gavril. Then he would have Gavril at his mercy. “Your turn,” he said, and lunged.
A whip lashed out from behind him, catching the upraised javelin and flicking it from his grasp. In dismay, Dain watched it go spinning over the reeds and into the water, truly lost now. He whirled. This time he faced not one of Gavril’s companions, but instead a man with lines carved deep in his weathered face and eyes as dark as night. A man in a fur cloak and silver chain, a sword hilt angled beside his hip and rings glittering on his lean fingers. “Hold this action!” the man said in a voice like thunder. “Both of you stay where you are.”
The murderous rage faded from Dain so swiftly he felt hollow and dizzy. For a moment he saw two of this harsh-faced man in his splendid fur cloak. Dain blinked, and there was one again. But the old shortness of breath was back, like a hand constricting his throat. He felt his blood oozing down his arm again, making rapid drips into the water.
Gavril’s pale cheeks had turned bright scarlet. “Chevard Odfrey!” he said shrilly. “My lord, you saw! You saw what this creature attempted against my person. You came just in time—” “Silence, if you please, your highness,” the chevard said curtly. His voice was harsh and flat in tone, as though he had no music in him. “I saw a great many things, most of them which you must account for.”