Andre Norton - Ciara's Song

“Five dead, one who’ll probably die shortly, and six alive. The live ones are all tied. One of them said something awful to Jontar’s wife. She hit him with her skillet again so I had them all gagged as well.” Trovagh looked at her proudly. She was a grubby, untidy girl, panting with exertion and excitement—and the best lieutenant a leader could have had.

“Let’s get them into a barn with guards. Then we need to bring the horses in.”

“Already done. The horses are over at Marin’s being rubbed down. I told everyone that we were awarding a horse and its gear to each garth that had fought. Was that right?”

“Yes.” He made a mental count. “Yes. Sure. That’s five horses to them, seven to the Keep. What are they like?”

Ciara looked thoughtful. “Most of them are ordinary farm horses, but there’s a couple there that aren’t. They’re a sort of yellow, with black manes and tails. They’ve been well-treated, too. Whoever amongst that lot were riding them has looked after both very well. They aren’t young, but they’d be worth keeping. The garths won’t want them. They wouldn’t be right for working land.” She shivered suddenly. “Isn’t it awfully cold now?”

Trovagh shivered, too. It did seem to have gone really chilly in the last few minutes. Maybe snow was on its way. He shuddered again before realizing.

“No, it isn’t the cold, it’s the letdown after a battle. Hanion told me about it. Get into the house and start the women making soup for everyone.” He studied the moon briefly. “Father will be here soon with the guards. If we can give them all something hot to drink while we show him our bandits, he may be a bit less furious.”

That, Ciara thought, scuttling hastily inside to start soup pots simmering, is something to hope for. She felt fey and oddly light as she moved. Under her bodice her pendant seemed to have warmed. Her hand stole up to curve about it. She still visited the silver mist most nights before she slept. But obedient to the dangers of being known, she had not used it to heal again. Was there something she should do now?

She was distracted from that by other demands. On the fire hob two large pots of soup steamed. Ciara rounded up as many mugs and bowls as the women could find her. To that she added all the moderately fresh bread that could be found at short notice.

A third pot of soup was placed at the ready then a fourth. Tonight was a night to forget care, to share in the celebrations. It wasn’t every day that a garth earned a new horse at no cost. They had paid no coin, and shed no blood. The young lord and his lady had fought beside them. Someone produced a flute, playing an old dance tune. Another man ran for a small hand drum. The wood stack was burning merrily, not that Jontar worried. He knew his lord. Tarnoor would replace the fuel since it had burned in his service. Jontar smiled at his wife, leading her into the dance. It could have been very different.

Ciara saw to it that the bubbling soup pots were shifted to one side to allow those still cold to warm. She also had a few words with several of the women.

Under a moonlit sky Tarnoor pressed on. Amongst the oncoming guard Hanion suddenly saw something. He reined up alongside his master.

“My lord, look!”

Tarnoor stared. “Dear Gods, the bandits must have fired a garth house.”

He drew rein. “We must not rush in…”

Hanion cut across his words. “No, Lord, I can hear Marin’s flute. He would not play that for any bandits. I think it’s a celebration. Nor would he celebrate if the young lord or lady were hurt.”

Tarnoor kicked his horse into a canter again. He strained his eyes for a sight of the boy and girl as he came into the firelight. His eyes fell first onto the bandits, twelve of them lying in a neat row propped against the house wall. By the other wall the children sat on a long settle brought out for the purpose.

Ciara had been listening; she heard the hoofbeats and signaled. Tarnoor loomed out of the night, the expression on his face grim. Before he could speak she ran forward to take his hand as he dismounted. Tarnoor found himself sitting on the low seat, a large steaming bowl of savory-smelling soup in his hands. The girl knelt at his feet.

“We’re so sorry, Uncle Nethyn. We know how worried you and Aunt Elanor would have been. But we had to do it.” Her voice lowered, “We’re theirs as much as they are ours. How could we run away from danger leaving them to fight alone? They fought so well, too.”

Tarnoor grunted. “How many dead and injured?”

“Oh, none of our side were hurt at all. Well, Marin’s son has a bruised—um—behind. He tripped over a bandit in the dark. You should have heard what he said.” She made a shocked face.

Tarnoor felt a chuckle rising. A dozen hardened bandits beaten by two children and a pack of farmers. He tried in vain to keep his face hard, before the laughter exploded. He threw back his head and bellowed. Trovagh sighed in relief. He’d thought Cee could soften the old man’s anger. He marched forward then with the head of each garth following.

“Father, I wish these men commended. We said that each might have a horse from the bandits’ mounts in recognition of garth courage and aid this night. Do you agree to this, my lord.” He went down formally on one knee before his father, a junior officer to his superior.

Taken by surprise, Tarnoor made no move. His eyes scanned those who waited. He saw the pride in themselves. They had faced armed men, led by their young lord. They had won and without injuries. It was events such as these which would forge the bonds between led and leader. It did no harm at all for a lord to be held as lucky, either. He remembered the anguish of his ride here. The terror that he might find either child dead or horribly injured. But he could not take his own fear out on those before him. He smiled.

“I agree. But first you who led shall each choose a horse. Bring out the beasts now so that we may see them.”

Ciara had vanished to obey almost as he spoke. She returned leading the two she had noticed. These were held to one side. In the dark Tarnoor could see little. The other ten mounts were paraded. All were reasonable beasts, geldings mostly with one mare. The mare, more valuable, was awarded to Jontar’s garth. It had been his family who risked most. The other four garth heads each took their choice. The chosen beasts were led away, the remaining five taken to join the guard mounts. Tarnoor turned to glance out into the dark.

“Of what like are the two you have chosen?”

Ciara led them forward. Tarnoor gasped. “Do you know what you have here, lass?”

“No, I’ve never seen horses like them, Uncle Nethyn. They look different from any but they are gentle. Look.” One of the beasts was lipping her hair, while the other nuzzled the girl’s shoulder. “This one’s a stallion, the other one’s a mare.” She looked slightly puzzled. “I always thought horses didn’t care about mates, but these two do.”

Tarnoor spoke softly, in awe. “Yes, they would. Nor am I surprised you have never seen the like of them. They are rare. Incredibly rare in Karsten. These are Torgians, child. They must not be young. Perhaps they were loot from the time of Yvian. They are a pair, trained to work together very likely. They bond to their riders as ordinary beasts do not, but only if the rider is worthy. Also they live long lives though they breed less often. They are a treasure beyond price to Aiskeep.”

Ciara patted the nearest rough shoulder. “Then Tro and I can keep them?”

“You may indeed. They are yours, one for each of you. Who shall have which of them?”

Ciara trotted over to Trovagh leading the Torgians. There was a quick muttered colloquy. She returned. “Tro wants the mare; that’s fine because I want the stallion.” Tarnoor opened his mouth to object, then noticed the beast nuzzling her with what he could only describe as an air of already besotted affection. He agreed resignedly. Torgians made their own choice of rider. A wise man who knew horses did not interfere.