Blade of Champions

Chapter Five: In Pursuit of the Grey Horse

        CHAPTER FIVE

        IN PURSUIT OF THE GREY HORSE

  Hughell and his lord rode until long after the mist had cleared and the sun begun to set. It seemed likely that Idon could have kept going all night, had not the horses been worked to exhaustion. When at last they did stop, Hughell himself could hardly gather the strength to slide from the saddle.

Every muscle screamed in protest as he dragged his horse down to the creek bed to drink.

They picketed the horses just as they were, then sat down in silence on a fallen log, listening as the crickets sang in the ferns and the other sounds of night unfolded around them.

'This is a pointless, futile chase,' Hughell groused, made bold by the massive cramps that were tearing up and down his legs. 'We will never overtake him, even at this pace.'

Idon broke a stick off the log and stabbed it into the mossy ground. He said nothing. Abruptly, he flung the stick away and stalked off to a rocky alcove near the water, where he threw himself down and pulled his cloak up over his head. Hughell doubted his slumber would be a restful one.

As for himself, he sat on the log, too tired to move his body, too awake to stop his mind.

The moon arose, perched on the horizon like an astronomic bronze mirror.

Hughell thought of lord Icaan, riding on somewhere in the dark ahead of them, and of Idon's vow to recover the grey – by any means. When he had leaped on his horse to follow Idon, he had only been wanting something to fight for, something that was worth the skill of his arms and the strength of his will.

Well, this was worthwhile, wasn't it? Helping a downtrodden young lord regain his honour, the pride of his good name?

Somehow, under the blaze of a million stars, the answer seemed to be no.

'But you are tired,' Hughell chided himself. 'Tired and a fool, to let the moon and stars affect you so.'

With that, he slid off the log and sat propped against it. The moment his head touched the rough bark, exhaustion claimed him.

'Awaken, my champion.'

Idon stood, framed by a milky sky. Dark circles ringed his eyes, but within them glowed a fresh determination. He prodded Hughell with his toe, none too gently. 'At once,' he said. 'We must be off.'

Hughell sat forward, biting his lip to stop a hiss of pain from escaping. If last night's stiffness had been bad, this morning it was far, far worse. He struggled upright and shuffled over to where his horse was tied.

The animal looked up at him reproachfully, as if to say, 'you think you're bad? Imagine how I feel.'

Idon was leading his mare up the steep bank, so Hughell made himself do the same.

At the top, they mounted, but this time Idon turned his mare towards the east, completely ignoring the direction of the road.

'It has come to me,' he said as they set off, 'that I have heard of a ferry that the peasants use to cross the river, in that direction' - he drew a straight line with his finger, straight into the scrub – 'we may yet reach Coraman before my brother and ride out to intercept him.'

Or get lost and wind up in the river, Hughell thought drily, but he turned his horse to follow. There was a fire burning within Idon that inspired Hughell, even fueled as it was by hatred and bitterness. Perhaps such relentless passion would lead him to the purpose he was seeking.

Hughell leaned forward, telling himself to ignore the sting of countless, chaffing blisters.

Afternoon found them at the river.

Idon, always the decisive one, turned their heads immediately to the north. They traced the bank for almost an hour, eyes peeled for any signs of a ferry. Hughell began to doubt their direction, but he dared not say anything while Idon rode onward, a frown embedded into his features.

The two came to a sharp bend in the river, where the grass and reeds rose up into a hillside and the scrub grew thickly beside the water. Here they were forced to turn aside for a time and work their way up the hill, among the thickly clustered trees. As they reached the top, Idon pulled sharply on the reigns and spat out a curse.

Below them, bobbing slowly in the wide, glistening sweep of river was a small, box-shaped boat; the ferry. Ropes spanned from bank to bank on either side it, waiting to guide the vessel on its course. But it was none of these observations which had made Idon hesitate. On the far bank a crowd of people pressing forward anxiously, lined up to use the ferry.

Idon cursed again. 'What do these peasants think they're doing?'

Hughell stared down the hill at the strange gathering. Men, women and even children pressed forward upon the riverbank, watching with anxious eyes as the ferry crept along the ropes. The small vessel was laden with five, perhaps more, of their number; at this distance it was hard to count.

'I thought you said the ferry was abandoned,' said Hughell. 'There shouldn't be anyone out here.'

'It will be soon, if I have anything to do with it,' Idon snapped, kicking his horse forward.

Suddenly there was movement in the bushes ahead.

'Halt right there,' a hollow voice commanded. 'You may come no further.'

Then the branches ahead of them parted and a man stood, blocking their path. In his hand was a naked sword.