Friends (2013) - Adams, Robert

Gonzalo frowned and jerked his arm straight. The blade slid between Lui’s ribs, and as the blood gushed along the blade and down his chest, he sighed and collapsed.

The Prince shouted to the villagers, “That did not have to be. But if you persist in thwarting me, more of you will die. You will give me the secret of your horses, or not one of you shall live to see the next full moon!” He barked to his men, “Bring the body!” And with a savage kick to his mount’s hide, he rode down from the hill toward the stockade. The men did as ordered, and followed, leaving a few guards, the fresh blood in the dirt, and the swaying body of Suzor Daughter-of-Shrake.

It was many minutes before the first of the women began to weep, and the sound of her sobbing broke the horrible spell which had overtaken them. Truly they were dead. So many had died, but somehow, this was the worst of all. Many turned to go, but more than a few stayed to guard the dead girl’s flesh.

Krai remained immobile, staring at the body, not even noticing the graybeard that came up behind him. There was nothing startling in the quiet voice of Glaze. The old man had raised Comet, the sire of the three-year-old stallion Krai had ridden to victory at the Harvest Festival race. If the conquerors had known, they would have tortured the old man for the information he would give them, and then impaled him on the spot. He leaned up to Krai’s ear.

“You’re attracting attention,” he said. There was no answer. “Don’t think that you’re the only one who wants to do something about this. If you want to get in on it, turn around and come away with me now.” Krai turned to him, and Glaze could see the tears on the boy’s face. “I know, son. Support me as if I were crippled. We’ll take the time for tears today. More than that, Daughter-of-Shrake wouldn’t approve.” The old man and the boy left the dead girl and took the road back to Phlox.

By midmorning, Suzor Daughter-of-Shrake waited in her eternity above the gaze of eight villagers, and the gallows hill was guarded by only a single squad of the conquistadores. Slowly and sadly, the folk of Phlox and Peony had trudged back to the timeworn tasks of daily life. Prince Gonzalo stood at the battlements of the wood-and-adobe fortress, looking past a small forest of sharpened stakes firmly planted in the ground, and surveyed this paltry comer of his demesnes.

“They’re holding out on me,” he said quietly.

Don Arturo, his second-in-command, shook his head.

“They’ve no place to hide horses, much less anything to feed them with. We’ve got what they had.”

“Then where are these mythical beasts to be found, these horses that can be trained overnight, and follow a rider’s every whim?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, sire.”

I’m sure you don't, either , thought the Prince. The wealth those horses could bring! I could become master of all four Mexicos! “We may have to put more of them to the Question.” “I’d advise against that for the present. We’re very outnumbered here. Push them too far and there will be open revolt.”

“Bah! They’re terrified sheep.”

“The assassin was very well liked.”

Gonzalo smirked. “Not surprising.” He turned to the stables, which were bulging with his own and the confiscated animals. A score of peasants were at work expanding the facility, but only his men were allowed near this equine treasure. “How many do we have now?”

“Enough to provide a mount for every man. Enough for the largest cavalry this side of the Big River!”

If only all the men could ride as well as they fight! Gonzalo turned foi* the stairs. “Then let’s not delay the training any longer. Get the maps! The men can start searching every hidden canyon while they master moving in columns. Those horses must be somewhere!”

They crowded into the false back end of Lon Farrier’s huge bam, all who dared to ease through the afternoon under the noses of the patrols. Sheets of dusk’s red light slashed through the heavy louvers of the shutters to illuminate the desperate courage of the peasants. The older folk led the meeting.

“Who do we have who’s working at their stable?” Glaze asked.

A tanned and wrinkled man raised his hand. “We’re making the bricks and stacking them up,” he said. “They won’t let us near the compound. They threaten us with whips, but they haven’t beaten anybody yet. 1 think they’re afraid of

us.”

Garva spoke for all their hopes: “They’d better be!”

Glaze looked around, not trying to stop the murmur. As if we had weapons they might fear. In a moment they fell silent. “We have to get to the animals,” he said.

“The bastards don’t trust us.”

“Then who Speaks the strongest?”

All eyes turned to Krai Raus-son. “Not me!” he shouted. “The captain marked me today! They’re going to kill me! I don’t want to be impaled!”

Glaze put his hands on the boy’s shoulders to calm him, seeing the others out of the corners of his eyes: Thank the gods it’s him and not me, their faces said. “They’re going to kill us all if we don’t stop them,” Glaze said.

“But the captain marked me!” the boy wailed.

Glaze ignored it. “You Speak well with the horses?”

“Well enough to win the Harvest Race,” Garva muttered.

Krai tried to put the truth of it into words. “1 know Comet’s-son heard me,” he said.

Glaze had let the boy take care of Comet’s-son, and the young stallion gleamed from the boy’s brushing. The horse would jitter a bit when anyone else managed his hooves, but he always stood still for Krai.

The boy was afraid of the race, but Glaze had encouraged him. The mass of riders leaped forward when the flag was waved, and Comet’s-son pushed through the pack to the front. By the time they reached the great oak tree, a mile distant, Comet’s-son was in front. Krai was thrilled, a broad grin on his face all the others could see. He leaned over the left side of the saddle as Comet’s-son rounded the huge trunk.

A hoof hit a root, and suddenly there was terror as Krai’s feet slipped from the stirrups. Comet’s-son fought for his footing, head down, with a twist of his hard-muscled back. Krai bounced up and grabbed for the cantle as his mount finished careening around the tree, ending half off the broad seat, his legs gripping sweaty flanks, the powerful limbs of his steed hammering him, smashing him looser and looser until he barely had the strength to hold on, before falling beneath the crushing onslaught of a hundred galloping hooves.

He stared behind, trembling in terror, unable to pull himself up. / don’t want to die! shrieked out of his mind over and over.

Then, something happened inside his head, a thought that he did not think.

Please don’t let me die!

*You will not die. I will not let you die.

Get me away from them!

*If I go faster, you will fall.

Please! PLEASE! Take me away! And Krai knew that he was speaking to Comet’s-son, and that Comet’s-son heard him and understood.

*Hold tighter. I will run as never before.*

Ever afterward, people remarked that there was never such a race. The boy felt a surge of energy as Comet’s-son leapt forward, a dream-horse flying over the ground, sparks flying from his steel shoes against the flinty soil. Krai blinked and watched the rest of the horses and riders recede. Then they passed through the riband, the cheering townspeople, continuing on slower and slower, until Krai could dislodge himself.

*1—I cannot go on; you must—must let me—

No! You have to keep walking, let the heat leave you slowly!

Comet’s-son stopped, but Krai pulled on the bridle and kept the horse moving.

I won’t let you get overheated and die!

The townspeople came running and soon surrounded Krai and Comet’^-son. The horse was thoroughly lathered, panting, stumbling. Krai ignored them all, talking quietly to the animal which had saved his life. He let Comet’s-son drink only small amounts at a time, and soon was alone in the stable, currying him, watching him until he knew he was safe.

Comet’s-son never raced again. None but Krai could ever mount him, and he never again went faster than a trot. And though Krai could feel Comet’ s-son’s confidence in his care, he never felt the great horse’s explicit thoughts in his mind again.

“Comet’s-son knew that I was afraid,” Krai said. “I begged him to save me. He heard me, he—he spoke to me. You all saw what happened!” He looked up at the silent, staring faces, and blushed.

No one laughed or jeered. “We all believe you, Krai,” the old man said. “Can you do it again?”

“I don’t know. There’s other people here who can Speak with the horses!”

Garva stalked over to the boy. “Yes, but you’re the best.

My animals know me, they obey me, they—you know! But I have never Spoken with them.”

“But 1—”

“You cannot be afraid now. Not any more than the rest of us!”

“How easy for you to say—”

“Do 1 have a saber? Do we have pikes? They’ll butcher me too, if they get the chance. But my anger is greater than my fear, and I want to live as much as you, but if I’m to be killed, some of them’ll be joining me.”

He had seized the boy’s shirt and hauled him to his feet. Krai stammered; no words came out.

“We can’t afford your cowardice, you sniveling—”

“Garva! He’s just a boy—”

“Quiet, Glaze!”

There was silence as an ominous smell perfused the air. Garva dropped the frightened boy; stood, sniffing the acrid stillness. Suddenly they all noticed the haziness even in the dark.

“Fire!” Garva shouted, and everyone jumped for the door. “They’re trying to bum us out!”

As if he had given a prearranged signal, the thin boards of the door shattered into the room as the Prince’s soldiers crashed into the little space, the deadly partisans in their hands punching red holes into the nearest of the terrified peasants. Screams of pain and shrieks of fear, and above it all, Garva’s wordless bellowing. He wrenched one of the short spears away from a young bravo, swung the haft below the helmet into his jaw, and began to fight his way out.

The survivors shook off their startle, picked up the debris of furniture and waded into the uniformed men. Pressed up close, the troops couldn’t wield their weapons; they began to fall back. The peasants cheered with one voice, the sound of a beast of prey. Before them, a young man with his first beard gurgled his death rattle, his throat ripped by a splintered board, but he couldn’t fall; he stood, his white face lolling at the trapped villagers.