Author: Darragh Metzger
Category: Literature
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Morning's first light found him on the middle road out of Yasenovo, which supposedly would take him to either Anagni or Tir. It proved to be a good choice; the caravan route across Kalmar was wonderfully dull. The sun shone on a well-marked road, the land around it consisting mostly of rolling green meadows and flat grassy plains.
Now and again, farmlands with orchards and neatly plowed fields intruded, and Jean passed several small settlements. Sun-warmed grass and wildflowers scented the breeze, a constant perfume.
It was difficult to reconcile the bucolic landscape with his image of Fairyland, or with the terror that had haunted him from Tisza to Yasenovo. It all looked so…so ordinary.
In this peaceful setting, his apprehension eased. He set a relaxed pace, letting Jacques choose his own speed. The horse took advantage of his leniency and kept mostly to an easy walk, which freed Jean to study his surroundings and lose himself in thought.
Dwarfs. Faeries. Trolkien. Men from every corner of the world and every age. What else inhabited this land? What was true here, and what false? How was he to find a path through this maze of magic and mystery?
Could he gain a key to one of the Gates and get home? And how would he even find one of the Gates?
None of the natives seemed eager to brave the Mists that apparently surrounded this land as the sea surrounds an island. He needed a guide and some way to get safely through the Mists.
If only he had more information. His sources had hinted at dangers in the mists other than the trolkien. It behooved him to find out what they were, and if there was some way to neutralize them. Folk tales were rife with ways of warding off evil beings, spirits, faeries, and their ilk. Perhaps, like the tales themselves, there was an element of truth to be found there. It was worth investigating.
Maybe he should have paid as much attention to his mother's tales as he had to his histories.
He was still pondering the issue when he made camp that night in a small grove of trees by a stream not far from the road. By the light of his fire, he pulled out his writing implements and a leather-bound journal he had purchased from a scribe in Yasenovo. It had cost him one of his daggers, but he considered it a fair trade; after all, he had another knife, but such a quantity of good paper, already bound and ready for his use, was a real treasure. He had sat up late the night before, baptizing the journal with an account of his passage through the Pyrenees.
Now he picked up where he had left off, trying his best to record his experiences in a clear and dispassionate style, like a proper scholar, and to set down his musings and observations in as objective a manner as possible.
But when he finally paused and read over what he had written, he found that, despite his best efforts, his adventures came out sounding wildly melodramatic, his reasoned theories highly colored and sometimes overwhelmed by the emotions they generated. Fear and wonder stood out in every line, loss and loneliness tinted each page, as if someone other than Jean had borrowed his hand to intermingle their secret thoughts with his. Was he truly such a moon-struck child, crying out for his mother in the dark?
He set the volume aside in disgust. The thought of someone else ever reading that drivel was embarrassing. Had Froissart ever encountered the same problems?
Perhaps one required a certain distance from events, a distance only time could provide. A day or two of rest in a secure location might do the trick. Should he simply wait until he reached his final destination before picking up the pen again?
He leaned back against a log that marked one edge of his campsite and gazed up at the night sky, jeweled with stars and crowned by a full, silver moon.
Another oddity. Surely it had been full the night he had spent in the mountains after leaving Tisza, too?
Well, soon it must wane. A pity, for it was very beautiful and lit the night like an alabaster lamp.
Did the same moon shine over his beloved Alsace? Were his parents gazing up at it even now and wondering what had become of their wandering son? Did they even know that he was missing?
"Dearest Mama, Papa, I swear to you one day I shall return," he whispered into the still night air. "I shall see your faces fill with wonder when I tell you what I have seen, where I have been. Doubtless you will laugh, and think your poor son mad. But at least we will all laugh together."
In the darkness outside the firelight, someone giggled.
Cold water poured through Jean's veins. He sat very still, listening, staring blindly upward. He had seen no human settlements nearby. Yet what beast made such a sound? Or had he imagined it?
There, off to the side — a musical hiss, like whispering. Slowly, he turned his head toward it while his hand crept toward his sword, leaning on the log beside him.
Jacques, tethered to a tree a few yards away, blew a warning breath.
"Look! He hears us."
Amid a sudden burst of bird-like giggles, Jean snatched up his sword and rolled to his feet, seeking the direction of that soft, high voice.
Someone sang, "Catch us if you can…" Jean spun toward the voice.
Behind him, Jacques gave a startled squeal. Jean whirled with a cry to face an explosion of hoofbeats and flickers of fire-lit red as the horse raced past, vanishing in the darkness in a cloud of high-pitched laughter.
"Jacques! Whoa!" Jean raced after the gelding, heedless of anything save the knowledge that he must not lose him. Branches slapped his face; he flung his arms up to protect it and kept running. He burst out of the grove into the open country and paused, glancing around. He spotted a blot of darkness receding in the distance to the accompaniment of fading hoofbeats.
He cupped his hands over his mouth. "Jacques! Jacques, whoa! Stop! Come!"
Damnation — the horse still did not understand French. What command had he been trained to heed?
Jean fumbled to fasten his sword belt and started running again, calling out commands in German. But if Jacques heard, he did not respond. Whoever had him — children, from the voices — overrode Jean's commands. Or maybe the horse only understood Hungarian.
Jean stopped running when he finally ran out of breath, and looked around, searching for any movement.
Though the moon lit the land in all directions, he could not see Jacques anywhere. The only things he could hear were his own panting and the cheerful singing of crickets. He strained his ears for the faint drumming of hooves. Soon, all hope of recovering the horse would be lost, if it was not already too late.
He clenched his fists and thought wildly of what he could do. Presumably, Jacques had been trained to come when called; most war-horses were. But Jean did not know Jacques' former name, or the commands he'd been trained to.
There was nothing he could do, nothing. He shook his head in despair. Where was magic now that he needed a charm of summoning?
Well, why not? Was he not in the land of magic? What had he to lose?
In desperation he brought his fingers to his mouth. His whistle blasted the air, shattering the peaceful stillness of the night and startling the crickets into silence.
"Come to me, Jacques," he murmured. "I need you — don't run from me and leave me here. Come here." He caught his breath and tried again, a longer whistle this time, picturing Jacques hearing him, Jacques stopping, ears up to listen. Jacques turning around and coming back. "Jacques, come. Come."
His eyes squeezed shut as he held the thought, imagining Jacques with all his might. The horse had to come. He could not think otherwise. He needed the horse; therefore, the horse would come back.
The sound of his own breathing was loud in his ears. Gradually the crickets resumed their chorus, and the night was filled with their music. But no hoofbeats.
He raised his fingers to his lips again, then let them drop. What was the use? The horse was gone. Stolen. Some pack of local urchins were on their way home with their prize, doubtless proud of themselves. He might as well return to ca
mp.
Yet he put his fingers in his mouth and sent his summons shrilling into the dark one last time, feeling foolish even as he did so. Of course it was entirely futile. A waste of time. And who knew what else might be attracted to all this racket? He ran out of air and took a deep breath—
—and held it, astonished, as the musical whinny of a horse answered him, faint and far away but clear.
"Jacques!" he called, then whistled again. He stood in tense silence, listening. Minutes passed.
Had he imagined that neigh?
No, he hadn't; the sound of hoofbeats rose out of the dark. Jacques was moving at a brisk trot, coming steadily in his direction.
Jean grinned. "Here, fellow, here I am. Good boy, Jacques." He pursed his lips and whistled more tunefully. The horse nickered loudly in reply, much closer this time.
A moment later, the silhouette of a horse loomed up against the starlit sky and slowed to a walk as it approached. "Good boy, Jacques. Yes, I am here. Oh, what a clever horse," he said, grinning with relief. The horse came to a stop before him, and Jean slowly reached out to catch the halter, hoping Jacques would not take fright again. He would have to get him back to camp and check him for injuries; who knew what the thieves might have done to him?
His hand encountered not Jacques' rope halter, but leather and metal.
Surprised, he gently ran his hands around the horse's soft muzzle and found that someone had supplied Jacques with a bridle.
A warning pricked the back of his neck. He closed his hands on the reins. "Easy boy," he said, though Jacques had made no move. Light. He needed better light.
They stood in the shadow of a tree-covered hillock that blocked the rays of the moon. Murmuring reassurances, he took the reins and led the horse out into the open. As they left the shade, he stopped and looked back.
Moonlight winked off the shining metal of a finely wrought, silver-chased bridle and saddle that graced the animal.
Jean gaped, then swore softly under his breath. This tack was worthy of royalty. It stood out like frozen, sculpted moonlight against the horse's hide. A sleek, dark hide.
"You are not Jacques," Jean said quietly. Now that he could see the horse clearly, there was no mistaking the quality of the animal, the swanlike grace of the curved neck, the sculpted perfection of the fine head, the power in the rounded haunches; poor Jacques had never in his life possessed such beauty.
"Where did you come from, horse? Did those little thieves take you, too?" A bad trade for thieves to make; it had to be unintentional. No one would surrender this creature in trade for a horse like Jacques.
"It must have been children," he told the horse, stroking its neck. Local children out to bring money home any way they could. Hence their carelessness; they had stolen one more horse than they could handle.
Well, Jacques would doubtless make them rue their choice. Considering his former owners, the war-horse was unlikely to be used to children.
As sorry as he was to lose the sturdy cavalry horse, Jean could not help but think that he had come out the better for it. The strange horse was clearly a superior animal, and the tack alone would support them in style for some time.
If no one killed him for it. He shook his head, running his fingers over the exquisite scrollwork of the saddlebow. It was the sort of stuff to rouse the greed of honest men, let alone thieves and cutthroats.
Likely the horse's owner was either dead or out in the dark somewhere looking for this horse just as Jean was looking for Jacques.
"Of course, if he does not find you, at least I am not without transportation." He patted the creature's silky neck. "Let's get back to camp and get better acquainted, shall we?"
The horse nudged him, as if in agreement. Doubtless the poor creature was as relieved to be back in human care as Jean was to find it.
It suddenly occurred to him that he had left all his belongings unguarded in the camp when he ran after Jacques. Suppose not all the thieves had fled with the horse? He had his sword, and his remaining dagger was still tucked into his belt, but his satchels, armor, money, and everything else lay where he had left them.
"Mon Dieu," he breathed, "I'm a fool!" How long had he been away? If he rode back at top speed, disaster might be averted. He checked the reins, jammed his foot in the left stirrup, and swung onto the horse's back.
Instantly, the horse sprang into a full gallop.
Jean gasped with astonishment at the animal's speed, clutching the saddle with both hands while he felt for the other stirrup with his right foot. "Easy there, horse!" he wheezed, "I haven't told you where to go yet." His foot slipped into the stirrup and he settled into his seat with a sigh of relief. With one hand, he groped after the flapping reins.
Mother of God, but this horse could run! At least they were headed in the right direction, but if he couldn't get the horse slowed down, they would fly right past the camp.
For all its speed, the animal's gallop was incredibly smooth. Even he, a mediocre horseman at best, could keep his seat. Jean took a breath and released his grip on the saddle to take up the reins with both hands. He leaned back in the saddle and pulled. "Whoa, there, slow down, horse," he said, trying to sound calm and soothing.
The horse was having none of it. It put its beautiful head down and ran all the faster. The wind whipped tears from Jean's eyes, and he gasped for breath.
"Whoa!" He gave the reins a firmer jerk, but to no effect. The horse still swept over the moon-silvered plain like a northern gale, faster and faster. The grove where the camp lay whipped by, a spark of light that flickered and was gone, and still the horse did not pause in its stride.
Jean's heart began to pound with real fear. No horse could run this fast! What was happening? He hauled on the reins with all his might, screaming, "Whoa! Whoa!" but the air was pulled from his lungs by the sheer speed.
They raced up a hill and down, and ahead in the distance Jean saw the silver sheen of a lake. The horse headed for it, whinnying as it ran, a sound like diabolical laughter. If I cannot stop this mad thing, I must get off before it kills us both, Jean thought frantically.
He tried to throw himself from the saddle, but found he was stuck fast. He went cold to the bone. This was no natural animal. This was another type of danger all together.
The lake grew until it filled his vision. He stared at it, cudgeling his mind for a plan. If he could not leave the saddle himself, perhaps he could cut it from the horse — or kill the beast.
He fumbled one-handed for his dagger, drew it. The tip brushed the horse's shoulder.
The horse screamed like a woman, and suddenly Jean was out of the saddle and flying through the air, his ears ringing with the awful shriek. He let go of the dagger before he landed, caught himself on his shoulder, and rolled. As he came to his feet, he heard a loud splash, and a face-full of water blinded him.
Choking, he staggered back, wiping at his face. When he looked up, he stood alone by the shore of the lake. The horse was gone.
His mother's voice echoed suddenly in his mind. At the touch of cold iron, the wicked faerie cried out as if burned.
Don't give up your steel, the guard at Tisza had said.
Iron and steel, it keeps them out, Piotr had told him.
Jean picked his dagger off the ground, staring at it in wonder. "But of course," he whispered. Cold iron, long held to be the bane of many supernatural forces, including most faeries. Could that be why his armor generated so much interest? Had he been carrying the means of his own salvation with him all this time without even knowing it?
He suddenly bitterly regretted the loss of the other dagger, cursing himself for a fool. It seemed the journal had not been such a bargain after all.
On the other hand, the Black Army had been well supplied with steel. It had not saved most of them.
His sudden elation dimmed and he sheathed the dagger. He would worry about getting back to camp and recovering his
gear first. Then he would worry about what came next.
He looked warily at the surface of the lake, which showed not even a ripple, then around him. For the most part, the shores of the lake were overgrown with brush and thick with concealing shadows. The horse-like beast, or others of its ilk, could be all around, watching him.
Well, let them. He would leave them to their territory if they would leave him to his. With a silent prayer of thanks for his deliverance, he turned around and started back toward his camp.