Mary Herbert - City of Sorcerers

She was looking for a place to turn Ishtak around when she saw the riders in front of her increase their speed. The walls opened out into a wider space that was brilliant with sunshine and carpeted with grass, vines, and small shrubs. Strangely there was an oval-shaped mound sitting crossways in their path on the otherwise level canyon floor. Its grassy sides rose more than ten feet in the air and were twice that in length.

No one paid much attention to the mound as they rode around it, they were too intent on the path ahead. The Wylfling in the lead urged his horse into a canter again toward the far end of the canyon, and the other men followed suit. It was only a minute or two before they realized their mistake. The canyon was a dead end.

The blank stone wall rising in the distance barely registered on Kelene when she heard the Wylfling’s shout of anger. She yanked Ishtak around and sent him galloping back the way they had come. Since Ishtak had been in the rear of the group before, now he was in the lead. Kelene wanted to take full advantage of it to help make up for the time they had lost coming down this box canyon.

Kelene was so intent on reaching the narrow defile first, she did not see the Wylfling turn his horse and spur it up the slope of the strange mound in an effort to cut her off. She was aware only of the trail ahead and Rafnir’s chestnut pounding close behind. She didn’t know that just as the Wylfling’s horse crested the mound, the animal suddenly pitched forward and crashed to the ground with bone-smashing force.

From a vantage point on a low hill near the finish line, Gabria snapped upright from her husband’s side, her face as pale as ice.

Startled, Lord Athlone leaned forward, steadying her in his arms. “What is it?” he asked, deeply concerned.

She took a ragged breath, too stunned for a moment to speak. They were sitting on a rug in the grass, sharing a midday meal with Sayyed and Tam while they waited for the race to end. Gabria was still a little unsettled by her vision of the day before, but she had never felt anything like the powerful jolt of dread that had just shocked through her. “I don’t know,” she replied shakily. “It was as if something cold and repulsive touched my mind. It was horrible!”

Sayyed looked at her questioningly, and she shook her head. “No, it was not like yesterday,” she told him.

“What happened yesterday?” Athlone demanded.

“I had another vision of the Corin massacre.”

Athlone was shocked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Gabria pulled away so she could turn and face him. “I wanted to think about it first. The vision was different this time. I felt as if Gabran were trying to warn me about something, but I don’t know what or why.”

Sayyed asked, “Do you think it had any connection to this strange feeling you just had?”

“I wish I knew!”

“Are the children all right?” Tam asked quietly.

Gabria looked startled at the question. “Yes, I think so. This wasn’t a sense of disaster; it was something else. Something almost wicked.”

“Wicked?” Sayyed and Athlone said together.

She nodded. “I know that’s no help. I can’t explain it any better. ”

“But I didn’t feel anything,” Athlone said.

“You don’t have visions either,” Sayyed pointed out. “That seems to be Gabria’s special ability.”

The sorceress smiled dryly. “I never thought of that. So what does it mean?”

Sayyed rolled his eyes heavenward. “Your gods only know.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Gabria murmured.

Unaware of the disaster behind her, Kelene slowed Ishtak to a trot and sent him clattering between the high stone walls of the narrow canyon trail. Rafnir missed the Wylfling’s accident, too. He trotted his chestnut into the defile right behind the girl and her gray.

Only the young Dangari saw the horse thrashing in agony and the Wylfling rider lying unconscious on the grassy slope. Regretfully he reined his horse to a stop and dismounted to see what he could do to help.

Kelene meanwhile rode on, her eyes on the trail ahead and her ears listening to the ringing of hooves echoing between the rocky walls. When Ishtak reached the three-way fork in the canyon, the girl did not hesitate or bother to check for tracks but sent her horse clambering over the lowest section of the rockfall in the right fork. To her relief, Ishtak scrambled over the tumbled rocks without much difficulty. There on the other side, Kelene saw the hoofprints of at least six or seven horses. They were on the right trail.

Hard on her heels came Rafnir, joined by three other racers. Kelene risked one quick glance back and saw Rafnir and the horsemen coming up behind her. It never occurred to her that the Dangari and the Wylfling were no longer there. She leaned low over Ishtak’s tossing mane and urged the gray down the dry creek bed.

The canyon continued for a short distance, then the trail led up again, out of the rocks and onto the slopes of the hills. Kelene felt Ishtak gather himself with a surge of his powerful muscles.

She moved forward on his shoulders and ran a hand down his wet coat. The gelding was drenched with sweat, but he did not seem to be tiring. He galloped forward furiously, passing two horses who were going at a slower pace, their riders saving their animals’ strength for the last few leagues.

Kelene tried to ease Ishtak back a little. But the gelding only pulled at his bit and ran as he desired down the steep incline toward the smoother floor of the valley.

As soon as he left the last slope and reached the level ground, Ishtak extended his body and flew over the grass with long, even strides. Four horses were still in front of him, and Kelene could hear the drumming of many hooves behind. She smiled into the wind, her heart singing with the exhilaration of the race.

As the horses streaked toward the Isin River, Ishtak cut the lead of the front-runners. Nostrils flaring in exertion, he passed three horses until only one ran before him toward the finish. But Kelene knew Rafnir was very close. From the corner of her eye, she could see his red chestnut just to her left.

The racers reached the Isin River and made a broad turn to the south. Kelene, Rafnir, and another rider—an orange-clad Bahedin—were almost neck and neck as they swept along the bank toward the Tir Samod. On either side clansmen galloped, shouting and yelling encouragement, while the people lining the riverbank cheered on their favorites.

Like a hitched team, the three leading horses raced past the tents of Clan Murjik, past the nearly empty bazaar, and turned right toward the ford in the river. On the far bank crowds of clanspeople lined the raceway all the way to the finish.

“Come on, boy!” Kelene urged her gelding through clenched teeth. “Come on!” The gray gelding responded with a surge of speed that began to carry him past the two horses on either side.

Thundering, the three horses charged down the bank into the shallow river ford. Water exploded beneath their hooves, drenching them. Cheering erupted all around as the horses burst out on the western bank and entered the path to the finish line.

The Bahedin was still with Rafnir and Kelene, bur his bay was tiring and falling behind. For a minute the two Khulinin were side by side, their horses matched in stride, then Ishtak began to pull ahead, and his nose stretched our past the chestnut’s muzzle.

They were almost there—the finish line and the clan judges were just ahead.

Then Kelene saw something that made her blood turn to ice: Rafnir pulled a crop from his belt and raised it high to fan his horse.

Crops were not illegal in the race, and Kelene had nothing against them. But Ishtak did. He loathed crops and whips with a passion bordering on mania, and he was too close to Rafnir to miss that one. He saw the crop at the edge of his vision and went wild.