Mary Herbert - Dark Horse

“I’m going to make a ramp here for you,” she said to the horse. “So you can stand without slipping.” The Hunnuli remained still, apparently waiting.

By late morning, Gabria was drenched with sweat, and mud covered her like a second layer of clothes. She stood up, wiped her hands on her tunic, and surveyed her work. She felt a moment of pride. The mare’s front quarters were free of the clinging mud and her front hooves rested on a short ramp of logs embedded in the mud and banked on either side with rock and dead brush. The horse’s belly and hindquarters were still firmly mired, but Gabria felt a little relief and a twinge of hope.

The girl ate a quick meal and returned to work. First, she laid a narrow platform in the mud around the horse so she could work without fighting the mire herself. Scraping and digging with her rock shovel and her bare hands, she cleared away the mud from the Hunnuli’s sides, then packed in handfuls of gravel and shale to keep the walls from slipping in. It was agonizing work. Gabria’s back was soon a band of pain and her hands were sore and blistered. The mare watched her constantly, remaining motionless except for the occasional swing of her head. Only her tail twitching in the mud betrayed her controlled impatience.

The first stars were glimmering in the darkening sky when Gabria stopped digging. She looked at the trapped mare in dismay and said, “I’m sorry, it will be another day before I can get you out.” She groaned and staggered to her feet. “The digging’s going so much slower than I expected.”

In the long afternoon’s work, she had only cleared away a distressingly small area of mud surrounding the huge horse. At the pace she was going, it might be several days before the mare was free. Weary and depressed, Gabria collected more grass for the horse and rubbed down her front legs to stave off swelling. She was rewarded with a soft nicker.

She looked at the Hunnuli in wonder. The mare returned her gaze calmly, her eyes glowing like black pearls. Impulsively, Gabria leaned over and buried her face in the Hunnuli’s thick mane. It did not seem possible she could feel something after the destruction of her home and family. She thought every emotion had withered within her when she looked on the mutilated bodies of her brothers. Only revenge had remained to hold her together and fill her heart. Yet, this trapped horse awoke a feeling of kinship in her, and the battered remnants of her old self reached out desperately for comfort. Perhaps, she thought with a frantic yearning, this great horse would accept her as a friend. If so, that friendship was worth a lifetime of labor.

But after a while she stood up and rubbed her face, chiding herself for her fantasies. Hunnuli only accepted warriors and old sorcerers, not exiled girls. It was ridiculous to even imagine. She cleaned herself off as best she could and rekindled her fire. She ate some bread and was asleep before the flames died to embers.

The next morning came with a dismal dawn and a brief but heavy snow. The mountains were veiled behind a raiment of gray and silver clouds, and the wind gusted through the valleys.

Gabria woke with a groan. She was badly chilled and so sore she could barely move without pain stabbing somewhere in her body. Her shoulders and back ached and her arms felt petrified from her exertions of the day before. Closer inspection showed her ankle was still swollen. She moaned irritably and pulled her boot back on. Much more of this, she thought, shaking the snow off her cloak, and the wolves will have two meals. She decided to wrap her ankle for better support and hoped the rest of her abused body would gradually lose its kinks.

The Hunnuli was watching her as she ate her meal, showing none of the impatience of the previous day. The snowfall had patterned the horse’s black coat like a bank of stars in a midnight sky, yet she did not bother to shake it off. Gabria glanced at her worriedly and wondered if something was wrong. The wild horse seemed abnormally subdued.

The girl became more alarmed when the Hunnuli ignored a fresh armload of grass. The horse’s eyes were withdrawn and dull, as if the light of their glance was turned inward.

“Please, tell me it’s not true,” Gabria said, sick at the realization that dawned on her. The mare moved restlessly in the mire and turned to nose at her belly. It was difficult to tell under all the mud, but some of the signs were apparent. If Gabria was right, the mare would foal soon. The trauma of the attack and the two days in the mud hole had probably triggered the labor prematurely. Gabria looked at the mare’s bulging sides and wondered how far along she actually was.

Desperately, Gabria went to work. The digging she thought she could do in two days now had to be finished in one. Some of the mud had slipped back during the night, but most of the walls had held. Extending these deeper, Gabria dug along the mare’s stomach and down her haunches. She could see how the foal had dropped, and she hoped it would be an easy labor. The mare was stiff and weakened from her imprisonment and was in no condition to fight a difficult birth.

The morning passed slowly, broken by intermittent snow and moments of warm sun. Gabria stopped several times to collect more shale and brush, then continued on as fast as her complaining body allowed. Once, she had to stop to wrap the bleeding blisters and lacerations on her hands.

By late afternoon, Gabria was nearing the end of her strength. Only her intense desire to free the mare and the unborn foal gave her the energy to keep digging. Her movements became automatic: scoop out the mud, throw it aside, and pack in the rock. The aches in her arms and back united into one massive hurt, then faded as she pushed herself to the edges of endurance. After a time, it became easy to ignore the melting snow that trickled through her clothes. She only concentrated on fighting her growing lassitude.

The mare became agitated. Faint tremors rippled along her flanks, and she tossed her head in annoyance. Finally, in an effort to calm the horse and keep herself moving, Gabria began to talk aloud.

“I’m sorry, beautiful one, to be taking so long. I will have you out before your time, I promise. I just wasn’t prepared for something like this.” She laughed bitterly and flung a handful of mud behind her.

“Do you know how much is left when an encampment is burned? Very, very little. A few bits of charred rope, some blackened metal, and heaps and heaps of ashes. Many bodies, too. . . stabbed and slashed, or shot with arrows, or crushed by horses’ hooves, or burned. But dead. All dead. Even the children. The horses and livestock are gone. There is nothing. Only death and emptiness and stench.”

The Hunnuli quieted and was watching Gabria with an uncanny look of understanding and sympathy, but the girl was bent over her task and did not see the horse’s eyes.

“It has never happened before, you know. Oh, we fight often. There is nothing a clansman likes more than a good fight. But not like this. Nothing like this. It was a massacre!” She fiercely wiped her eyes.

“I found my brothers together,” Gabria continued dully. “They fought back to back and their enemies’ blood flowed. I saw it. The murderers took their dead with them, but they left a great deal of blood behind. My brothers must have been too much for them, though. In the end, the cowards ran my brothers through with lances instead of fighting them like men. Father died before his hall and his hearthguard, his chosen warriors, defended him to the last man. There is no one else left.”

For a time, Gabria was silent, and the ghosts of her dead clan haunted her memories. Even the pain of her body could not mask the aching loneliness that terrified her soul.

“I’m the only one,” she snapped. “I was not there when they needed me. I ran off like a spoiled child because my father said I was to be married. When I came back to apologize for my heated words, he was dead. I am justly punished.” She paused for a moment, then continued.