The Castle Of Hape. Caves Of Fire And Ice. The Joining Of The Stone

The mare’s wings slashed and turned the wind. Ram clung to her back with effort, his fingers twisted in he mane to keep from falling, his blood spilling down across her shoulder. She lifted higher and the wind hammered at him; her wings tore light from the sun so it fractured around him, confusing him. He was hardly aware of the land below, blurred into a tapestry of green by her speed; was unaware of the river Urobb just beneath them and of the sea ahead. The bay and islands lay sun-washed, the towering stone ruins, but he did not heed them or the newly tilled farms, the herds of fat cattle and horses, did not see the carts going along the newly made roads toward the ruins to trade, was conscious only of pain, of sickness, of the raw agony of the sword wound in his side.

The bleeding increased. He loosed one hand from the mare’s mane to explore the wound, then bent again dizzy, hugging her neck to keep from falling. Only her mane, torn by wind to slash across his face, jerked him from unconsciousness. He pressed his arm tight to his side to staunch the blood.

The mare’s wings spanned more than twenty feet, her dark eyes swept the sky and land constantly. Her golden coat caught the high, clear brilliance of the sun, her ears sharp forward and alert. She was no tame creature to come to a man’s bidding, she had leaped from the sky of her own free will to lift Ram from the midst of battle, a dozen winged horses beside her sweeping down to lift the battered warriors from a fight that had turned to slaughter, so outnumbered were they; a battle they might have won had their Seer’s powers not been crippled so the attack caught them unaware, the Herebian hordes surging through dense woods a hundred strong against their puny band.

The mare lifted higher now. Light filled her wings like a golden cloak surrounding Ram, light ever moving as she soared then angled down. The fields rolled beneath him sickeningly; he went dizzy again, and she warned him awake with cool equine concern; then she dropped suddenly and sharply to meet the cold sea wind, dove through the wind in swift flight supporting Ram with the strength of her will—then folded her wings in one liquid motion and stood poised and still on the rim of a stone balcony high up the sheer side of the temple of the gods.

Ram slipped down to the stone, his mind plunging toward blackness, and felt hands catch him. He saw a flash of gold as the mare leaped aloft; then he went limp.

He woke swearing and flailing, thinking he was in battle, imagined men dying, could smell their blood. He was drenched in blood and sweat. He came fully awake at last, thrashing among the sweaty bedclothes. The wound in his side was a screaming pain. His bandage was soaked with blood. He felt hands lift his shoulders, saw white fingers around a cup. He swallowed the bitter draught gratefully, stared into Skeelie’s thin face for an instant, then dropped into sleep again like a stone, spinning down in deep water.

Skeelie stood over him scowling, shaken to see him hurt like this, grateful that he did not lie dead on some bloody battlefield. How many times had she stood so, wretched within herself at Ram’s hurt? Ever since they were children so long ago in Burgdeeth, ever since that first time when he had been found unconscious from some strange attack, the great bruise on his head, the wolf tracks all around him and he left untouched by wolves. And the dead Pellian Seer lying near. She had nursed him like a baby then, a big boy of eight, near as big as she. And she had loved him then on that first day; but with a child’s love, not as she loved him now. For all the good it did.

She was a tall girl. Her long, angled face, her dark hair pulled into a careless bun, her wrists protruding from her tunic sleeves made her seem gangling and awkward, though she was not. She stood praying to whatever there was to pray to that Ramad would not die. Half her life had been spent trying to heal the fool’s wounds. Only when they were children the wounds were not often so simple as those from arrow or sword; they had been wounds of a mind lashing out from darkness to contort Ram’s spirit and nearly drive him mad. She touched his shoulder gently, laid her hand on his cheek, a thing she would hesitate to do if he were conscious. “You will not die, Ramad of wolves! You can not, you must not die!”