Rheumy eyes blinked at the dim light. A spiderlike hand moved feebly to shield them.

“You would be Shadra of the Purest Light?” The accent might have been a sheepdog attempting Turaleean. A Medalosian sheepdog at that.

She peeked between two fingers that might have been pine twigs and beheld a strange sight. Her first attempt at speech failed, and even the effort of holding the hand before her wasn’t to be endured.

Closing her eyes to gather strength for the effort, she instead felt herself supported by thick bands of muscle and pulled gently upright, smelled close up the sweat and dirt of a man’s body.

She opened her eyes again, realizing that her head lay against his broad chest. A split reed spoon was being held against her lips. Not so embarrassed as she’d have believed herself to be in such a situation, the great Shadra of the Purest Light allowed herself to be fed like a babe in arms.

Her meager meal finished, the strange apparition lay her tenderly down upon her blankets. Tentatively, she reached a clawed hand out to touch the metal of his face, confirming what weak eyes had told her. Seeing him in both the physical world and the astral, she found no answer, and that, she could not understand.

“What are you?” she croaked softly.

“Just a man,” he told her.

“I’ve seen a man,” she whispered, strength already waning. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

The moons were nearing conjunction, and the night sky was early evening bright, well on toward morning. The boy took that as a sign and crawled out to the river bank to enjoy the breeze. The blankets were beginning to stink, or perhaps it was him. In any case, the open sky held far more allure than the root-walled hole.

The stranger’s horse watched his progress with oddly intelligent eyes, and he was almost tempted to strike up a conversation to pass the time as he awaited his far off arrival the thirty paces or so where the river waited.

The horse didn’t comment, but continued to watch his progress. “No,” he told it. “That’s quite alright, I don’t need any help, thank you. I’ll be just fine on my own.”

The horse looked back into the cave and then resumed its survey of his journey. There was a rounded boulder poking a step or so out of the ground just at water’s edge, and he pulled himself wearily up onto it. Looking back to his bedroll and wondering how he’d get all that way back, he was surprised to see the stranger leaning against the cave mouth, arms crossed.

“You were watching the whole time, then?” he demanded.

The man shrugged. “You told the horse you didn’t need any help. You’re not the type to lie to horses, are you?”

The boy laughed despite himself. “Well, if he asks again, he’ll get a different answer, he croaked. “I’m about done in.”

The man moved out of the shadow of the cave and hunkered down, idly tearing at a stalk of grass, flicking the shreds into the fast-moving current. “Anything between the Turaleeans and this republic of yours?”

A cloud passed over the boy’s features. “Some farmers and a bandit or two. No organized force, certainly.”

“Too bad.”

“Yes. Too bad. Stupid bastard!”

“Hmm?”

The boy looked at him from a half crazed eye. “His royal eminence, the hereditary ruler of the Grand Iskan Republics, Corwyn the bloody third, Governor bleeding General. Moronic git!”

“He was that bad? Why’d you follow him?”

“I didn’t bloody follow him, mate. Those other poor sods followed him. Followed him to death, they did. Well, they won’t follow him anymore, will they? Perhaps it’s a good thing the Republics are doomed. Nobody left to follow the stupid bugger, eh?”

The man straightened; “he’s alive? What happened to him?”

The boy lost some of the wildness shining out of his good eye and held up his mangled right hand. “He got his whole army slaughtered and his fingers chopped off.”

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

* * *

“He insisted that you stay,” Belius repeated for perhaps the hundredth time.

“And I always do what he tells me, is that it?” Thrush responded without turning. “Where does this go again?”

Corporal Burly ducked his head and took the strap from the Sylvan’s hand. “Loike this, miliady. Up through this ring ‘ere, down behoind, around, back through from tha back, an’ doon through va loop again. Also, it ‘elps if yer gives these cavalry mounts a wee bi’ of a knee, it does, fer they does be oldin’ their breaths they does.”

He demonstrated and was able to get another half hand of tightness on the cinch once the horse had expelled the breath he’d been holding. “Does yer cinch ‘im loose, yer’ll end up ‘neath ‘is belly, draggin’ yer tresses in th’ mud yer will.” He untied the cinch, nonchalantly elbowing the irritable horse in the teeth as it assayed a tentative bite.

Thrush carefully retied the cinch, snugging it tight with a knee against the horse’s side and giving it an extra hard pull. Burly waited, but she didn’t kick. He waited some more.

Exasperated, he ducked his head, not quite meeting her eyes. “‘e’s an ‘orse, miliady, no’ a bleedin’ duke o’ th’ realm! Does yer no snug th’ cinch doon, yer’ll fall the ‘ell off!” He demonstrated, fetching the bloated belly a sideways kick. The animal’s breath exploded out his nose with a whoosh and he kicked reflexively. Burly nimbly sidestepped the kick, grabbed hold of the saddle pommel and gave it a yank. The horse twisted angrily, teeth bared, but Burly had the headstall now and gave it a good shake. The horse danced around some, but calmed down. The saddle now dangled beneath its belly.

“They’re evil sods, they are, these ‘orses,” Burly insisted, leaning over Thrush as though trying to manually insert the understanding. “They doesn’t oonderstand aught but th’ boot ner th’ ‘and.” He gave the short-coupled piebald an accusing glare. “they’ll boit yer, stomp yer, ‘r sit on yer at th’ least chance, they will.”

“How did you end up in the cavalry,” Thrush asked, “if you hate horses so?”

“Hates them, mum?” Burly’s eyes got big and round. “But Oi don’t ‘ates them mum! Hit’s that Oi oonderstands them, mum. They’re blessed beasts, they are, once a body oonderstands wha’ makes them as they are. No different than a good woman, really.”

Now it was Thrush’s eyes that got big and round. “And how long was it you were married, Corporal?” she inquired mock sweetly.

“Er...ten years, it was, mum,” he announced proudly. “Give er take.”

“Years or scars?”

“Eh?” he hesitated. Then he got it. “Ah, yes, mum,” he laughed. “An’ it were boff, Oi’m finkin’, though th’ scars be still aboot while th’ years an’ th’ woman be gone, more’s th’ pity.”

The corporal bent to release the saddle. It landed in the inn yard dust with a hollow thunk. Burly carefully spread the blanket out over the horse’s back and replaced the saddle atop it, going over the procedure and the necessities for care as he did so, all the while shifting feet and knees without apparent thought, avoiding the horse’s half hearted attempts to step on him or knock him out of the way.

“Now, mum,” he addressed Thrush again. “Aboot that cinch?”

Sighing heavily, she reached under the horse and caught the cinch strap, half expecting the horse to try a nip or something. He stood very still. She pulled the strap up through the ring then down, around, back through and down again, tugging solidly. Then, conscience protesting, she brought her knee up into the bellows-like chest. The animal’s breath went out in a rush and the strap was loose. She tightened it again, and looked to Burly for his approval.

Burly stood beside the horse’s head, arm around its jaw, teeth tightly clamped down on an ear. That explained why she hadn’t had to deal with its ill temper as she’d been struggling with the saddle. He came around and gave the cinch a mighty tug, nearly toppling the surprised animal. Then he tugged on the pommel. The horse rocked, but the saddle didn’t shift.

“There now, mum,” he proclaimed proudly. “Now ‘e’s saddled, ‘e is! Think yer c’n do ‘er again when need be?”

“Thank you Burly,” she smiled. “I think I can manage now.” She climbed into the saddle, all eyes upon her.

Burly looked up at her, concern written upon his homely face. The horse idly nibbled on the shoulder strap of his armor, its attitude completely changed now that the saddle and rider were in place. Burly’s hand stroked the long jaw in a companionable way. “Yer sure aboot this, milady?”

“We’ll be fine, Burly,” she assured. “Just you keep the lads on the straight and narrow, and the townsfolk out of the wizard’s way.”

Swallow, long mounted on a smallish black mare of much more even temperament than Thrush’s chosen transportation, cleared her throat noisily. The sun was well up and they hadn’t heard from Brae in days. It was time to go!

Thrush looked over at her sister and nodded gently. “Alright, flighty bird, we’re going.”

She pulled the shoulders of the long, silken cloak more squarely about her, draping the trailing ends around the horse’s flanks. She’d wait until they left the forest behind before she raised the hood. She hated the confining folds of cloth, but suspected she’d hate being sun roasted like flatbread on a hot stone even more.

Swallow waved her final goodbyes and put heels to the mare, charging out of the inn yard, long cloak snapping behind her; a dark amber battle flag. Thrush cried out in consternation and put heels to the piebald gelding, her own cloak flaring out into soft maroon wings.

Belius stood quietly in the settling dust, watching long after they’d rounded the building. Long after even the echos of the hoofbeats had faded. He was dispirited. The oldest had chosen them —had chosen all of them, and him among them— and now they were scattering to the winds.

With the exception of the were girl, they’d broken back into their original groups. How were they to accomplish anything alone? It didn’t occur to him that, had he asked himself that selfsame question a turn earlier, it would have been ‘how could they think of working together?