John Dalmas - The Lion Returns

Tsulgax never broke stride, simply veered off toward the man. "Good," he lisped, "I knew he would change his thought of that." He didn't draw his saber till he was within three yards of the ylf. Then the move was quick. The ylf, however, had been distrustful, and his response was equally quick: he sprang to one side, and his saber was out almost as his feet hit the ground.

Tsulgax changed tack instantly. With the bulky pack on his back, he was at serious risk against a skilled swordsman. Instead he took off running, not toward the encampment, but eastward, away from it.

The ylf stared after him, astonished at the man's running speed. Even with a pack, he told himself, the stinkard could easily outrun anyone in the company.

Instead of giving chase, he turned and trotted off to inform his sergeant. Halfway there he met Cailon, leading four other men with a corporal in charge. He told them what had happened. Together they went to the shed and examined it, finding nothing of use. Then they followed the fugitive's tracks. His running strides were well more than an arm span long-six feet or more.

"Carrying a pack, you say?"

"A big one, corporal."

"That's amazing. He must be half voitu."

"That's what they say the rakutur are."

The tracks curved increasingly southeastward, then hit the east-west highway, where they were lost among others. The corporal stopped, "We might as well go back," he said. "It's a matter for the base provost now."

At the east-west highway, Tsulgax turned west, slowing to a jog, then a walk as he entered Colroi's unburned section. Best not to seem in a hurry. Beyond it was the great encampment. He'd been thinking in terms of waiting around for a meal, and to try stealing a horse after dark. Now he changed his mind. The sky was cloudy. Night might bring snow, and bury or obscure the boar's tracks. It was best to continue afoot. Montag wouldn't be traveling fast. He had packhorses and the woman with him. They'd camp early. He might even catch them tonight.

At the crossroads he turned south, as Montag had. When he was well away from soldiers, he again broke into a lope that, despite his pack, a cross-country champion would envy. At dusk he struck a large number of tracks that turned off westward on a minor road. If any were cloven, they'd been eradicated by horses, as they'd been on the highway. Nonetheless he didn't hesitate; he too turned west. If asked, he couldn't have said why. Half an hour later, several sets of tracks left the road. One set was of cloven hooves.

By that time Tsulgax was getting sore, stiffening up. He slowed to a walk, and before long was limping. In Hithmearc, running was almost as much a way of life for rakutur-even rakutik cavalry-as for voitar. He'd never found himself out of shape before, but he'd heard of it, and realized the source of his pain. Except briefly, he'd kept to a pace that didn't tax his strong rakutik lungs and heart; he'd thought that would be slow enough. But now his thighs hurt. His buttocks hurt. His calves and shins hurt. Severely!

Ahead and to his right, half a mile or so, was a sizable bivouac-two companies of Kormehri raiders headed for home, thougn Tsulgax didn't know it. It wouldn't have made any difference if he had.

Twilight had died, and their cooking fires were like small, yellow-red beacons in the night. He left the cloven tracks and angled toward them. Even though the night was cloudy, the visibility was good. The snow reflected what light there was, and formed an excellent backdrop for seeing. So he moved slowly, in a deep crouch, every step painful.

At two hundred yards he paused, sizing up the camp. A few men still stood or squatted by fires, but most were out of sight in their tents. Their horse herd was at the west end, almost certainly guarded. But with the war over, watchfulness was no doubt poor.

He'd seen a lot of those tents lately. Squad tents, but small. Crowded as they were, would the men keep their tack with them at night? If not, where would they keep it? If necessary he could ride bareback, but he'd never learned to control a horse with just his knees and weight. He'd need a bridle.

Later he could enter a tent and steal what he needed, but now the men would still be awake, talking. Meanwhile he'd scout the herd. He angled toward it, covering the last hundred yards on hands and knees, through dry snow that largely hid him.

There were no picket ropes. The horses were loose, their hind legs hobbled instead of their front, so they could paw the snow for grass. Thus they'd dispersed somewhat. Even allowing for packhorses, it was a very large herd.

He could see one mounted herdsman, and was sure there were others. One tent was larger than the squad tents, and stood a little apart from them, nearer the herd. A separate tent for the herdsmen? It seemed doubtful in so small a camp, and there was no dying fire in front of it.

Tsulgax was seldom emotional, but this sparked a moment's excitement. The one herdsman he could see sat in the saddle with his back to him. Even so, Tsulgax crawled to where some horses obscured the view. Then standing, he walked to the anomalous tent and ducked inside. The open door let in enough light to show him tack for several horses, and numerous sacks of corn, several of them open. It took him little time to gather a saddle and blanket, a bridle, nosebag and quirt. He also stuffed an empty grain bag in his coat, and took another one half full.

Then quietly but not stealthily, he lugged them limping to the herd. There he chose a large gelding, threw the blanket on its back and saddled the animal. It snorted softly, but stood relaxed. The unfamiliar saddle puzzled Tsulgax only briefly. Then he tied his bedroll to it with the sack of corn on top. He almost abandoned the pack frame, then put it on his back again, just in case.

"Hey! What's going on there?"

The voice was some distance off. Tsulgax didn't answer, didn't speed up. He gave the saddle girth a final pull, then stepped to the front of the animal and slipped the bridle over its head.

The call was repeated, less distant now. "You! What're you doing?"

Tsulgax buckled the throat latch and snapped the bit in place. Then he unbuckled and removed the hobbles.

"Sergeant of the guard!" The voice boomed it. "Someone's messing with a horse out here!"

Shoving the hobbles into the game pocket of his farmer coat, the rakutu pulled himself painfully into the saddle. Then he stung the horse's rump with his quirt, and dug its barrel sharply with his heels.

It started forward at a brisk trot, passing among other horses, which moved out of its way. When it reached the open, Tsulgax slashed it hard with his quirt. It broke into a gallop, its rider bent low over its withers, lashing it. Shouts from behind him energized his quirt, but the twang of a bowstring was far too distant for him to hear.

He steered the animal on an angle to intersect Montag's tracks, certain the herdsmen would pursue him. But he heard no more shouts, and shortly after he hit Montag's trail, heard a trumpet call. He looked back. There'd been the start of pursuit, but the riders had stopped.

For a moment they watched from a distance, then turned and rode back to their bivouac.

Kormehri companies were well disciplined, and these had more than enough horses-much of their herd was spoils, awarded them by the congress. And god knew how long it would take to run the thief down. They could easily wait where they were till noon the next day for the pursuit to get back, and then maybe empty-handed. Not that their commander thought all this out, but the rationale was there, behind his order to his trumpeter to call back the pursuers. The lost horse could be charged to whatever sentry the provost held responsible.