Mary Herbert - Dark Horse

As she made camp that night in a copse of trees, Gabria tried to recall every detail she knew of Savaric, chieftain of the Khulinin. There were not many. Although he was chief of her mother’s clan, Gabria had only seen him a few times at the summer clan gatherings and she had been too busy then to notice very much. What she did remember was an image of a dark-haired, bearded man who constantly carried a falcon on his arm.

She knew her father had liked and respected Savaric. The two men had been close friends in boyhood, but Gabria did not know how far their friendship had extended or whether it would have any influence on Savaric’s decision to accept her.

She wished she could learn more about Savaric before venturing into his domain. How was he going to react to the sole survivor of a massacred clan dropping the horrors and problems of her continuing existence at his feet? If he did not see through her disguise, would he accept her into his werod? He had ample food and wealth to support many warriors, even one as poor and inadequate as herself, but in all likelihood, he had as many warriors as he needed, Besides, Savaric probably would not want to risk taking such a dangerous exile into his clan.

Still, Gabria thought as she ate her evening meal, the fact that my mother was of Clan Khulinin, coupled with my father’s friendship, might sway Savaric’s mind. And of course, there was the Hunnuli. So few men rode the magnificent horses, Savaric would think twice before denying Gabria’s plea and ignoring the honor Nara would bring to his people.

On the other hand, if he discovered her true sex, the question of her acceptance would be meaningless. Clan law strictly forbade any female from becoming a warrior. The chieftain would have to have Gabria killed immediately for masquerading as a boy and trying to join his werod.

She could only hope he would not find out, for she had no other chance for acceptance—and no chance of gaining her revenge against Lord Medb without the Khulinin’s help. She would have to trust to luck and the guidance of the goddess, Amara, when she rode into Savaric’s camp tomorrow. Until then, she decided to ignore her anxiety. Curling up under her cloak, she tried to rest, but it was a long while before she drifted off to sleep.

Gabria was awakened at dawn by the echoing, sonorous summons of a horn. The eastern stars were dimmed by a pale light that gleamed on the sharp ridges of the mountains. The horn sounded again, swelling through the valley with an urgent appeal to the sun. Gabria scrambled to her feet and walked to the rim of the hill.

Far below her, at the entrance to Khulinin Treld, an outrider of the dawn watch sat on a light-colored horse and lifted his horn to his lips for the third time. Darkness faded and the colors of day intensified. A red-gold sliver of fire pierced the dark horizon and painted the earth with its glow. The meager light of the stars was banished.

They do well to welcome the sun.

Gabria glanced at the mare standing beside her. “I went out on the dawn watch once with my twin brother, Gabran,” she said slowly. “Father did not know or he would have whipped me for going with the outriders. But I begged and pleaded and Gabran finally let me come. We stood on the hill above the treld, and he blew such a blast of eagerness and joy, his horn burst. To me he looked like an image of our hero, Valorian, the Lord Chieftain, calling his people to war.”

I know of Valorian. He taught the Hunnuli to speak.

Gabria nodded absently, her gaze lost in the memories of other mornings. In the valley, the outrider returned to the herds and the treld came alive with activity. The girl continued to stare where the rider had been, her face grim and her jaw clenched. A tear crept unheeded down her cheek.

Nara nudged Gabria’s shoulder gently and broke her reverie. Gabria sniffed, then laughed. She wiped her cheeks with her sleeve and laid her fingers on the healing slash on the mare’s neck.

“It is time to begin this game, Nara. You have brought me this far, but I do not expect you to go farther.”

Nara snorted and dipped her head to give Gabria a sidelong look through her thick forelock . This game began long ago. I would like to see how it is played.

The girl laughed and, for a moment, she leaned gratefully against the mare’s strong shoulder.

They returned to their camp, and Gabria added the final touch to her disguise. She had not washed her clothes, so they were still filthy with mud, sweat, and dried blood. She wrinkled her nose as she slipped on the black tunic. It smelled horrible and three days had not inured her nose to the stink. She rubbed din onto her face and hands and into her hair. If all went well, no one would look past the filth to realize she was not a boy. Later, she would have to devise another trick to hide her face until the clansmen became used to her. She did not want to remain filthy forever.

She fastened her short sword to the leather belt around her waist. Her father’s dagger, with its silver hilt encrusted with garnets, was thrust into her boot. She picked up her pack, threw her cloak over her shoulder, and took a deep breath.

Nara sprang to the top of the ridge and neighed a bold, resounding call of greeting. The Hunnuli’s call pealed through the pastures of Khulinin field and echoed from the far hills. Every horse below raised its head, and Nara’s cry was greeted by the clarion neigh of a stallion.

The game had begun.

The stranger rode into the treld at morning, just as the horns were recalling the dawn watch. He was flanked by two outriders, who kept a wary and respectful distance from the Hunnuli mare which dwarfed the Harachan stallions they rode. The people froze, appalled, as he passed by, and they stared at his back in utter dismay. The news spread quickly through the tents. Men and women, whispering in fearful speculation, gathered behind the three riders and followed them up the main road through the encampment.

The stranger appeared to be a boy of fourteen or fifteen years with a lithe figure and features obscured by a mask of dirt. His light gold hair was chopped shorter than normal for a boy his age and was just as filthy as his face. He sat on the Hunnuli easily, his body relaxed, but his face was tense and he stared fixedly ahead, ignoring the crowd behind him. On his shoulders, like a blazon of fire and death, was a scarlet cloak.

The cloak was nothing unusual. Every clansman of the steppes wore one, but only one small clan, the Corin, wore cloaks of blood red. According to recent messengers, that clan had been completely massacred only twelve days before. Some said by sorcery.

Who was this strange boy who wore the cloak of a murdered clan? And to ride a Hunnuli! Not even in the tales told by the bards had anyone known of a boy taming a wild Hunnuli, especially one as magnificent as this mare. She shone like black lacquer overlayed on silver and walked with the tense, wary pride of a war horse. She wore no trappings arid would tolerate none. The observers could not help but marvel how a boy, not even a warrior yet, had won the friendship of one such as she. That tale alone would be worth the listening.

By the time the three riders reached the circular gathering place before the werod hall, most of the clan had gathered and were waiting. The boy and his escort dismounted. No words were spoken and the silence was heavy. Then five men, their swords drawn and their golden cloaks rippling down their backs, appeared in the arched doorway of the hall and gestured to the boy. They took his sword and pack and, with a curt command, ordered him to attend the chieftain. The outriders followed.

The Hunnuli moved to stand by herself and snorted menacingly at the clanspeople. They understood well to leave her strictly alone. They settled into noisy, talking groups and waited patiently for the meeting’s outcome.