The women and the warlords

Hugh Cook
CHAPTER ONE

Name: Yen Olass Ampadara

Birthplace: Monogail

Occupation: oracle

Status: slave

Description: heavy-built female of Skanagool race, age 30, hair black, eyes slate, height 11 qua, diamond tattoo on left inner thigh

Residence: room 7, height 3 of tooth 44, Moon Stallion Strait, Eastern Quadrant, Gendormargensis

It was Third Foal of Seventh Cohort in the year Khmar 18, and the season, of course, was snow. Yen Olass knew the date, but, with no sun, moon or starsign to guide her judgment, she could only guess at the time. A howling gale was blowing; the mouth of the cave offered only a prospect of indeterminate grey sky and gaunt black trees thrashing in the wind.

Though it was certainly late in the day, she thought she could still get back to the hunting lodge at Brantzyn. If she ran out of daylight, she would just have to find her way in the dark. But before setting out, she had a little problem to sort out. The problem had four legs, a mouth like cast iron, and a definite will of its own.

'Come on, Snut,' said Yen Olass impatiently, slapping the problem. 'Ease up!’

But her pony obstinately held his breath, refusing to let her tighten the saddle girth.

'Infidel!’ she said, punching him in the flank.

She lowered her head and butted him. Then she considered poking him with her knife – but she was too softhearted to hurt a horse like that.

'You can't hold your breath forever,' she said.

Time proved her right. She tightened the saddle girth, packed the saddle bags, then rolled up her triple-ply solskin horse blanket and tied it on behind the saddle. Now they were almost ready to go.

Yen Olass took a little bamboo box from one of the inner pockets of her fleece-lined league rider's weather jacket. She opened it, releasing the pungent smell of volsh, the thick niddin-grease used by the people of the north to keep out the cold and the wet. She smeared her cheeks with grease, then put away the box and pulled on her wadmal mittens. She drew the hood of the weather jacket well forward, then donned her snow-coat. The weight of its voluminous folds comforted her; she would be glad of the extra warmth out in the storm.

Now she was ready.

Yen Olass mounted up, watching her head because the roof of the cave was low. It seemed to be very gloomy. Was it her imagination, or was the light failing?

'Let's go,' said Yen Olass. 'Ya!’

Snut said nothing, did nothing.

'Ya!' said Yen Olass. 'Ya!’

She flicked the reins and kicked the horse with her heels, but Snut took no notice.

'Son of a tortoise,' said Yen Olass. 'Move yourself!' And she slapped him, hard.

When that got no results, Yen Olass dismounted, grabbed the reins and hauled Snut toward the daylight. He resisted strenuously, but she forced him to the cave-mouth. Then he baulked absolutely, and no exercise of brute force would get him outside.

'What are you?' said Yen Olass. 'A horse or a mule?’

She knew very well what he was: intelligent. It was no day to be travelling.

'It won't get any better if we wait,' said Yen Olass.

She should have left for the hunting lodge that morning, but had delayed, hoping the weather would improve. It had not. Tortured trees creaked and groaned in the wind. The sky was darkening: obviously it was later than she had thought.

'Come on,’ said Yen Olass. 'We can do it.’

Snut was a shag pony, and the shag pony was the indomitable mount of the riders of the far north; for endurance in the cold, only the grenderstrander could better it. It they set out for the hunting lodge now, they might just make it.

'Do you really want to spend the night here?' said Yen Olass.

Snut obviously did. All things being equal, Yen Olass would also have chosen to stay. But she was a slave, and could not set her own schedule. She was not supposed to be here at all. Instead, she was meant to be in Gendormar-gensis, a day's ride to the south, and there would be the most fearful trouble if it was discovered that she was missing. Extending her absence by a further day would increase the risk beyond reason.

Outside, there was an appalling graunch of rending wood. A tree came crashing down.

'I respect your judgment,' said Yen Olass to Snut, 'but I'm late already.’

The sky was thickening to thunder. The driving wind slashed sideways and lashed her face with snow. Out in the gathering darkness, another tree crashed down dead.

'On the other hand,' said Yen Olass, 'better late than never.’

And she led Snut back into the gloom of the cave, back to her Woodstock and the ruins of her camp fire. Feeding the hot embers with a little bark, she got the fire going again, avoiding the need to fumble with her tinder-box in the numbing cold.

With the fire burning brightly in its circle of rocks, Yen Olass unloaded Snut, took off the saddle and removed the harness, wondering vaguely what kind of relief her horse felt when she took the bit from his mouth. She kept her snow-coat on, intending to sleep in it. She also kept the hood of her jacket pulled forward, but that did not stop Snut from licking at the volsh on her cheeks, liking the salt in the grease.

'Stop that!' said Yen Olass, pushing him away.

He nickered, and nuzzled her.

'What do you want?' said Yen Olass. 'An apple. An apple, huh? Is that right! And why should you get an apple? You men are all the same, you know. You think you can get away with anything. Well, it's just not so.’

But, when Snut persisted, she gave him an apple – a wizened little thing, which he crunched down greedily. She now had three apples, plus some oats in a nosebag. When that was gone, there would be nothing left for the horse, who could hardly share her own survival rations – pemican and evil-smelling milk curds. Snut knew how to dig in the snow with his hooves to uncover dried grass and moss, but since there was little forage in the woods at the best of times, he was unlikely to find much now.

'I hope you realize,' said Yen Olass, 'if we get snowed in, I'm going to have to eat you.’

Snut made no reply, but tried for another apple.

'No,' said Yen Olass. 'I'm saving the apples to have with roast horsemeat.’

Then she hugged him, crowding in to his warmth, to his strength, to his comfort.

'But I won't eat you unless I really have to. You're my only horse in the world.’

Strictly speaking, Snut was not hers at all. The shag pony belonged to Lord Pentalon Alagrace, the Lawmaker of Gendormargensis during the absence of the Lord Emperor Khmar. It was Alagrace who owned the hunting lodge at Brantzyn, and who made it possible for Yen Olass to escape into the wilderness every now and again for a few days' hunting. He took a considerable risk by extending such illegal privileges to her; he would be angered by her late return.

'Well,’ said Yen Olass, 'if he doesn't like it, he can go and eat himself,’

Defiance was easy when she was far from Gendormargensis and the world of men, safe in this cave which was hers and hers alone.

She would have to spend at least another night in the cave, so she did a quick stocktake, estimating how much wood was left. On discovering the cave in the spring, she had named it Bear Barrow, though no bears had been in residence. She had bullied two of Lord Alagrace's league riders into helping her lay in a big supply of wood. Subsequent visits had diminished it, but enough remained for a couple of nights – or longer, if she was frugal.

'Sleep for all bad horses,' said Yen Olass, covering Snut with the horseblanket.

Then she settled herself down on the floor of the cave, heavyweight geltskin leggings protecting her from the cold. She took off her helm boots and undid her foot bindings. In recent years, many people had taken to wearing socks, but Yen Olass had no time for such outlandish foreign fashions. Foot bindings were simple, cheap, and always gave a perfect fit – and, more to the point, they were what the Sisterhood issued to its oracles.

Yen Olass slipped her feet into a fleece-lined luffle bag and tightened the drawstrings, securing them with a slipknot. Her feet, now safe inside the luffle bag, said hello to each other, and started to get really warm.

Darkness was swamping the mouth of the cave.

The onset of night brought no fears, for Yen Olass knew she was safe. The wild animals of the forest had learnt long ago to shun human beings, while no bandits would be abroad in a howling storm. Her horse was one of her friends, and her fire was another; the cave would protect them all, even though the gale was rapidly becoming a blizzard.

However, when Yen Olass pillowed her head on her boots, she reached behind her head and felt for the hilt of her boot-sheath knife. It was well placed for a quick draw.

Then – though she felt this was slightly ridiculous – she sat up, strung her bow, took an arrow from her close-capped waterproof quiver, and laid both bow and arrow within easy reach.

Having taken these precautions, Yen Olass settled herself for sleep. She was not tired, but knew that sleep was the easiest way to ride out the storm. She was slightly hungry, but made no move to appease her hunger, choosing instead to forget about it. Flames talked to the wind, discussing the chemistry of the wood on which they banqueted. The fire was over-generous; Yen Olass warned herself to economize. Then she closed her eyes, and went to sleep.

Yen Olass lay sleeping, dreaming of a long line of concubines sitting in pairs in the middle of Moon Stallion Strait. The concubines were chained neck to neck. Their placid smiles contained just a hint of senility. Lord Alagrace prowled up and down the road with a sword in his hand. His face dispersed itself into a disc of shadow. He snarled in a foreign language. His hands multiplied. The sky was blue then green. It tasted of violets.

As Yen Olass slept, wandering in the world of dreams, an intruder entered her cave. Snut snorted. The intruder, mounted on horseback, cracked his head on the roof of the cave, and swore.

Yen Olass woke, eyes startling wide.

The fire was burning low, scarcely more than a circle of embers. Shadows lurched in the gloom beyond. Yen Olass snatched her knife and rolled from the fire. A sharp tug unravelled the slipknot securing the luffle bag. She kicked her feet free and scuttled into the deeper dark behind her woodpile. She remembered, too late, that she had left her bow behind.

Yen Olass watched as horse and rider came forward. The horse was a shag pony like her own. The rider dismounted. He was a Yarglat tribesman of indeterminate age – forty, perhaps? Lit from below by the dying firelight, his face was the domain of all kinds of sinister evil. Initiation scars on his cheeks suggested he had been raised in the old ways, in the tribal homelands far to the north. The skull of a rat dangled on a braided cord outside his furs. His face was marked by fatigue, and there was snow in his shaggy hair.

The man coughed, hawked, then spat into the low-burning fire. If the fire hissed when he spat, then the sound was lost in the wind. He nudged the bow and arrow with his foot, then peered into the darkness where Yen Olass was hiding. She could smell him. He reeked of horse, grease, stale sweat and woodsmoke, as if he never washed from one year to the next.

'Show yourself,’ said the man.

Yen Olass clenched her knife fiercely. When she had wanted to learn how to kill people, one of Lord Alagrace's league riders – more than a little amused at such a foible – had indulged her for an entire afternoon. She had left his care thinking herself the complete expert, but now she could only remember a single command: stab upwards. Stab upwards!

'If you don't want to come out,’ said the man, 'you can stay there and freeze for all I care.’

He beat at his furs, knocking off the worst of the snow, then threw a couple of pieces of wood on the fire, sending up showers of sparks. Yen Olass was surprised to see he was not wearing any gloves. He rubbed his hands and blew on his fingers, then tucked his hands into his armpits.

Stealthily, Yen Olass reached for a piece of wood, then chucked it into the darkness off to one side. It clattered noisily against the wall of the cave, but the stranger was not distracted.

'Play all the childish tricks you want,' he said. 'It makes no difference to me.’

As he did not seem to be about to attack her, Yen Olass put down her knife and started to massage her feet, which were already getting freezing cold.

'They told me I'd find you here,’ said the stranger, squatting down by the fire. 'Though they made it sound easier than it was. I lost my way twice, getting here. Come on, little girl. Don't you recognize me? I'm Losh Negis, the Ondrask of Noth.’

Yen Olass had never seen him before; she knew the high priest of the horse cult only by reputation. She had never attended a horse sacrifice, and never wanted to. Killing horses then burning them – now that was really barbarous.

Little flames were crawling over the bits of wood the Ondrask had thrown on the fire. Her feet were getting colder and colder; the fire looked very inviting. Yen Olass picked up her knife. Uncertainly, she advanced into the firelight, raised her free hand and gave the formal greeting:

'Yesh-la, Ondrask.’

He nodded, but did not bother to make a formal response. He threw more wood on the fire. She resented the way he made so free and easy with her wood, her fire, her cave. Without bothering with her foot bindings, she shoved her feet into her boots. She left the boot laces loose, just tucking them in beside her ankles. She was sure she could make it to the cavemouth – but would Snut come when she called? He was encumbered by the horse blanket: she would have to get that off him.

'You can't ride him bareback, little Yenolass,' said the Ondrask, following her thinking.

'Can't I?' said Yen Olass.

She resented the epithet 'little', which was a deliberate insult. There was nothing little about her: she was as big and as heavy as most men, and certainly taller than the Ondrask.

'Sit down, Yenolass,' said the Ondrask. 'I'm not going to hurt you. I didn't come all this way just to rape a woman.’

Yen Olass sat, but kept hold of her knife. 'The name is Yen Olass,' she said, emphasizing the way her name broke into two entirely separate words. 'Not Yenolass. If you wish to call me something else, then use my full title: Yen Olass Ampadara.’

Til call you Yen.' said the Ondrask. 'Dogs and slaves only rate a single name.’

'You call me Yen and I'll call you Losh-losh,' said Yen Olass.

'Watch your tongue,' growled the Ondrask. 'If you were mine, I'd teach you what a woman calls a man – and when.’

'Contrary to popular belief,' said Yen Olass, in a conversational tone of voice, as if apropos of nothing, 'it takes very little strength to stab a man to death.’

'Whose experience speaks?' jeered the Ondrask.

'I killed my first man at the age of twelve,' said Yen Olass in a level voice.

She told her lie in the tones of truth. At the age of twelve, there had been many times when she wanted to kill herself a man – one man or many. Hatred gave her voice conviction.

'So you killed a man,' said the Ondrask. 'And what good did that do you?’

'Find his bones and ask him,' said Yen Olass.

The Ondrask grunted. He got to his feet and snapped his fingers. His horse came to him, and he began to unsaddle it. Yen Olass was unsure of his intentions. If she ran, he could probably catch her. If they fought, he could probably take her and break her, then work his will with her afterwards. Best to get some control over him, then – so that, if necessary, she could disable him with a word. She knew how to do it. All she needed was an opening, which was swift in coming.

'This is a slave's job, really,' said the Ondrask, loosening the saddle girth.

'I was not born to be an ostler,' said Yen Olass. 'Hear the omens. I was born in a blizzard. I was born with a clot of blood clenched in my fist. My mother walked in places beyond your imagination. My conception was immaculate.’

'Listen to the female thing,' said the Ondrask to his horse.

'When I was conceived, the stars shone white,' said Yen Olass, her voice becoming a lilting chant. 'Out beyond the stars, the darkness. They say it's cold in the darkness; you die, they say.’

For the words 'you die', she dropped her voice, saying those two words in a lower tone. Most people would never have noticed the drop in tone which marked those two words out as different from the rest. But the Ondrask did.

'Stop that!' he said sharply.

Yen Olass ended her spiel then and there, immediately. She was shaken. She had never been caught out before.

'I play those games myself,' said the Ondrask. 'A very minor part of my art – but, no doubt, the sum and total of yours.’

Yen Olass said nothing, watching as the Ondrask dumped saddle and harness on the floor of the cave. Clumsiness betrayed his fatigue. He tried to hide his weariness, but she saw he was exhausted. She suspected he had been lucky to find the cave at all – lucky, indeed, that the storm had not claimed his life. He had no baggage. Knowing she would have to feed and shelter him, she now saw him not as a potential rapist, but as a danger of a different order – the incompetent traveller whose failings put the lives of others at risk.

'You came unprepared,' said Yen Olass.

'I expected to find you quickly,' said the Ondrask. 'It was further than they led me to believe – and the way was tricky.’

'Excuses never saved lives,' said Yen Olass.

It was a telling criticism, which he did not try to answer, because he could not. Though he was of the Yarglat and she of the people of Monogail, both were children of the barrens of the far north, the lands, as Serek has it, 'beyond all maps, and cold beyond belief.' Both had learnt the same lessons in early childhood.

The Ondrask seated himself by the fire again. Yen Olass sheathed her knife and took the horse blanket off Snut. She draped it round the Ondrask's shoulders. He shook it off.

'I never asked for that,’ he said, with anger. 'But you need it.' 'I'll get by without it.’

'Heat is strength,' said Yen Olass, quoting an old survival maxim. 'And one who weakens serves to weaken all.’

Her position was unassailable. The Ondrask yielded, allowing her to wrap the horse blanket around him. He pulled its warmth close to his body, shrouding himself in its comfort.

Yen Olass offered him pemican. He hesitated. Then spoke, loudly, harshly: 'Skak, give me food.’

'I have already offered,' said Yen Olass serenely. 'How can you demand what has been offered?’

She knew he had blundered badly. Of her own free will, she had offered to share her survival rations. The rigid survival ethic of the Yarglat gave him only two choices: to accept of decline. Acceptance would formalize their relationship, making him her guest, and placing him under obligations.

'I was tired,' said the Ondrask, by way of apology. 'I will eat.’

And he accepted her gift of pemican, which put him in a very uncomfortable position, since she was both a woman and a slave.

As the Ondrask ate, Yen Olass got a cooking pot out of her baggage and took it to the mouth of the cave. The night was now as black as hell, and every bit as cold. The wind, demented, raged across the land. Yen Olass packed the pot with snow, tamping it down to a little water. Bringing the pot back to the fire, she balanced it on two fresh logs. When she had hot water, she would reconstitute some of her dried milk curds.

The Ondrask huddled by the fire. His filthy locks were wet with melted snow; he reached behind his head and wiped away some water which was running down his neck.

'Why did you ride so light?' said Yen Olass.

'Because anger rode me all the way from Gendormargensis.’

'They would have given you food at Brantzyn, if you'd asked.’

'They offered. I told them to set tables for two.’

'You thought to eat with a woman?' said Yen Olass, mocking him ever so gently. 'To eat with a slave?’

'The tables,' said the Ondrask, 'were not going to be in the same room. But… here I've no objection.’

Though he made that concession, he could not bring himself to thank her outright for her hospitality.

Yen Olass knew they might be in bad trouble. A storm like this could last for weeks, leaving impassable snow drifts more than head high. Having got one concession from the Ondrask, she went hunting for another:

'If we have to kill a horse,' said Yen Olass, 'we kill yours first.’

'Agreed,' said the Ondrask.

'That way,' said Yen Olass, watching him carefully, 'you may lose a horse when you sought to recover one.’

The Ondrask eyed her in silence, then said: 'I'm not as impressed as you might expect me to be.’

When the Yarglat quarrelled, it was usually over horses or women. Gendormargensis was glutted with women, the spoils of recent conquests, but good horses were still hard to come by. As Yen Olass had guessed, a problem with horses had sent the Ondrask raging down the road from Gendormargensis. But why had he come to her? What made him think she could help?

'Now tell me the details,' said Yen Olass.

'No,' said the Ondrask. 'Let's see how you ride blindfolded.’

'Just one question then,' said Yen Olass, exchanging boots for luffle bag. 'How many horses?' 'Three.’

Yen Olass knew the Ondrask was an old friend of the Lord Emperor Khmar. The two were as close as brothers. Lord Alagrace, the Lawmaker of Gendormargensis, did his best to keep on the good side of Khmar, who had once come close to killing him. Alagrace would supply any horses the Ondrask needed. And, if those horses went missing, Alagrace would have no trouble replacing them. Unless…

'The horses were stolen..,' said Yen Olass slowly. 'Yes.’

'And the horses.., the horses had been consecrated for sacrifice,’

'In a public ceremony,’ said the Ondrask.

'I know how it's done,’ said Yen Olass. 'If taken anonymously, they'd be gone for good. But you didn't ride all this way for nothing. So you know who took them. And you want them back.’

'You ride well,' said the Ondrask. 'You're very close to the truth. Tell me who took them.’

Yen Olass checked the cooking pot. The snow had melted, but the water was not yet hot. She sat back, thinking, taking her time.

'You know who it is,' said Yen Olass. 'So Lord Alagrace should have the thief cut up and killed. But some people he won't dare touch.’

'But he's Lawmaker!' said the Ondrask, his rage sparking to life.

'Come on,' said Yen Olass, quietly. 'You know his position,’

Obviously some high-born Yarglat clansman had made off with the Ondrask's horses, and Lord Alagrace, always reluctant to make enemies amongst the Yarglat, was procrastinating, hoping the problem would resolve itself.

'He's Sharla vermin!' said the Ondrask. 'We should have killed them all in the Blood Purge,’

'You did kill them all,’ said Yen Olass, 'or nearly all. Lord Alagrace was one of the few survivors,’

'Yes,’ said the Ondrask. 'And who let him live? That's what I'd like to know,’

'He was away in Ashmolea,' said Yen Olass. 'Didn't you know that? No, I don't suppose you would.’

The Ondrask was known to keep very much to his yashram, which was usually somewhere in the countryside beyond the walls of Gendormargensis; she doubted if he knew half as much about the politics of the city as she did.

Who might have taken the horses?

While the water heated, Yen Olass reviewed the names of potential culprits. Yoz Doy? No, he was in the south, with Khmar. What about Ulan Ti? No, he was too old, and too sensible. Chonjara, perhaps? Chonjara was wild enough… but it could not possibly be him. Though many of the Yarglat had succumbed to the cosmopolitan trends of agnosticism or outright atheism, Chonjara remained true to the beliefs of his northern homelands. He had even suggested that the horse cult of Noth should become the state religion of the Collosnon Empire, replacing the multitude of faiths which now lay within its borders – though even the Lord Emperor Khmar had not been prepared to go that far.

When the water had boiled, and Yen Olass had heated up some milk curds, she gave her only spoon to the Ondrask, letting him eat first. She watched while he ate. He left her less than half. To let a slave witness such a breach of etiquette, he must have been very hungry indeed. When Yen Olass had finished what was left, she asked him directly:

'So what did happen to your horses?' 'Chonjara ate them,' said the Ondrask. 'I beg your pardon?' 'Chonjara ate them!’

'So you tell me,' said Yen Olass politely, knowing an impossibility when she heard one.

'Chonjara held a banquet to celebrate his father's year seventy. He was in the market for some horsemeat. Only the best for his father! Haveros sold him three horses – my horses!’

'Ah,' said Yen Olass, for now all was explained. 20

Over the protests of his father Lonth Denesk, Haveros had abandoned the worship of the horse gods, and had espoused some trivial little local religion. Chonjara had criticized him for that in public, and now Haveros had taken revenge.

'Since you can't get your horses back…’

'I want an apology. And not in private, either. I want Haveros muck-down grovelling, with the whole city watching.’

'That might be difficult,' said Yen Olass. 'But you'll arrange it.’

'My writ doesn't run that far,' said Yen Olass. 'In fact, my writ doesn't run at all.’

'Lord Alagrace said you'd help.’

'Any oracle can give you a reading,' said Yen Olass. 'There's no need to come chasing out here just for a reading.’

'I told Alagrace an oracle couldn't help me. I told him I wasn't interested in a reading. But he told me you'd do better than that. He told me you'd fix it.’

'What?' said Yen Olass.

She was genuinely shocked, and it took a lot to shock her. How old was Lord Alagrace? Sixty-five? Not old enough to be going senile, surely?

'I'm sure Lord Alagrace couldn't have said anything like that,' said Yen Olass.

'He said exactly that,' said the Ondrask. 'His very words were: she will fix it.’

The words quoted by the Ondrask were unambiguous: 'Sklo do-pla san t'lay', translating as 'Originating from her will be a fixing.' The word used for 'fixing' implied the use of money, blackmail, trickery or political influence. Or black magic. Yen Olass was furious. Was Alagrace stark staring raving mad? There was no way she could possibly help the Ondrask, who, when he discovered the truth, was going to be very, very angry.

'So what are you going to do about Haveros?' said the Ondrask.

This was very difficult.

'There are always possibilities,' said Yen Olass. 'Your knife may know at least one of them already.’

'My blade has been conscrated to a higher purpose,' said the Ondrask. 'We have to find another way.’

'And we will,' said Yen Olass.

Though her chances of solving the problem were close to zero, she could hardly tell the Ondrask to horse off backwards until he bogged himself. She had to show willing.

'Let's hear the details,' said Yen Olass. 'Start right from the very beginning.’

'The beginning,' said the Ondrask, staring into the fire. 'The beginning was… when I came south.’

'Oh, I'm sure you can start further back than that,' said Yen Olass.

The Ondrask, failing to catch the mild note of sarcasm in her voice, raised his head and looked at her. 'Where should I start then?’

'If you're really stuck for an opening,' said Yen Olass easily, 'start with the beginning of time, for all I care.’

The Ondrask closed his eyes. He was very weary. At first, she thought he was going to drift off into dreamland then and there, but after a while he opened his eyes again. When he spoke, his voice was low; she had to lean forward to hear it, because the wind was competing in the background.

'Not many people ask about the first things,' said the Ondrask, in the voice of a man who has a story to tell. 'Not many people care to know any more.’

Yen Olass began to suspect that her little joke about the beginning of time had been unwise.

'Not many people care to know, but the knowledge is there for those who wish to know. This is the way it was. In the beginning, there was a barren plain where the wind moved from itself and to itself, and the wind was dark and light in one. The wind was both horse and rider.’

Yen Olass recognised the creation myth of the Yarglat.

He really had started at the beginning. Having asked for this, she dared not complain as the Ondrask slowly worked his way through the tale of the First Things and the genealogies of the Horse who was Horse and the Rider who was Rider. It took quite some time.

As the Ondrask talked, telling now of the Last Ride of the Horse who was Horse and the Rider who was Rider, Yen Olass began to hear in his voice a measure of loss, of sorrow, of homesickness. And while she was not of the Yarglat, she was most certainly of the north, and she too began to yearn for those empty horizons, those high-hunting stars, those skies where the night veils infinity with curtains of green light, purple, red. She too yearned for the campfire where the talk goes back and forward in the long winter night, man and woman and horse and child all gathered together in the same communal warmth.

While the Ondrask talked, Yen Olass began to remember names and faces gone from her life for almost two decades. She realised now the true source of the Ondrask's rage. The high priest of the horse cult was suffering not just for the loss of his three horses, but for the loss of an entire way of life.

The Ondrask had reviewed an entire culture by the time he got to the story of his own birth.

'They named me Losh Negis. I was born in a tent on the barrens where the wind rolls forever, thinking the world downhill. I was weaned on mare's milk and boiled millet. By the time I could walk, I was learning to ride, clinging to the fleece of a sheep.’

Bit by bit, he created his world for her.

'At the age of fourteen, I was initiated into a raiding party. Six years after my spear was first blooded, I endured a vision. I knew the power then, or thought I did. What I knew was the shadow of a shadow. But I followed the Old One thereafter. I learnt of the Powers That Walk and then became them.

'My people listened to me when voices gathered. I both gave and received. For them, I endured the darkness. I talked with those who have no bones. I brought back much wisdom, and shared. In those days, my very shadow was worth more than a man. In the city here in the south, people looked on me as if I was an animal – and a poor-bred animal at that.’

The Ondrask paused. Yen Olass made no grunts of approval, no small encouraging sounds, no conversational noises. The Ondrask did not need them, and would not have welcomed them. He brooded for a long time, staring into the dying heart of the dying fire.

'The fathers of our grandfathers came south to conquer an empire,' said the Ondrask, 'but the empire conquered us. The Blood Purge changed nothing. We slaughtered real men, thinking to kill our enemy, but it was already too late for that. We were defeated by our victory, and Haveros is the measure of our defeat.’

The Ondrask said nothing more, and Yen Olass saw that his tale was at an end. He had still not answered her original question, but she knew he would no longer welcome being quizzed on the trivial details of who said what to whom and where and when. He had spoken of first and last things, and he had talked himself out.

But Yen Olass did have one question to ask before they slept. She had always wondered about it, but, till now, she had never met anyone who might know the answer. She dared her question.

'You were born in the north,' said Yen Olass, 'and so was Khmar. What does Khmar believe?’

'Khmar?' said the Ondrask, looking at her, as if seeing her for the first time. 'Khmar believes in Khmar.’

Listening to the wind, Yen Olass thought it was dying down a little, but she was now too tired to be certain.

Yen Olass woke to find daylight filtering into the cave. The Ondrask was huddled under the horse blanket, snoring. The two shag ponies were awake. Sometimes, on other hunting trips, she had woken in the night to find Snut sleeping standing up. She had never been able to figure out how horses could do that; whichever way she looked at it, it seemed contrary to reason. She thought it was very clever of them.

Yen Olass took her feet out of the luffle bag. They were not happy about that at all. Swiftly, she put on her foot bindings, then pulled on her boots and laced them up. Going to the mouth of the cave, she found a bright cold sun shining from a clear sky on silent snowdrifts. The drifted snow was deep enough to slow them down a bit, but too shallow to stop a determined horse and rider.

Here and there, trees showed vivid yellow wounds where branches had scabbed away. The rest of the world was white and black: white snow, black trees. So many trees. The corpses of the dead ones hulked out of the snow.

Though these woods were fairly open, and riders were seldom hindered by undergrowth, Yen Olass still felt there were far too many trees. There was something weird and unnatural about those columns of wood shafting up from the earth. Something rather evil about those gaunt grasping branches. Out riding, you always had to keep a sharp lookout in case a branch tore your head off. Then, stopping in a strange place, you could never tell whether something was hiding close by, watching. In the woods, she always felt enclosed, denied the open horizons of unlimited freedom which were her birthright.

As she stood there watching, she saw a small bird perch briefly on a bough, then fly away. In the snow there was a neat set of little paw marks: a fox had passed by that morning.

She heard the Ondrask grunt as he woke; a little later, he joined her at the cavemouth.

'Yesh-la, Ondrask,’ said Yen Olass.

'Darjan-kray, Yen Olass,’ he said, giving her both the formal response and the courtesy of her name.

They stood there shoulder to shoulder. Now that they

had slept out the night in the same cave, she hardly noticed his odour; his smell was hers. Though she knew she would be fearfully late in getting back to Gendormargensis, that hardly seemed to matter. She felt… she felt almost happy. She would have felt better still if they could have stayed. She hated going back to the city.

'How has the hunting been?' said the Ondrask.

'Not so good,' said Yen Olass.

Game was scarce, but Yen Olass hardly cared. She came here to be free, not to kill things.

The sun glared on the absolute white of the snow. She had better smear her cheeks and eyelids with ashes before they set out. On a day like this, a day's riding could leave an unprotected person snowblind. She had better grease her boots, too; she had meant to do it the day before, but had forgotten.

Snut came to her for an apple, and she gave him one, then gave another to the Ondrask's horse. Both horses and humans would eat properly once they reached the hunting lodge at Brantzyn. Then they would push south, heading for Gendormargensis.