Culling of the Blood

Chapter 6-The Unforgiven

 The moon cast a veil of brilliant light across the sparse canopy of the forest. Though not potent enough to turn night into day, the celestial glow pierced through the thickening tangle of branches. The Three Sisters stood as a beacon in the darkness, like a compass dial pinned at true north. Quadir wondered if it was the same moon as in his world. It would have been easier to teleport to the mountains, if he knew where he was going, a fact he kept to himself as he walked the gravel path.   

Wearily, Merlin followed him. The stallion was fit, even for a racehorse some years from the track. His registered Jockey Club name had been Magical Beast: magical because he won over $2,000,000 in his brief career and beast because he was a tyrant in the stable yard. Still, carrying two riders at a gallop over uneven terrain had taxed him. Though no longer winded, the Thoroughbred was showing signs of exhaustion.

"What kind of mage are you?" Njemile asked.

"My uncle says I show an inclination for the elements," Adiadithiel replied, holding the child in front of her in the saddle.

"An elementalist! They're really powerful. I want to be an alchemical mage, so I can mix potions to cure diseases and heal people. I'll be famous, traveling the continent, from kingdom to kingdom, selling my wares. My Dakaari will protect me from moire hunters, and we will fall in love like you two."

Quadir stumbled in a puddle on the rutted road, but covered the misstep with a fit of coughing as his face flushed hot. Mouth slightly agape at the child's boldness, he knelt down, pretending to inspect the road and its uneven footing.

"Well," Adiadithiel whispered, maintaining her composure. "That is quite the ambition, I must say."

Quadir felt the vibration traveling through the ground before he heard the sound of horses, galloping behind them, distantly, in the night. There were many of them, all running together at speed. He stepped out into the middle of the road, feeling tension in his shoulders. "Your father's men?"

"This close to the forest," Adiadithiel said, "Elven horses would be nearly imperceptible."

"That caravan can't be too far ahead of us. They'd have to camp eventually. Maybe send out search parties for Njemile." Quadir grit his teeth and vaulted into the saddle behind her. He gave Merlin a kick and sent the stallion galloping headlong down the path. Mud from the rain-soaked trail splashed over his face and neck, spraying the riders as they made their way at speed ahead of their pursuers.

"There!" Njemile shouted. She pointed to a steep embankment overrun with gnarled thickets and weeds. "My papa's merchant caravan."

Quadir maneuvered the Thoroughbred onto the rough slope of a hillock. Though the footing was more tractable than the sloppy road, the steep angle made it difficult for the stallion to climb. "Get on, Merlin!" he urged, his voice a better encouragement than his spurs.

Blowing hard from the exertion, the stallion hopped forward between staggering strides like a mountain goat. The jarring gait made it difficult to balance in the saddle.

"Njemile, are you sure this is the right place? Where's your father?" To assist the struggling Thoroughbred, Quadir jumped down from his back, sliding over his hindquarters. He offered his hand to Adiadithiel to help her dismount, and then picked up Njemile, setting her on the ground between them.

"By the trees at the top! Can't you see him?" Njemile pulled ahead, restrained only by their hands as she skipped ecstatically in place.

Hand in hand, they scrambled up the difficult slope toward a copse of elms at the summit. Farther up, the hillside embankments broke into an uneven landscape that reminded Quadir of Newgrange, the ancient burial mounds of Ireland, only haphazardly placed, without any care for arrangement or form.