The Year of the Horsetails by R. F. Tapsell

Prologue 1

On a certain day, a man rode for his life. He rode, not at a desperate gallop, but at a steady canter that ate up distance- as he had been riding for many days. The steppe grass was dried up from the long summer, yellow and shrivelled, not reaching his stirrups. He had discovered a ridge running along his route, where some rocky outcropping was barely covered by the soil; it was raised slightly above the plain in places. As he reached the top of one such low mound he slowed his horse to a walk, rose up in his stirrups, and surveyed the horizon carefully in two slow sweeps, to his left and his right.

He saw nothing, not a movement on the dry, grassy carpet that stretched away in every direction to a perfectly circular skyline. A lifetime of gazing over great distances had accustomed him to detect the tiny figures of far-away riders, the tall grass that waved out of phase with the wind, and a score of other danger-signs he was certain that no other human being was within the limits of his vision.

But beyond the horizon, in any direction, there might be riders in search of him, His flight had necessarily taken a devious route, and they could as well be ahead of him as behind. Only the sheer immensity of the plains had protected him thus far, and the Tugars were expert hunters.

Directly in front of him, to the west, there were hills- mountains perhaps- but far away. Two months of utterly rainless, hot weather has created a dusty heat-haze which made it impossible to judge their distance: if he was lucky, half a day

’s ride; but maybe much farther. He was a stranger to this remote area and he did not know precisely what lay between him and those indistinct heights. The sun was approaching its zenith, high up to his left, and he toyed, almost reluctantly, with the possibility that he might reach the hills before dusk. Until this morning he had taken it for granted that he was virtually a dead man; that he would survive only for a few days at most, until the Kagan’s men inevitably tracked him down. His one objective had been to extract a price for his life- to meet his pursuers in circumstances that would give him a chance to kill some of them.

This certainty of death he had come to accept, and his fear had become manageable, forced below the surface of his mind. In the tall grass, in the marshy places and at the river-crossings, he had never dared to relax, and the strain showed on his face.

He was a large man, riding a large horse, although his more than average height was not apparent on horseback. But his shoulders were broad and solid, his legs and arms big-boned and muscular. In spite of the heat, his torso was encased in ring-mail- a long, loose-skirted coat that brushed his knees split up to his belt at front and back to suit a horseman. Its base was leather , to which were sewn hundreds of tiny metal rings that glittered and flashed in the sunlight- priceless possession which twice its weight in gold would not buy.

In a sheath strapped to his saddle, hanging down by his left knee, was a long and heavy sword slightly curved towards the point; sluing behind him, attached to his belt, he carried the essential weapon of the plains the short, double-curved bow in its case, with a quiver on his opposite side. Tanned leather boots encased his legs to the knee, and soft breeches stuffed with lamb

’s wool protected his thighs from the chafing saddle. He was bareheaded, though a conical helmet, surmounted by a tall spike, dangle from his saddle-pack behind him; his blond hair, cut level with his ears, blew loose in the wind.

His age was difficult to estimate- sun and wind had tanned him to a colour and appearance

which would be unchanging until long after the prime of his life. Accurate judgement was further impeded by the neat, pointed beard, blond like his hair, which concealed the lines of his jaw.

The horse which he rode with casual, deceptive negligence was as solid and ageless as himself- a dark brown stallion, with strength and endurance barely tested. The fugitive had taken the best mount that he could lay hands on, without regard to ownership, and his judgment had proved excellent. The scattered days of rest in the river valleys, where the horse had grazed and the man had hunted waterfowl- nerve-racking days for one whose every instinct urged him to stay in the saddle- those days were shown to have been of value now; the man knew that he could rely on his mount for a long, hard gallop and the hills to the west were growing more distinct.