Songsmith

4

Moving with the speed of desperation, Eydryth threw herself away from the stallion’s pawing hooves. She nearly tripped over the old man, who lay frozen with fear, mouth open in a soundless scream. Grabbing the grandsire by the shoulders of his homespun jerkin, the songsmith dragged him over to the perimeter of the gathering crowd. Only then did she turn back to confront the horse.

The beast stood scant paces away, its eyes white-rimmed, snorting as it dug a sharp forefoot into the trampled earth. Its hide was lathered with sweat; the rank smell of it reached her nostrils. Eydryth realized that anger was not the only reason for the creature’s attack—this animal was frightened as well as enraged.

A broken halter hung from the runaway’s neck, and its black coat was patched with tufts of thick winter hair, like a bearskin invaded by moths. An untidy bristle of upstanding mane crested the thick neck. Eydryth ran her eyes over its conformation, noting the powerful legs, broad, muscled hindquarters, and sloping shoulders. Not tall or slender-legged enough for a sprinter, she concluded, but he looks as though he could run all day. I wonder what breed he is?

The songsmith’s blue eyes narrowed as she frowned. Something about this creature was familiar—disturbingly familiar.

The animal snorted nervously, then rolled its eyes at the milling crowd of onlookers now surrounding them. It sniffed the spring breeze, as though searching for something—or someone.

“I’ll snare his forefeet and throw him. Bring a rope!” a burly man in the crowd called.

Eydryth saw muscles tense beneath that ebon hide as the stud sidled, muscles tensing. “Ho, son… easy now,” she whispered, extending one hand as she stepped forward. “If you jump into the crowd, you’ll surely hurt someone, so… whoa, now. Easy… easy…”

Black ears swiveled sharply forward to catch the crooning sound of her voice, but as Eydryth ventured another step, the horse flattened his ears, snorting an unmistakable warning. The onlookers gasped. The girl halted; then, remembering how she had soothed her own Kioga mare, Vyar, she began humming softly. The tune was the one the old man had requested only minutes ago.

Slowly, the black’s ears moved forward as it listened. Gradually, its shivering eased. The muttering of the crowd faded into silence as Eydryth began singing, the words floating liquid and eerie in the still air:

Slowly, the songsmith stepped toward the creature… one step… two… a third…

Finally, she was at the animal’s side. Eydryth held out her hand, feeling the warm puffs of breath as the horse scented her. She had to force herself to hold steady, knowing only too well the size of the teeth that were barely a handspan from her flesh. But he made no offer to snap.

The girl raised a hand to stroke the horse’s neck.

“No! Lady, touch him not! He will kill you!”

The frantic shout came from some distance away. Eydryth’s voice wavered, and the black ears flattened. Hastily, the songsmith resumed her soothing music. She did not turn around, but out of the corner of her eye the young woman glimpsed a running figure bursting out from between the farrier’s forge and the saddlemaker’s display. The newcomer began shoving a passage through the crowd.

Bending her head, Eydryth breathed gently into the red-rimmed, distended nostrils. They fluttered, but the animal did not move. She laid hand to the hot, sweaty neck, then began to stroke it gently, still singing.

When the stone-hard muscles beneath her fingers finally relaxed, the songsmith dared to grasp the broken halter. Reaching into the pocket of her jerkin, she took out a length of rawhide, using it to lace the leather straps together. All the while, she hummed softly.

Only when Eydryth was able to grasp the runaway by the now-repaired halter did she turn to regard the man who had shouted such a dire warning.

“Were you speaking to me, good sir?” she asked mildly.

The newcomer frankly gaped at her as she stood beside the now-placid horse, still humming. Of medium height and whip-slender, he gave the impression of a wiry toughness and strength. His hair was as black as the stallion’s mane, his eyes dark grey. By the cast of his features he was young, but there was something ageless about him. Plainly, he was of the Old Race… and yet—

—yet—

For a moment Eydryth sensed something different about the newcomer… something that set him apart from the townspeople and farmers milling around him. Somehow, he seemed more distinct than the others. The songsmith blinked, startled; then the fleeting impression was gone. Facing her was naught but a young man, dressed simply in an unbleached linen shirt with a leather overjerkin, tan buckskin breeches, and battered, knee-high riding boots.

The stranger gave her a wry grin accompanied by a congratulatory bow. “I said, ‘Thank you for capturing my horse, minstrel.’ ” His voice was a low, pleasant baritone, and his accent was that of an educated man, at variance with his rough clothing. A ripple of laughter went through the crowd, which then began dispersing, seeing that the excitement was now over.

Eydryth smiled, still patting the horse. “You are welcome, sir. Tell me, how did he come to be loose?”

The young man rubbed the back of his neck as though it pained him. “It was my fault,” he admitted, unwrapping a leather lead-shank from about his waist and fastening it to the runaway’s halter. The beast rumbled a low greeting deep in its throat. “I was careless. I took him to graze along the river-bank, and two ruffians evidently decided that it was easier to steal a mount than to acquire one honestly.”

“They attacked you?”

“They were upon me before I knew they were there! One moment I was turning, thinking I heard a sound, the next I returned to my senses stretched out on the ground, with my horse nowhere to be seen. One of the brigands lay an arm’s length away, trampled and dead, while the other was just disappeanng into the forest, cradling an arm that will require splinting, if I’m any judge.”

The man shook his head ruefully as he scratched behind the horse’s ears, causing it to rub its head against him, nearly knocking him over. “This fellow has been trained to let no one else touch him. I was certain that you were about to share his would-be thieves’ fate. But I was wrong.” The newcomer gave Eydryth a searching look that made her cheeks grow warm. “Such lovely singing was too much for even Monso to resist.”

Monso. Eydryth stared at the newcomer in shock. That means “wind-swift” in the Old Tongue. But … how does this man come to know the Old Tongue?

Her mind racing, Eydryth walked over to pick up her harp where it lay on the ground. After running her fingers over the wood and strings, she returned it to her pack.

“Is your harp damaged, Lady… Lady Songsmith?” the man asked worriedly.

She shook her head. “It is fine. I am Eydryth… and you are?”

He hesitated for a bare second, then bowed again. “I am called Dakar, Lady Eydryth.”

Again the bard was careful not to betray any outward reaction to his words. Dakar means “shadow” in the Old Tongue. Who is this man? Could he be from Arvon?

Dakar ran a hand down Monso’s neck, then across the broad chest. “He’s still sweating… I should walk him, lest his muscles cramp or stiffen. Will you… will you walk with us for a moment, Lady? I have scarcely thanked you.”

“It was nothing,” Eydryth demurred, but she slung her pack over her shoulders, then followed him as he led the stallion away from the fair booths toward an open meadow lying near the racecourse.

It was late afternoon now; the sun was dropping toward the dark shadow of the surrounding forest. The tiny white-and-gold lover’s knots dotting the turf were beginning to close their petals. The bustle of the fair faded to a faint murmur far behind them as they walked.

Dakar glanced over at the racecourse, where the track was being smoothed by a heavy stone block dragged behind two oxen. “Soon it will be time for the day’s race,” he muttered, resting a hand on Monso’s neck. He felt between the animal’s forelegs, then, satisfied that the horse was now cool, halted him, allowing his mount to crop eagerly at the spring-green grass.

The youth rested an arm across his horse’s back, leaning comfortably against the animal’s barrel. He was not tall; his eyes and Eydryth’s were nearly on a level as they stood together. “What brings you to the horse fair, Lady?” he asked.

Eydryth briefly explained her desire for a mount to carry her on her journeying, but admitted ruefully that her taste in horseflesh exceeded the wealth of her purse. Dakar nodded sympathetically. “There is fine stock to be had here, Lady, but only for those with the silver to purchase it. True bargains when buying horseflesh are rare.”

Eydryth sighed. “You are right. I had just decided I would be better off earning yet another night’s worth of silver, then trying again on the morrow. But I am anxious to proceed to Lormt—even a day’s delay seems an eternity!”

“Lormt?” he gave her a sharp, sidelong glance. Plainly, he had heard of the ancient stronghold of knowledge.

“You know of Lormt?” she asked, eagerly. “Have you ever been there?”

“Never within its walls, Lady. But I worked with a mountain guide for nearly a year, leading parties into Escore, and we were accustomed to camp outside Lormt’s walls on each trip. We watered our horses at the village well. The master chronicler, Duratan, gave my partner permission to do so.”

“Have you met any of the scholars there? Any who might know aught of ancient scrolls having to do with healing?”

Dakar shook his head. “No, always I remained with the party while Jon—” He broke off in midname, his mouth tightening, then continued, not looking at her. “—while my partner consulted with the scholars.”

“But still, you know the way there. Is the overland route by way of South Wending the most direct road?”

He nodded. “It is. Except that there is an old forest trail after you pass South Wending that will save you half a day’s journey. The entrance is nearly overgrown, but the path itself is clear. Look for it on your left just past a tall bank of red clay with a stream running at its foot.”

“Thank you,” Eydryth said.

“You are most welcome. I only wish I could be of more help. I can tell that your journey is… important.”

The songsmith glanced away. “You have aided me. Anything that will hasten my journeying is all to the good. I am in your debt.”

“Nonsense, my lady. I owe you far more than that, for catching Monso. Doubtless you kept him from injuring someone, or, at the least, damaging property.” Dakar stopped to gaze thoughtfully over at the oval of beaten earth where soon the races would be run. A moment later, he turned back to catch the songsmith’s gaze, hold it with his own.

“If I had coin of my own, I’d give it to you, Lady,” he said, his pleasant voice suddenly low and intense. “Regrettably, races have been few and far between here in the south of Estcarp, and at the moment I have barely enough to pay my entry fee. But if you will trust me enough to risk some of your own silver, I swear that it will profit you.”

Dakar took a brush from a pocket in his jerkin and began grooming his horse. Dried sweat rose in a dusty, salty cloud. “My beast may not be as tall, or as sleek and well groomed as these local beauties, Lady—but over a course this length, nothing can stay with him, much less pass him. Wager on us, and you’ll not lose.”

“But it’s a long way from the riverbank to the fairgrounds,” Eydryth pointed out. “He’s run himself into a lather once already today. I saw some of the racers earlier—they are fine, blooded animals, and fresh, as Monso is not. How can you defeat them?”

Monso snorted explosively, then curled his upper lip, almost as though he were laughing. Dakar grinned as he curried his mount’s back. “I admit it sounds unlikely, but I know what I know. Wager on us, Lady Eydryth, and you’ll not have to sing tonight to earn extra silver.”

The minstrel gazed at both horse and master for a long moment, then nodded. “May you race as fast as ever Lord Faral did, Dakar. I will go and place my wager.”

Monso snorted again, then bobbed his head as though he understood and agreed perfectly.

An hour later, Eydryth jostled for position along the hedges dividing the racecourse from the fairground. Tucked safely into her coin purse was a flat chip of wood, marked with the amount of her wager and the odds. As she had suspected, Monso was not among those favored to win the race—too many people had seen the runaway’s mad flight across the fairgrounds. Any horse that had already spent itself so greatly was regarded as too leg-weary to prove a dangerous challenger.

The songsmith squinted, trying to make out the field against the reddish glare from the westering sun.

There! One spot of dull brown and black, contrasting vividly with the colorful caps, sashes and saddlecloths of the other entries. Dakar rode Monso onto the course, his saddle one of the light ones used by battle-couriers. Unlike the other riders with their long-legged, secure seats, he rode with his stirrups short, almost perched atop, rather than astride, his mount.

Eydryth smiled inwardly. The Kioga rode like that when they raced… short-stirruped, crouching over their horses’ withers, rather than sitting heavily on their backs. The young woman knew from experience that Dakar’s position in the saddle would permit his horse maximum freedom of stride, while greatly lessening wind resistance.

Around her, the townspeople of Rylon Corners also noticed the stranger’s odd seat. Several rough-looking rogues that she’d seen in the wagering tent pointed and laughed, predicting that the young man would find his brains spattered on the packed earth as soon as the race began.

As the horses milled behind a rope stretched across the track, the official starter took her place. She was the mayor’s wife, a greying, buxom woman who stood beside the judges on the inside of the racecourse. In her hand was a red scarf that fluttered in the wind.

Minutes went by as the horses wheeled and sidled, their riders urging them into their appointed positions on the starting line. Eydryth noticed that none of the other animals would stand within a length of Monso. As though he had expected no less, Dakar, without being told, took up position on the far outside, where he would have the greatest distance to run—an additional handicap. Eydryth bit her lip, thinking of the silver coins she had wagered… thinking how ill she could afford to lose them.

A moment later, the line of horses momentarily steadied; then suddenly the strip of red silk fluttered free.

The rope barrier dropped.

A roar of excitement erupted from the watching crowd as the racers lunged forward, trying to gain a position next to the inside hedge. Great clumps of dried mud pelted the crowd, thrown up by the thundering hooves.

Monso! Where is he?

Eydryth craned her neck, trying desperately to see, but many of the men in the crowd were taller than she. She ducked between a goodwife carrying two hens in a cage, and a blank-shield whose breath proclaimed his afternoon in an alehouse. On tiptoe, fists clenched, she squinted at the course. Slowly, she was able to pick out the individual horses.

The grey in the lead, then the red chestnut… third was the dun… the golden bay was neck-and-neck with the liver chestnut, then came the dark bay with the blaze face. But no black!

Fear tightened like a fist on Eydryth’s throat. Monso! Dakar! Where are you?

Anxiously, the bard looked back along the length of the track, fearing to see a downed horse and rider. But the hoof-scarred clay was clear. Puzzled, she turned back to the race.

The horses, still closely bunched, were approaching the far turn. But as they reached the opposite side of the oval track, Eydryth made out a smaller, black shadow clinging like a sticktight to the side of the second-running chestnut!

“Go!” Eydryth whispered, not even hearing herself amid the din of the crowd. “Run, Monso!”

As if he had indeed heard her, Dakar guided the black horse perilously closer to the inside hedge; then there was free track before them! Eydryth gasped as Monso leaped forward so swiftly that it seemed as though he had only now begun to run. In the space of a heartbeat he was beside the grey leader. Then he was past—a length in front—two lengths—

Eydryth clapped a hand to her mouth, seeing that Dakar was holding his mount tight-reined, not allowing him to run full-out. His hands moved, pulling hard, working the steel bit against the corners of the horse’s mouth. And still the black, moving with the speed of an advancing tempest, continued to gain!

Monso was a full four lengths in the lead when he swept past the finish pole. There was no cheering from the crowd, only a stunned silence.

“ ’Tis unnatural!” the woman with the hens exclaimed finally. “That creature ran past Hawrel’s Grey Arrow as though the beast was hitched to a plow—and that grey is the fastest horse the town’s seen in a score o’ years!”

“Aye,” the blank-shield muttered, disgustedly snapping his wagering chip in two. “No horse should have been able t’ run like that, after that chase cross the fairground today. No normal horse, that is.”

No normal horse.

Sudden realization made Eydryth fasten her teeth in her lower lip to avoid crying out in recognition. Now she knew where she’d seen Monso’s like before. That spark of red in the beast’s eyes had been no reflection of the sun! That creature is no more a mortal horse than Hathor’s Ghost Stallion! she thought. But… how? How could anyone catch and master a Keplian?

The songsmith vividly remembered the time she had seen one of the demon horse-spirits sent by the Dark to lure unwary travelers. It had been shortly after her mother disappeared. She, Jervon and Lord Kerovan had been out searching, and had camped for the night near a stream in a seemingly deserted valley.

Eydryth had rolled out of her blankets in the silver dimness before dawn, only to see the creature standing just outside their camp. The Keplian had the seeming of a tall, perfect black stallion as it had stood cropping the dew-heavy grass. Both she and Jervon had cried out with pleasure at the sheer beauty of its delicate head, its straight, clean-boned legs… the flowing lines of its arched neck and straight-backed body.

Both she and her father had started toward it, enthralled by the creature’s unearthly beauty. Both of them might well have been ensnared past all saving, but suddenly, Kerovan stepped into their path, the wristband that he wore glowing brightly. As its light bathed their eyes, they staggered back, returning to their senses, for the ancient talisman possessed the ability to warn and guard against the presence of any evil.

Kerovan had raised his arm in a warding gesture. “Get you gone, fell thing! Do not return!” As the wristlet’s light struck the Keplian, it had snorted with pain, then raced away.

So Monso is a Keplian. That explains much, Eydryth thought, standing bemused, hardly hearing the disappointed grumblings of the departing onlookers. And yet… he does not have that unnatural perfection of form that the creature I saw possessed Could he be a crossbred? Is it possible that Keplians can mate with mortal horses?

Her speculations continued without answer as the songsmith turned to make her way through the thinning crowd, her goal the wagering tent and the claiming of her winnings.

The race had been the last event of the horse fair; all around her horse traders and merchants were feeding their stock and closing up their pavilions until the morrow, when the fair would reopen. The sun was setting rapidly now, and by the time she emerged from the wagering tent, blue twilight was stealing across the land like a thief, robbing the place of color and life.

Eydryth smiled as she walked, feeling the heavy purse weighing down the belt she wore inside her jerkin. Enough, and more than enough to purchase a fine mount. I’ll be in Lormt ere I thought possible!

As she set off across the nearly deserted tangle of tents and booths, Eydryth saw Dakar walking Monso not far from where they had first met. Shrugging her pack a little higher on her shoulders, the songsmith veered aside from her chosen path with the intention of thanking the youth.

Torchlight sputtered in the night breeze that had sprung up, its reflection again awakening that disturbing scarlet spark in the black stallion’s eyes. Eydryth halted, staring at the unlikely pair. After all, what did she know of Dakar? He rode a Keplian. It was therefore entirely possible—nay, probable—that he himself was of the Left-Hand Path, one of the Dark Ones. Legend held that they were often handsome, or beautiful… as fair outside as they were foul within.

As she wavered, on the verge of turning away, Dakar looked up, then waved cheerfully. “Lady Eydryth!” he called, as she came toward him. “Did you see the race?”

The minstrel nodded. “I did. Lord Faral’s horse could not have run more swiftly!” As she reached him, she added, in a lower tone, “Now I will be able to reach Lormt in only a few days, thanks to my wager. I am indeed in your debt.”

The young man shook his head. “Nonsense. We would have raced for the winner’s purse whether or not you were wagering on us, my lady. I am just glad that you will be able to continue your journeying well-mounted.”

Eydryth hesitated, tempted to ask where he and Monso would be going, now that the race day was over, but what was the sense in that? She would never see him—or his strange mount—again. The songsmith sighed, resolutely straightening her shoulders beneath the heavy pack. “Farewell, then, Dakar, and a safe journey to you on the morrow,” she said.

He appeared to hesitate in his turn, then finally nodded. “A safe journey to you… and may you find what you are seeking.” He held out his hand.

Eydryth clasped hands with him in a warrior’s grip, feeling the leather-callused roughness of his palm against her own harpstring-toughened fingers. She saw his eyes widen slightly at the strength of her grip; then he smiled, his clasp shifted, and he bowed formally over her hand in courtly fashion. “Fare you well, Lady Eyd—”

“Spawn of the Dark!”

“You cheated! That’s no ordinary horse!”

“Cheater! You witched my Grey Arrow!”

Eydryth and Dakar started, whirling to see a group of men approaching them, their shadowy forms huge and wavering in the wind-whipped torchlight.

Monso’s rider put up his hands in a conciliatory fashion as the figures ranged themselves around them, hemming them in past all escape. “Gently, goodmen, gently! If any of you feel that my horse did not win fairly, you should have spoken to the judges before Monso was officially declared the winner. There was no such protest entered.”

“That’s because we were all bespelled!” Grey Arrow’s owner, Hawrel, a tall, rawboned fanner with the fair hair of a Sulcarman, stepped forward. “You made fools of us all, but we’ve come to our senses now, and we demand you make right our losses!”

Monso lowered his head, snorting. One sharp hoof pawed in unmistakable challenge. Dakar grabbed the Keplian’s halter, whispering to him, and slowly the black calmed. “Very well,” his master said. “I want no trouble—for your sakes, as much as my own. I will give you what I have.”

Eydryth made a small motion of protest, but did not speak, as Dakar slowly withdrew his winner’s purse from within his jerkin. Five… six… She counted the figures in that grim circle, noting that several were armed with cudgels and one with a sword. Too many to fight. And Dakar did cheat… racing a Keplian against mortal horses is hardly fair—

—but neither is this! she thought angrily, watching the young man grimly weigh the purse in his hand, then toss it at Hawrel’s feet. “Take it, then, and leave us in peace,” he said, his shoulders sagging with sudden weariness. “I will leave your town, and nothing could induce me to return, I assure you.”

The protesters did not miss the bitter mockery in his words.

Stung, they surged forward until Eydryth could recognize other faces—Grey Arrow’s bowlegged little rider… the broad-shouldered blank-shield who had been standing near her in the crowd, the palm-polished grip of his sword gleaming faintly… the village blacksmith… the horse trader whose animal she’d rejected. The sixth man wore a muffling hood that hid his features.

“We’ll not stand here and be mocked by a cheating rascal of a boy!” the smith snarled, slapping the rasp he carried against his callused palm. “You and that unnatural beast both deserve a beating, and that is what you’re going to receive!”

“Wait!” Dakar held up both hands, genuinely alarmed now. “You must not! You could be killed! I want no bloodshed, please! At least allow the songsmith to—”

“At them, then, lads!” Hawrel shouted, and in deadly silence, the men rushed them. The songsmith dodged the one wearing the hood, her quarterstaff sweeping the ground, sending her attacker thudding heavily to the ground.

As he lay there, winded, Eydryth gave him a carefully calculated rap on the back of the head that stretched him out, unconscious; then she turned back to aid her companion. Dakar was holding onto his horse, shouting commands, while the heavyset blacksmith brandished his rasp at the young man’s head, all the while trying to pull Monso’s lead-shank away.

Hawrel grabbed the youth from behind, one hand clamping brutally over his mouth, his other arm tightening over his throat. The smith yanked the horse toward him, aiming a blow at the creature’s head with the rasp.

The Keplian went up on his hind legs with a piercing scream of fury, forehooves slashing. His eyes flashed bloodred in the torchlight as the demon-horse struck like a snake. He grabbed the smith’s arm, hoisting the man clean up into the air, his bared teeth ripping through heavy clothing and skin alike to lay the brawny forearm open to the bone. The injured man dangled, shrieking.

“Monso!” Dakar shouted, tearing his mouth free of Hawrel’s grip. “No! Touch them not!”

Monso shook the smith as though he were a rat, then dropped him.

The bronze-sheathed butt of Eydryth’s quarterstaff came down on the Sulcar farmer’s head, sending him staggering, freeing Dakar, who ran to his horse, drawing his belt knife. The blank-shield rushed at him, his own knife out. Dakar struck out, trying to fend off his attacker, but it was clear to the songsmith that the youth was far from an experienced fighter. Even as Eydryth leaped to defend him, the mercenary flicked the knife out of the youth’s grasp. Kicking it away, the big man advanced, his own blade weaving expertly before him.

Eydryth swung at his arm, but Hawrel’s cudgel struck her shoulder, deflecting her stroke and sending a lance of pain down her arm. Gasping from the hurt, she lashed out at him; then trained muscles took over, and she was in the thick of the fight, automatically dodging, parrying, rapping the four remaining attackers sharply with the staff every time they left her an opening.

Cursing, the townsmen staggered back, out of range, wary now. One of them stumbled over the hooded man; then they dragged him with him. The smith was gone. Panting, Eydryth spoke to Dakar without taking her eyes off their foes. “Are you hurt?”

For answer, something large brushed her shoulder, sending her staggering.

Monso!

The stallion sprang forward, Dakar clinging to his mane; then, with a snort and a drum of hooves, mount and rider were through and away, leaving Eydryth to face their attackers alone.

With a bitter grimace— When will I ever learn to keep from barging into fights that aren’t mine?—the bard braced herself for the next rush.

“So, songsmith,” the blank-shield chuckled, drawing his sword, “looks as though you’ve been stuck with the burnt end of the stick, don’t it? Yer sweetheart just left ye t’ fend for yourself.”

Grey Arrow’s rider frowned uncertainly. “I dunno,” he muttered. “I don’t hold with fightin’ a bard. ’Tis said t’ be bad luck. Some of uns can curse ye with a song, ’tis said. ’Sides,” he pointed out, “she’s a woman.”

“The Dark Ones take her, she hits like a man, I say treat her like one,” Hawrel said, rubbing his head and glaring at Eydryth. “ ’Tis a wonder my skull ain’t cracked, sure enough!”

“That’s a big purse she’s carrying,” the hooded man whispered, climbing slowly to his feet. His concealing garment fell back, revealing skin darkened by sun to the color of an ancient bronze shield, and grizzled hair. “I watched Norden count out her winnin’s, and they was enough t’ choke a donkey. We can get the rest o’ our losses back from her.”

The wiry little rider shook his head. “Not me, I’m not risking any curse-songs. And I don’t hold with stealing. Count me out, lads.”

He turned and walked away into the night. The other men hesitated. “Give us the purse, songsmith,” Hawrel said. “And we might let you off with only a few bruises to make up for those you gave us.”

Gunnora, aid me, Eydryth prayed. Let me take two of them with me. She shook her head, not speaking.

“Your decision, then,” the Sulcarman growled.

Eydryth grasped the slender barrel of the gryphon’s body, the metal cool and comforting to her staff-chafed hand, and pulled. A blade of shining steel emerged from where it had been fitted into the length of the quarterstaff.

Eydryth saluted her opponents with the now-revealed sword, smiling grimly at their unconcealed surprise.

“She knows how t’ use that blade,” the hooded man observed, uneasily. He was still not steady on his feet.

“And if she does?” the blank-shield said. “There’s still three of us, and I’m no stranger to swordplay. I’ll keep her busy, and you take her from behind.”

Slowly they began spreading out to do his bidding. Eydryth braced herself as they gathered themselves for a charge—

The thunder of racing hoofbeats suddenly filled the night!

“Songsmith! Be ready!” Dakar shouted, as he galloped toward her on Monso. The hooded man grabbed a lit torch and swiped at the Keplian. He screamed shrilly as the stallion lashed out with a forefoot; then they burst through, knocking Hawrel sprawling. The blank-shield fell back before the Keplian’s bared teeth.

Eydryth had already resheathed her sword. She handed up her quarterstaff; then, grabbing the hand Dakar extended, she vaulted up behind him onto the dancing, plunging horse. She had barely enough time to snatch her weapon and grasp Dakar’s belt one-handed before Monso’s haunches bunched beneath her.

The Keplian sprang forward with a leap that nearly unseated her; then they were off, racing away from the torchlight, into the dark.