The Silence of Medair

The bay had almost chewed through his tether overnight and eyed her sidelong as she approached. He knew she wasn’t his usual rider and didn’t seem as indifferent to the fact as most horses she encountered. She offered him a dry biscuit, which he lipped eagerly, consenting to stand still long enough for her to heave the saddle onto his back. Then, when she was distracted trying to tighten the girth-strap, he stood on her foot. Her boot saved her from more than a bruise, but it was hardly endearing. Cursing, she gave an admonitory jerk on his bridle, and he blew his ribs out in retaliation. Now she could barely get the girth fastened, let alone safely tightened. Nasty creature.

She considered continuing to wear the ring. Animal control was not a quiet magic, and the ring would act as a small beacon for any mages in the area. But she had no wish to fight her mount for the entire day. After a moment’s hesitation, she used it long enough to get the bit and saddle properly settled and herself securely on the bay’s back. The gelding snorted and surged a few paces down the road when she slipped the ring back into her satchel, but, though his ears were back, he didn’t buck or bolt. That would be enough.

Bariback was a forest of low, dark trees: tight, close and secretive. It had never been a friendly place and, beneath the tallest mountain in Farak’s Girdle, it felt crushed and sullen. The road was well supplied with fallen logs and encroaching saplings, and on top of that it was an awful day for any sort of travel. The air was treacle, buzzing insects pestered, crawling over sweat-soaked skin and making determined attempts to fly up her nose. The bay’s tail flicked in constant punctuation to their progress and Medair spent half her time pulling at the collar of her greying shirt, which was sticking to her in the most uncomfortable manner imaginable. She made a note to cut her straggling hair, plastered with sweat past her nose and down the back of her neck. A year’s untamed growth, when she’d once kept it almost daily trimmed.

Despite the circumstances and the heat, Medair was feeling almost cheerful. Her tentative decision to return to the cave where she had found the Horn was now a definite goal. Whether she would stay to sleep was another matter, something she doubted she could decide until she was there. But giving up the burden of lost hope which was hidden within her satchel was something she was certain was a good idea.

-oOo-

Late morning, and the bay’s head suddenly came up, ears pricked forward. He stuttered to a halt and sidled sideways when Medair tried to urge him on, nearly dislodging her on a low branch. Pacifying him by agreeing not to go anywhere just yet, she stared along the overgrown road, wondering what had set him off, and spotted a dozen thin streamers of smoke dissipating in the muggy air to the north. Camp fires? A forest fire? It was big, but didn’t seem to be getting any bigger.

She couldn’t go back. Nor did she want to leave the road and risk getting completely turned around in the forest. It was important to get to Thrence quickly, so she could lose herself in the crowd and try to find a solution to the Decians' trace spell. The bay made his opinion clear by backing down the centre of the road.

Exasperated, Medair hauled out the silver ring again. Enough was enough. If it were an early summer fire, she needed to be past before it really caught. If it were more strangers, then she could always try and outrun them.

Under the control of the ring, the bay went forward, jerky and reluctant. By the time they were close enough for the smoke to be making her eyes sting, he was inching down the road, sweating and blowing. The ring gave him no choice but to go on, but his extreme resistance was making Medair wonder if going around might be the better option. It wasn’t just burning wood she could smell. It was the rank, sickly odour of scorched meat.

Then she saw the bodies. A fat man dressed in comfortable robes lay on the road in a position which spoke eloquently of attempted flight. The back of his skull was a black depression. A short distance away lay an armswoman with a red snake insignia on her shield and flies rioting in the blood drying around her. Medair had seen death before. She had witnessed the slow defeat of the Palladian Empire, stood impotently on the sidelines of too many battles. Toward the end there had been heavy losses. Dead people still made her sick to the stomach.

Dismounting, she led the bay carefully around the bodies. His ears were flat back and his eyes showed white, but the ring held him. She wouldn’t try its control by taking him directly toward whatever was up ahead. Instead, she led him off the right side of the road and made a short, arduous journey through the trees until the smoke streamers were behind them and the air untainted. Then, leaving her slightly less frantic horse securely tethered, Medair went back.