Lisa Smedman - Viper's Kiss

Beside them, Tanglemane whiskered nervously. “I have killed him,” the centaur said. “Killed the sergeant. When the baron hears of it….”

“It was an accident,” Karrell said softly. “You didn’t mean to.”

Behind them, Arvin heard the sound of pounding hooves. Glancing in that direction, he saw a dozen centaurs racing toward them across the open plain. They skidded to a stop just outside the symbol and aimed powerful composite bows at Arvin, Karrell, and Tanglemane.

One of the centaurs—a male with a white body and straw-colored mane—snorted loudly and stared at them. “Soldiers of Sespech,” he said in heavily accented Common. “You yet live?” He tossed his mane then pulled a white feather from a leather pouch that hung at his hip and waved it over the line in the snow. The magical darkness that filled it seeped away and the trail through the snow became just that: an ordinary trail of hoofprints. The centaur put the feather away and gestured curtly. “Come you with us.”

“What are they saying?” Arvin whispered to Tanglemane.

The centaur swiveled an ear to listen to the combination of whinnies, snorts, and whickers that made up the centaur language. Thirteen centaurs surrounded Arvin, Karrell, and Tanglemane, herding them along through the ankle-deep snow north along the river, toward Ormpetarr. The Chondalwood lay to their right, but it was falling farther behind with each step. The forest was still close enough that they could have reached it by dawn at a walking pace, even hindered by the snow. But it might as well have been a continent away. Six of the centaurs had their bows in hand with arrows loosely nocked; if the prisoners tried to flee, they’d quickly be shot down.

When the centaurs had first captured them, they had confiscated Karrell’s club and Tanglemane’s knife, giving the centaur several swift kicks when he didn’t surrender it quickly enough. They’d taken an intense dislike to Tanglemane, perhaps because he’d allowed himself to be harnessed to a wagon. Tanglemane, however, showed a stoic indifference to the kicks the other centaurs had aimed at him, bearing them with only the slightest of winces.

The centaurs had also forced Arvin to turn out the contents of his pack. They seemed to have an aversion to rope—they’d tossed aside his magical ropes and twines as if they were poisonous snakes, and declined to search the pack further. Fortunately, they’d made no protest when Arvin gathered the ropes up again and returned them to his pack. Nor had they confiscated his glove, which he’d managed to vanish his dagger into.

The centaurs finished speaking. Tanglemane bowed at the waist to speak in Arvin’s ear. “They serve Lord Wianar,” he said. “They will turn us over to his soldiers.”

Arvin had been afraid of that. Chondath wasn’t officially at war with Sespech… yet. But the larger state was overdue for another attempt to oust Baron Foesmasher and reclaim lands they had never given up title to. Lord Wianar would be keen to question “soldiers from Sespech” to learn the current strength of Fort Arran’s defenses. The questioning would no doubt be brutal and long.

Arvin swallowed nervously. “Would you tell them we’re not soldiers?” he asked Tanglemane.

Tanglemane’s eyes blazed. “I am a soldier,” he said. Then his voice softened. “I tried to convince them earlier that you and the female are not the baron’s vassals, but it was no use. They say you are spies.”

Arvin swallowed. “That’s worse than being a soldier, right?”

Tanglemane nodded. He lowered his voice. “You are not the first spies to cross the river. Last night, our soldiers took another across. These centaurs spotted him as he slipped into the woods. They laid the symbol in retaliation; they claim the woods as their own.”

Arvin blinked. Foesmasher, it seemed, hadn’t been content to wait for Arvin to reappear. There were others searching the Chondalwood for Glisena. The search had become a race.

Arvin glanced at the big white centaur. “What’s their leader’s name?” he asked.

“You could not pronounce it.”

“In Common,” Arvin said. “What would it translate as?”

“Stonehoof.”

Arvin caught Karrell’s eye then tipped his head at the centaur leader. “We need to talk him into letting us go,” he whispered. “Let’s see how… persuasive we can be. If I don’t manage to convince him, perhaps you can.”

“I cannot help you,” she whispered back. “That… ability comes to me only once a day.”

“Looks like it’s up to me, then,” Arvin said. Leaving Karrell, he jogged ahead to a position closer to the centaur leader. Stonehoof was even more powerfully built than Tanglemane, his massive hooves hidden by a fringe of hair. His upper torso was as pale as the rest of his body, covered with the same short white hair. His eyes were ice-blue.

Stonehoof glared at Arvin. “Return you to center of herd,” he said sternly.

Arvin spread his hands in a placating gesture. “Stonehoof,” he said, feeling energy awaken at the base of his scalp as he spoke. “You’ve got the wrong people. We don’t serve the baron—we’re not even from Sespech.”

“Came you across river in soldier wagon.” Stonehoof said. One of his ears swiveled, as if he’d heard something in the distance.

“That’s true,” Arvin agreed. “But we were only getting a ride with the soldiers. We’re actually from Hlondeth. We were just passing through Sespech on our way to—”

One of the centaurs let out a loud, startled whinny. Instantly, the herd halted. They formed a circle, facing outward with bows raised. Stonehoof planted one of his massive hooves in Arvin’s chest and shoved. Arvin stumbled backward, landing on his back in the snow beside Karrell and Tanglemane. He sat up, rubbing his bruised chest.

“The charm did not work?” Karrell whispered as she helped him to his feet.

“Apparently not,” Arvin said.

Tanglemane stood next to them, listening. He lifted his head, his nostrils flaring as he sampled the breeze, then snorted.

A moment later, Arvin’s less sensitive ears picked up the sound the centaurs had reacted to: the thud of hooves.

“Who is it?” Arvin whispered to Tanglemane. “Soldiers?”

“No.” Tanglemane said. “A lone centaur.”

As the centaur loped into view, Stonehoof and his herd relaxed. Most lowered their bows—though two kept arrows loosely nocked as they returned their attention to their captives.

The newcomer slowed to a trot and tossed his head. He was black from mane to tail, save for a blaze of white on each of his front hooves. Unlike the other centaurs, whose manes flowed freely down their backs, this one wore his hair pulled back with a thong. A wide leather belt around his waist held his quiver and bow case, as well as a large pouch.

As the black centaur approached, Stonehoof charged out to meet him. When only a pace or two separated them, Stonehoof reared up on his hind legs, forelegs flailing in the air. It looked to Arvin like a challenge of some sort, but a moment later Stonehoof bowed his head, and the two powerful males were slapping each other’s hacks in greeting.

“Who is he?” Arvin asked.

“They greet him by the name Windswift.” Tanglemane answered.

“Is he their leader?”

Tanglemane stared appraisingly at the newcomer. “No. But he will lead the herd, someday soon, judging by the way Stonehoof submitted to him.”

Windswift turned and trotted toward them, followed by Stonehoof. The other centaurs parted to let him through their circle. Windswift said something to Tanglemane in the centaur language and received an answer, then turned his attention to Arvin and Karrell. After studying them a moment, he spoke. “You’re not soldiers.” His Common was flawless, save for a slight lisp on the final word. He swayed slightly, causing Arvin to wonder if the centaur was as exhausted as he was. Steam rose from Windswift’s back; he must have traveled some distance.