Mary Herbert - City of Sorcerers

Automatically Kelene wrapped her hands deep into Ishtak’s mane and leaned forward over his neck. Ishtak had been known to bolt out from under her at the start of a race, and she did not want to end up ignominiously in the dust before the Induran really began.

The horn call came loud and sweet, and the horses sprang forward almost as one. Except for Ishtak. For once the gelding did not leap forward but threw up his head and dug in his heels. Kelene kicked him, which only made him buck and crab-step sideways. When he finally deigned to go forward, he was mulish, reluctant, and trailing by twelve lengths.

“You’ll never get me off, you dung-headed sack of dog meat!” Kelene screamed at him.

He gave two more bronco kicks for good measure and swerved toward the spectators who were watching the show with mixed astonishment and amusement.

Kelene’s feelings rose to a full fury. She wrenched on the rein to pull his head around and shouted at him. “Run, you stupid mule! Go, or I’ll feed you to the buzzards!”

The gelding fought her hard. Then his head came around, and he saw the tails of his competition disappearing in the dust far ahead. He snorted angrily, all at once deciding to race. His stride smoothed out to a flowing run, his rage disappeared, and the fighting spirit that Kelene admired came surging back. He sped into a full gallop, his temper forgotten.

With a grin, Kelene settled down and let him have his head. There was a long way to go in this race, and much could happen. She was not bothered by the fact that they were dead last.

For two leagues the horses cantered south, paralleling the Goldrine River along the flat grassy valley floor, running at an easy pace so as not to tire too soon. They stayed in a tight bunch for a while, then gradually spread out as the faster horses began to pull ahead. It was not long before Ishtak caught up with those at the rear. Stride by stride, the gelding pulled even with several runners and passed them.

Kelene kept her weight firmly planted on the saddle pad, her hands light on the reins, her legs just tight enough against her horse’s sides to keep her balance. Ishtak didn’t like fussy riders who interfered with his running with a lot of useless gesturing and urging. Like one creature, the girl and horse united in a common goal as they moved over the grass-covered flats: to win.

So far, the course had been open and fairly level, but as the racers neared the end of the two-league mark, the route turned east across the river and proceeded up into the more rugged hills that lined the valley.

Kelene squinted her eyes against the wind and flying dust to peer ahead. Already the front-runners were turning east toward the tree-lined bank of the Goldrine where she could see the sun glinting off the slow, broad river. A tenseness gripped her body as she turned Ishtak slowly left. She glanced back and saw several others cantering close behind. Using the gentlest pressure of her heels, she urged Ishtak forward until he was running in a clear space between several groups of racers.

They passed some scattered trees, jumped a fallen tree trunk, and raced for the river’s edge. Then, before Kelene could draw another breath, the front-runners slowed and’ dropped from sight. Those behind the leaders pulled up just long enough to put some space between the horses, then they, too, rode their mounts over the edge.

When Ishtak reached the bank, he did not hesitate. Placing his hind feet perfectly, he lunged over the drop-off without a pause. Kelene caught a glimpse of a steep bank dropping ten feet down to the river, then she was holding on with all her strength and skill as the gelding fought to keep his balance and stride on the slope. He leaned so far back his tail scraped the muddy ground. Down he scrambled in a slide of dirt, gravel, and weeds.

One horse in front of Ishtak leaned too far forward, lost its balance, and careened into the path of two others. They fell into the river in a heap of flailing legs and yelling riders. Fortunately none of them were hurt, but the riders were unhorsed and automatically disqualified from the race.

In a jarring thud, Ishtak reached the narrow strip of mud bank at the bottom. He had to swerve to avoid another struggling, fallen horse, but he kept to his feet on the slippery mud and plowed into the river. Great fountains of silver spray splashed up from his feet.

The river was fairly shallow at either side, and it was only in the center, where the channel was deep, that Ishtak had to swim. By the time he and Kelene reached the far bank, they were both soaking wet and had passed three more horses. There were now only ten riders in front of them, including Rafnir. Four of the original twenty-six were out of the competition.

The race continued due east across the valley toward the rugged hills. The leaders picked up their pace on the level ground, hoping to put some distance between themselves and the rest of the pack before they reached the harder part of the trail. Ishtak answered their challenge in a burst of speed that carried him past six more horses and brought him up near the leaders and Rafnir’s chestnut.

Rafnir glanced over his shoulder, saw Kelene, and grinned. “What took you so long?” he yelled over the sound of the pounding hooves.

“I stopped for a walk,” she retorted, feeling as if she had. The dust sticking to her wet clothes had turned to mud, and her face was streaked with river muck flung up by Ishtak’s hooves.

Moments later the forerunners reached the faint trail leading up into the eroded, bleak hills that formed this section of the valley walls. The path abruptly narrowed and sloped upward, forcing the riders to go in ones and twos.

Kelene found herself directly behind Rafnir and one other rider. She tried to push Ishtak past them, but heavy rocks and brush lined the path on either side. As one group, Rafnir, a Dangari, Kelene, and a Wylfling cantered deeper into the hills. Gradually they pulled ahead and before long were out of sight of the rest of the riders.

The trail wound up steep, rocky slopes, down into deep gullies, and around outcroppings and rock walls that towered over their heads, until finally it dropped down into a high-walled, narrow canyon that twisted through the hills like a snake’s path. The sun, directly overhead by that time, poured its heat onto the red and gray rocks of the hills, turning the canyon into an oven. Kelene’s clothes were baked dry, and the dampness in Ishtak’s gray coat turned to dark sweat on his neck, chest, and flanks. The four riders were forced to slacken their speed over the rocky floor of the ravine.

Suddenly the two leaders pulled their mounts to a stop.

They had reached a place where several dry creek beds converged, forming a confusing three-way junction of rock walls and narrow passages. To the riders’ dismay, this section of trail had been obliterated by a recent flash flood.

“Which way?” Rafnir shouted at the man beside him.

The rider, a young Dangari in a blue tunic, looked at all three in confusion. “That way!” he cried, pointing to the left.

“No,” Kelene said as Ishtak snorted and fumed at the delay. “I think it’s that way.” She pointed to the right.

Rafnir shook his head. “That can’t be, there’s a rockfall in the way.”

“Yes, but it’s fresh, and I’m almost certain the path goes to the right,” Kelene insisted.

Since she was the only one of the four who had raced the path before, Rafnir was inclined to follow her suggestion. But before anyone could decide, the fourth rider, a burly Wylfling on a red roan, kicked his horse past the group and turned down the left passage. Rafnir and the Dangari charged after him. Kelene hesitated long enough to look to the right, then Ishtak snatched the bit in his teeth and lunged after the other three horses. The girl did not fight him. Perhaps this was the correct way. Yet it did not feel right; the deeper they rode into the canyon, the more convinced she became that they had taken the wrong path. The walls towered over their heads, and the passage grew so narrow Kelene could touch both sides with her outstretched fingers.