I spent much of the next few days with the duuchin, studying magic. It was his magic, magic learned through wide experiences and travels, a wild vista of observations and connections rather than the scrupulously built cathedral that is academic wizardry. Nevertheless, there were familiar treasures to be found. By the second day, I was able to reconstruct my spell for Sight: one of many ways for seeing things as they are and not merely as they appear. That was about the time Gena, laughing, declared my recovery complete and told me she wouldn’t hear any excuses about teaching her how to dream. So I did, briefing her on the basics and waking at odd hours in the night to help her capture her observations, a crucial step in helping to crystallize her attention. I noted with some interest that somehow I had found myself just as busy now, living in a stationary camp with a broken leg, as I had been when training with blade and steed in a moving band of nomads.
Ariké and the duuchin were busy, too. They spent long hours, at all times of the day and night, by Eidahn’s side.
I awoke to the groan of a horn, blown twice. In the next moment, the camp outside the tent was commotion.
Caught up in the urgency myself, I tried to roll over and stand. Instead, I face-planted when my immobilized left leg failed to mobilize.
Chethe burst into the tent and belted out some orders in Yaria. Ariké and Hester were assembling their gear in haste. Gena and the duuchin were elsewhere.
Ariké was gone through the tent flap by the time Hester noticed me. He knelt down by me. “Howe, you… you’re awake. You alright?”
“Yeah,” I said, rolling back into a seated position. “What’s going on?”
“Horned kings. Two of them. Howe… Tof and Gena are needed out there now. Can you ride?”
“No, but…”
“That’s just as well. You’re with Eidahn. Be safe.”
Hester bolted, hand steadying his sword belt, before I could get a word in. I was alone with Eidahn, listening to the sounds slowly drain out of the camp.
I looked at the tent flap. Darkness clawed at its edges: it was deep into the night. Out there somewhere, there were two horned kings hunting. And if they had summoned the entire camp… there were two horned kings fighting. Rampaging. Clashing with the best part of the band’s fighting strength.
Horned kings are huge haired creatures somewhat resembling gigantic bears in silhouette, although their reverse-jointed ungulate hind legs give away that they are more closely related to horses or cows than true bears. They have huge, keratinous plates on their heads and jaws, molded to their snouts, with protrusions on the fore that serve like beaks for tearing food and gouging prey.
This description is as useful and important as it is terrible disservice to the true nature of the beasts. Horned kings are fearless, merciless, and cunning. Unlike nearly every other creature to be found in Mundus, a horned king sees humans—even humans riding horses—as prey, to be hunted, chased, an devoured. And they seem to relish in a fight. Some say that they wish to give a true test to their awful strength and speed. Others say that they simply lust for blood above and beyond their need to feed. Underlying both ideas is an agreement: there is a keen, cruel mind that drives the titans the dominate the veld.
Every band on the veld has done battle with a horned king. Every band on the veld has lost siblings, parents, children, and cousins to horned kings. Much of their order to their lives is influenced by the threat of the great beasts. When one is spotted, the nearest riders will flee in separate directions, every able rider is summoned to readiness by way of hunting horns, and the dance begins. Any rider not fleeing attempts to keep up, shooting arrows at the beast in the hopes that one will penetrate the creature’s thick hide and injure it. Few do.
The chase will thunder on like this for a minute or so. The horned king does not tire, but horses and humans do. Before long one of the other riders will need to taunt the horned king, enraging it with a well-placed arrow or blow of a lance, or by presenting too enticing a target for the horned king to ignore. The horned king will buck and haul around, the taunting rider will whip the reins, and the chase will continue.
This can go on for hideous stretches of time. The horned king does not tire, and its hide will not yield to any but the most perfectly placed arrows.
In the distance, I thought I could hear the thunder of the hoofbeats.
Two horned kings. Weren’t they solitary hunters? Did mated pairs hunt?
I had nothing to do but wait. My heart pounded. I felt ill.
Then Eidahn stirred.
He began to mumble. I forced myself back up, thrashing awkwardly with sickly adrenaline.
“Eidahn. Hey. Are you all right?” I said. He did not reply, though he was moving somewhat, side to side. I repeated myself, louder, but still received no reply.
I looked around. Just me.
I looked back down at him. Was he all right? He didn’t look it. I set my jaw, as if that would keep back my fear that this was all about to go wrong. What else was there to do?
What would Gena do?
I began my examination.
His eyes were still closed. He wasn’t responding to spoken questions or commands. If he was conscious, it was barely so. But he had just been asleep, right? Whatever this new condition was, it wasn’t sleep, then. I felt his forehead: cold and clammy. Blueish lips. All signs of… general malaise. What was I supposed to do about general malaise? Was he going to die here?
Pain, I guessed. He was being disturbed by the pain. Something had happened inside his body, and someone needed to…
I swallowed, trying to keep from throwing up. I took a few deep breaths… then noticed that Eidahn was not doing the same. His breathing was fast, shallow, desperate.
That was it.
I looked around. All the flaps on the tent were closed. The air in here was still. Stale. Lifeless.
I crawled over to the top of my bed and drew myself up to a kneel upon my right knee, my left leg swung stiffly out on its splint. The pain stabbed at my calf, within my calf, rampaging up my leg and spine, and I nearly passed out.
But I didn’t. Trembling with the effort of staying up, my consciousness buttressed by sheer fear, I was able to tie up the window-flap above our beds, opening our tent to the night sky. The wind and pressure began to thump against the tent wall. One step forward, but we needed another opening for good flow.
I threw myself down to my knee, wincing with the pain. I looked across the tent, over at the entrance flap.
Eidahn gave a half-gasp of struggle.
One arm and one leg at a time, I crawled across the tent to the entrance flap. I gave one last awkward reach and ripped the flap aside.
The tent stopped thumping and filled with a sweet, cool night breeze.
I said a prayer for the winds, that the mysteries of the air and skies would favor us tonight.
By the time I had dragged myself back to the beds, Eidahn’s breathing had slowed. The big man was taking comfortable, deep breaths, and his eyes were open.
“Hmm?” he said.
“It’s night, friend. Sleep,” I managed, pretending nothing was wrong.
“Where… hmm.” He knew something was wrong. Had the tremble in my voice given it away?
“Rest, Eidahn.”
“No. Where is everyone?”
He was suddenly more lucid than we had seen since the night he had thrown himself at the assassins. I remember wondering if I was dreaming.
But I wasn’t. He had been at the last gate, and I had but to unlatch it for him.
He had made it.
I couldn’t just lie to him, now. “Eidahn… it’s been a few days. We’ve been worried about you. But… they’re out fighting off a horned king.”
“Oh. Can I…”
“Absolutely not.” I almost had to laugh at the insanity. “All able riders have been summoned. You did your good turn. Rest.”
Thunder and hoofbeats rolled over the winds.
So the both of us rested in a tense, worried silence.
When Ariké returned to the tent, they burst into tired, grateful tears, nearly falling onto Eidahn in their surprise to see him awake.
Hester, Gena, and the duuchin followed shortly thereafter. We all politely averted our eyes from the joyous reunion. Dawn was on the horizon.
Hester had his shit-eating grin on.
“By the… really?” I said.
“Really.”
“You…?”
“Oh, no, not me,” Hester interjected. But everyone made it back.”
“By Ae’s aegis.”
“By her will.”
“Gena, did you…?”
“Oh, no. I rode with him,” she said, gesturing to the duuchin. “He needed some help.”
“The skies favor us,” he said1. “And the thunder answered when I called. And I see…” he said, noting the window and entrance tied open, “… someone else has called the winds to them.”
“Nothing so dramatic,” I said. “How did you help, Gena?”
“I kept watch while he worked his magic. He’s vulnerable without another set of eyes.” The duuchin nodded to confirm this explanation.
That had turned out to be the Windvalley Riders’ great asset. The chase had begun mostly as normal: one of the outriders, patrolling close to the camp, had spotted the horned king and began leading it away from the camp. But then she spotted the other horned king, and made a desperate and skillful turn to avoid being sandwiched between the two.
Other riders began to arrive on the scene, and they tried to split the beasts up, but the chases became a beehive of havoc. Fortunately, the duuchin was on hand, and with Gena to guide his horse at the periphery of the chaos, he called the thunder to his aid. The terrible, unstoppable force he summoned enraged, then battered, then pulverized the predators.
With the crisis defeated, we sank into exhaustion. Gena left the tent to inform Chethe of Eidahn’s good turn, and before she returned, most of us had fallen back to sleep.
Magic users are forbidden from simply saying, “I had to cast some spells.” It’s a professional ethos. ↩