The Princess and the Bear - Mette Ivie Harrison [77]
So perhaps the royal steward was right to treat the horse so, and to not care if it was injured or even died from his mistreatment of it. Such a creature was better dead.
It rode on mindlessly, heartlessly. It did not think for itself. It simply was the creature that the royal steward demanded it be.
The hound could kill the royal steward for that alone. She shuddered in horror, and kept as close as she could without revealing herself.
After two hours at this punishing pace, she was exhausted. As a hound she had always considered herself the match of any horse, but the royal steward pressed his horse past its limits. He did not see it as living, and he did not care if it died. He could easily buy another. And if it was not one that had been touched by the unmagic, well, he would treat it as if it were.
Finally, the royal steward stopped at a village for food and water. The hound noticed that he tied his horse so that it could not graze. But it could drink from a dirty trough, at least, and it did so eagerly.
The hound drank from a clean trough and tried to find calm and strength in herself. She did not let herself doze.
Far too soon, the royal steward came out, looking well satisfied with his meal. He untied the horse and leaped back into the saddle, which he had never removed. He looked around once, as if expecting pursuers, then smiled and went on his way.
He had not looked down, only up, as if assuming that any who came after him would have to be mounted, as he was.
It was painful for the hound to run again after so short a stop. She told herself that if the royal steward stopped for the night, she would have a chance to take a kill. She had been far hungrier than this before and survived.
But she had never had to force herself to continue onward for so long at such a pace.
The hound could see the horse begin to miss steps, falter and correct itself. But the royal steward only swore at it and used a stick to urge it faster.
At last the horse fell and it did not get up.
The royal steward could see that he was not far from another village and that it was close to dark. He did not even bother to end the horse’s life in a quick, decent fashion. He left it there to die slowly, in terrible pain.
The hound waited until the royal steward was out of sight.
She would find him again easily enough. It was clear that he would have to go to the village and rest for the night.
She bent next to the dying horse and tried to speak to it in the language of horses.
“I will help you along to the end,” she said softly. If the horse did not understand her meaning, perhaps it would understand her tone.
But she could see no sign of any response in the horse.
The hound sighed, then bent close to the horse’s neck, bared her teeth, and bit into it, severing its jugular vein. The taste of blood filled her mouth, and for the first time in her life she spat it out. She would not make herself stronger on the life of this creature. And she did not like the thought of the unmagic flowing into her. She did not know if that was possible, but she would not take any chances.
She waited until the horse was dead. Then she left its body where it was, and entered the village.
It was full dark now, but she could smell where the royal steward had walked. It was not only her tracking skills at work here, but also her sense of the unmagic. It was too clear a path to ignore. The hound only wondered that all the villagers did not notice it. But perhaps they did and did not care.
The trail of unmagic led to an inn at the other end of the village. It was small and dank, and one end of it seemed to be falling down. It was also very quiet, not at all the sort of place one would expect a man such as the royal steward to stay. Which made it a good hiding place, the hound supposed.
She heard