Strange Attractors - Kim Falconer [178]
It was said that they came from an ancient line of Dire wolves, a species long extinct. Not surprisingly they made the horses nervous, and that might be to his advantage. Surely there would be none posted near the picket lines.
He was right about that. There were no death dogs at the picket lines. There was something worse.
Demons!
What’s wrong, Rowan?
Mules.
Mules?
Tied among the horses.
That’s a shame.
It was more than a shame. He’d planned to untie the first horse of the line, jump on and gallop away with the entire string. With mules in the picket line, that was not going to happen. Those creatures wouldn’t budge. He’d have to think of something else.
Think quickly, Rowan. The camp is waking up.
He muttered to himself, crawling along on his belly. He stayed downwind of the death dogs, but the thought of them and their slobbering jaws so near was not helping him concentrate. The horses were a stone’s throw away, the one nearest him restless. It was a palomino gelding with a sour disposition. He could tell that from a distance, in the dark. It was tossing its head, ears pinned back, teeth bared.
Has he spotted you, Rowan?
I don’t think so. He just doesn’t like his stable mate.
An’ Lawrence crept closer until he was at the edge of the tall grass. He was about to make a move when Scylla hissed in his ear, her whiskers tickling his chin.
What are you doing here? I said, wait.
And I said, be safe. You clearly are not.
Down! He pushed her head to the ground. A stableboy was saddling the gelding, and having a difficult time of it.
He’s the bugle boy, readying to wake the camp. This is luck.
Wait until he tightens the girth, Rowan. Remember the time…
I remember. He turned to her. And please, you must wait here. Stay hidden. You can run flank when I cut these beasts loose.
Meanwhile?
Meanwhile, handle the death dogs, if they come this way.
My pleasure.
He waited until the lad led the horse away from the picket line and was about to mount up. The horse didn’t seem any happier with the boy than he’d been with his stable mate. His ears pinned back and he took a swipe with his near hind hoof, almost kneecapping the lad. A string of curses filled the air and An’ Lawrence jumped in. ‘I’ll take him off your hands, thanks,’ he said, knocking the lad out.
He grabbed the reins and vaulted astride. The horse planted all four feet and trumpeted, the sound echoing across the valley. An’ Lawrence stood up in his stirrups, cracking the split reins behind him. The gelding lurched forward and he drew his sword. The horse immediately came under his control, arching his neck, ears forward, gait smooth. ‘So you’re battle-trained,’ An’ Lawrence said. ‘Good lad. More luck for us!’
It took little urging to push the horse into a gallop. He rode down the picket line, sword arm extended. Every horse and mule pulled back, front legs braced, haunches to the ground, tethers tight as fiddle strings. He lowered his sword and sliced through each rope, freeing the horses to scatter up the valley walls. He was a quarter way down the line when he hit metal; his arm jarred, the concussion nearly ripping the sword from his hand. A mule brayed as if demons were chewing its legs off.
Why are you stopping, Rowan? The camp’s awake. Cut the horses loose and get out!
Slight hitch, so to speak.
Hitch?
The mules are tied with chain.
That’s not humane. Perhaps you can…
He didn’t wait for her reply. His arm went up and he sent a wave of energy from his solar plexus to the tip of his sword. It glowed, a white light, and he swung again, slicing through the chain and on down the picket line until every horse and mule was free.
Use some magic. Scylla finished her thought before snarling.
Scylla?
Death dog behind! Run!
He didn’t look over his shoulder but he heard the growls. They were answered by the high-pitched scream of his familiar. A flurry of screams and snarls followed, like a back-alley catfight amplified