Mary Herbert: Dark Horse

No. No matter how she might wish for such a fantastic thing, she could not consent to Nara’s offer.

Gabria’s stomach felt leaden, and she shivered with a chill that was not caused by the wind. “Nara, I do not think there is anything left in me that can return your friendship. I am so empty.”

If that were true, I would not have come back.

“I am seeking only revenge. After that. . .” Her voice failed. Gabria could not think beyond that goal. Although she did not care to admit it, she was terrified. Many had tried to kill Lord Medb, both in battle and duel, but he was a skilled and ferocious warrior. It was also said he was protected by forbidden magic. If that were true, and battle skilled men failed against him, how could she succeed? Her pride and grief would never free her from her duty, but she had no illusions about the future.

Nara dipped her nose until it was a hairsbreadth from Gabria’s face. The mare inhaled deeply as a horse will do to acquaint itself with another creature. Gabria could smell the mare’s warm, comforting scent that was a mixture of grass, sun, and the distinctive sweetness that was purely horse. The familiarity of the scent comforted her wounded spirit. Her objections faded to insignificance.

When Nara told her, Let the days come as they will. I am going with you, Gabria merely nodded, unable to speak.

In a daze, the girl limped down the hillside to her camp. She ate a quick meal and returned her belongings to her pack. Her torn tunic was useless and she threw it away. Her remaining tunic was as filthy as she was, and she thought how nice it would be for a bath. It might be the last one she would have in peace for a long time to come.

“Is there a stream or pool nearby?” she asked the mare, who was waiting patiently for her.

Yes. But farther from here are hot springs.

“Hot water?” Gabria breathed, unable to believe her luck. “What direction is it?”

Beneath the horned peak.

Gabria looked toward the line of peaks and smiled with relief. That had to be Wolfeared Pass, a strangely formed mountain with twin summits that stood to the south of the gully. She picked up her pack and her staff and threw her cloak over her shoulders.

“Lead on, Nara,” she said, pointing with her staff.

The mare glanced at her with a glint of amusement in her brilliant eyes. Do you not think it would be faster to ride me?

Gabria’s jaw dropped. “You would let me ride?” Her voice rose higher with each word.

You can ride, can you not?

“Of course, I just—”

I am not going to plod all day, waiting for you to keep pace. Besides— Her telepathic thought turned wistful —I would like warm water, too.

Gabria was stunned. She had never imagined this! “But Nara, women may not ride a Hunnuli.”

The mare whickered in a way that surprised Gabria. It sounded much like laughter . Could that be a tale spread by men who fear the ambitions of their women?

The girl laughed and a great load of worry fell from her shoulders. She threw her walking staff away and climbed up a large rock. From that added height, she clambered onto Nara’s broad back. Gabria was astonished by the heat of the Hunnuli’s body; it was the vibrant, glowing warmth of a fire barely dampened. She reached out to touch the horse’s ebony, arched neck and marveled at the power and intensity that flowed beneath the slick hide. It was as though the lightning bolt emblazoned on Nara’s shoulder hid in reality within the horse’s form.

Nara trotted out of the gully, and, once onto the treeless hills, she moved into an easy, mile-eating canter.

Gabria held onto a fistful of mane, not for support, but merely for something to do with her hands. She did not need to find her balance or even use her legs, as the mare moved with a surprising fluidity and grace for a horse so large. She felt herself mold into the movement of the horse as if they had been fused together by the heat of Nara’s being. The girl settled back, letting the wind brush through her hair and the sunlight flow over her face. She began to relax in the delight of the ride.

They swept over the land as one, like the shadows of clouds pushed by the wind, until the gully in the Hornguard became a memory and the southern peaks of Darkhorn reared like sentinels in their path. Perhaps, Gabria thought for a fleeting moment, there was a little hope.

They made camp that night in a small valley of thermal pools and mineral springs. To Gabria, it was an eerie place of shifting vapors, strange smells, and pools that bubbled with odd colors and noises. But Nara, unperturbed by the strange landscape, found a water hole formed by the run-off of an erupting mineral spring. There they bathed and soaked away the aches of the past days. Before long, Gabria had forgotten her dislike of the valley in the bliss of the relaxing water.

They stayed in the valley for several days while their bodies mended. Gabria used her salve to dress Nara’s neck wound from the wolf attack, as well as the other cuts and scrapes they both had. Nara, in return, gave the girl the rich, nourishing milk that had been meant for the foal. Gabria had heard stories of the effects of Hunnuli milk on humans, but her stomach had a stronger voice than the vague hints from old legends, so she drank the milk gratefully and attributed her fast recovery to the reviving waters of the spring.

When two days had passed, Nara sensed the coming of another spring storm. Reluctantly, Gabria packed her gear and mounted the mare for the final journey south. The Hunnuli and her rider cantered for three days through the foothills hugging the Darkhorn’s towering ramparts. The country slowly changed as the air became warmer and more arid. The trees retreated up the mountain flanks, giving way to tougher shrubs and grasses. The hills, worn by wind and erosion, lost their sharp outlines until, to Gabria’s eye, they looked like a soft, rumpled carpet. The Himachal Mountains on her left fell behind, and the eastern horizon flowed away on the endless rim of the steppes.

Sooner than Gabria imagined, the mountains began to veer west. She could hardly believe they had come so far in such a brief time. Visitors from Khulinin Treld to Corin Treld usually needed seven days on horseback, yet Nara had covered most of that distance in three.

On the evening of the third day, they came to Marakor, the Wind Watcher, the isolated, cone-shaped peak that guarded the northern entrance into the valley of the Goldrine River.

Behind Marakor, the mountains strode westward, then swung around in a great arch to return to their southward trek into the desert wastelands. There, in the crescent valley where the Goldrine River spilled from its deep gorge, the Khulinin clan had its wintering camp. For generations, the Khulinin clan had roamed the steppes in the summer, pasturing their herds on the richest fields, and every winter they returned to the sanctuary of the valley. In the shelter of Marakor and Krindir, the twin peak to the south, they lived and danced and celebrated the Foaling as their fathers had done for countless years.

From where Gabria and Nara stood—on a crest just below Marakor—they could see black tents spread out like huge butterflies and the encampment’s few permanent buildings. Gabria was stunned by the size of the treld. She had never seen all the Khulinin together in one place and, in spite of the dim tales she remembered her mother telling her, she was not prepared for the camp’s sprawling size. Her clan had been small; they barely numbered a hundred. But this! There had to be many hundreds of people in the valley below.

She tore her fascinated gaze away from the encampment and looked at the pastures where the animals grazed. The number of horses and livestock was an indication of a clan’s wealth, and Gabria could tell from the size of the herds that grazed along the river that the Khulinin were rich indeed.