Roger Taylor: The waking of Orthlund

All seemed normal. The palace towers rose up ma-jestically, dominating but not overwhelming their surroundings, and through the trees she could see the tops of many familiar buildings. Yet on the wind there were strange noises. A crowd? She thought she had heard a crowd nearby as she had left the palace to clatter through the quiet by-ways of the City, but she had dismissed the notion; the Mathidrin held the streets too well for that. Now, as the distant sounds vied for her attention with the rustling trees she thought she heard again many voices raised in… anger… fear?

She leaned forward, face intent, but nothing would take shape for her. Even the wind felt disturbed, unnatural, now quiet, now tearing at her hysterically, and steadfastly refusing to deliver any clear answer to her query. For a moment she thought of moving further forward, to leave behind the shaking trees and come nearer to the City, but the urgency of her mission reasserted itself. Whatever had happened, it was unlikely she could do anything except be taken by the Mathidrin and held as who knew what kind of a hostage against Rgoric’s plans.

Turning round, she rode back down the hill, trotting the horse carefully but surely through the widely-spaced trees that covered the slope. Soon she would be well clear of the City and able to ride, ride, ride, over the Fyorlund countryside, each stride taking her further from that accursed brown streak Dan-Tor and nearer to her true friends and a new future with her husband.

It would be a long hard journey, but she had done worse in her Muster training, albeit many years ago, and just to be free from the cloying deception of the past months would sustain her far more than any physical prowess could. Ruthlessly she trampled down the ever-present fears for her husband, lest they infect her mount and, in slowing her progress, bring about their own tremulous prophecy.

At last she broke out of the trees to find herself at a high vantage-point. Reining to a halt, she paused to examine the countryside for signs of movement, but apart from the ruffling of the blustering wind, all was quiet. And there below was the old road which she should be able to follow for many miles, avoiding villages, and thus Mathidrin patrols.

She clicked to her horse, but it hesitated and whin-nied softly. Frowning slightly, Sylvriss cast around again for some sign of danger that had escaped her first inspection.

Then a distant, rapid movement caught her eye. Before she could identify it, her horse began trembling as if remembering again its recent fear. She whispered to it soothingly and slowly backed it into the shade of the trees where she could watch without being seen.

The movement became clearer. It was a rider, travel-ling away from the City. Suddenly Sylvriss caught her breath, and her horse shifted uneasily beneath her. Even at this distance she could feel waves of terror moving before the approaching figure. What had happened in the City? came the question yet again, but it was lost almost immediately as she saw that the rider was not simply travelling quickly, he was plunging along the road at a speed that must surely bring both him and his horse to destruction very soon.

The realization cleared Sylvriss’s vision abruptly and the totality of the scene below swept over her. The horse was not carrying one person, but two. Its rider was a large, solid-looking man, but across its neck dangled a second, black clad figure, seemingly uncon-scious. And it was no ordinary horse. It was a great black stallion amp;mdasha Muster horse! And a magnificent one at that. There were few Muster horses in Fyorlund, and none the like of that she was sure. Further, it was not being ridden, it was carrying its charges!

Questions overwhelmed her, but she dashed them aside. It was a rare man that such a horse would carry in that fashion.

And no such horse could be allowed to break its heart thus.

Birds flew up in screaming alarm from the jostling trees as Rgoric’s queen burst out of her leafy shelter and with a great cry, urged her horse at full gallop down the steep hill.

And none too soon, she realized as she looked again at the charging black horse below. She must be on the road ahead of it, and travelling fast if she was to intercept it. Fine though her own horse was, she knew it could not hope to catch such a powerful, fear-driven animal if once it got ahead of her. Not catch it that is, until it fell suddenly dead, in all probability injuring or even killing both its riders.

Bending low over her horse’s neck she willed it for-ward. A fierce gust of wind caught them sideways and, briefly, her horse staggered, but the two of them together caught their balance and the wind only hastened their descent.

As they neared the road, the field dipped below it a little and Sylvriss became aware of the black horse at the edge of her vision, though she did not dare to look lest the hesitation cause her horse to pause even slightly. Then she was surging up a small embankment and on to the road, scarcely a length ahead of the careering stallion.

The black horse faltered slightly as Sylvriss rose up abruptly in front of it, and its rider swayed uncertainly. What a creature, thought Sylvriss fleetingly, as she saw the horse shift its weight to prevent the man from slipping from the saddle. The action, however, barely slowed the animal and then it was at her side, and moving past.

Gripping her horse with her legs she leaned out and took the bridle of the black horse. Pulling on it power-fully she cried out to it to stop. But even as she did so she knew that the horse was past hearing any normal commands. She tightened her grip and leaned further over. At least now it would feel the weight of both her and her horse in addition to its own double burden, and that must surely take its toll soon. For an interminable moment she clung on silently in a world filled only with the thunder of hooves, the creaking and clattering of tackle, and the agonized breathing of bursting lungs. Pain began to fill her whole body as she struggled to keep her grip on the powerful animal’s bridle.

Even in this extremity however, she marvelled at the great horse’s fortitude. Its eyes were white with terror, but somewhere, deep inside, was a will that refused to abandon all control to whatever had so frightened it. A will that made it carry and care for its charges even though it should die in the attempt. A will that enabled it to carry its now increased burden without slowing.

Without slowing! She knew what would be her fate if her own horse stumbled at this terrifying pace.

And it was beginning to falter. She was going to die here! Die, in this whirling maelstrom of flying hooves and Fyordyn dust which seemed now to be the very heart of all the confusion and upheaval that had rent her life apart in just a few hours. Die, betraying her husband, herself, the people, everything.

Then, through all the turmoil she felt the tiny flut-terings of her unborn child, helpless and needing, its life not yet begun, the very antithesis of this powerful battle-horse charging purposefully towards the end of its own life and sweeping all before it.

‘No,’ she cried out involuntarily in horror and re-proach. That above all must not be. A fearful light came to her as she saw the deep wisdom of her child’s lesson. This horse’s will could not be dominated, it would turn from its course only for the greater need of another. Then, almost without realizing what she was doing, she released her horse and slipping from it, swung her whole weight on to the creaking bridle.

Briefly her feet struck the ground with a juddering impact and she curled up her knees desperately. A whitened eye looked into hers as the horse bent its head under this sudden and unexpected weight. ‘Rider down, horse, help me,’ she cried out, her own eyes wide with terror. ‘Rider down.’