The Gathandrian Trilogy 02 - Hallsfoots Battle

now that trying to emulate his father’s firm hand with the servants has not been wise. Not many have stayed with him, when he thinks he needs them the most.
    By the time Nightcloud, his grey stallion, is ready, the sun is already creating long shadows from the turreted walls. No soldiers stand to attention, and that alone is enough to pierce Ralph once more.
    “When will you be back, my Lord?” the groom asks but Ralph shakes his head, beyond speaking for that moment. Besides, he has little idea. Today he will ride, see what ravages have fallen across the land for himself. When he has seen that, then he will know more of what he must face.
    He grasps the reins handed to him but, as he places one foot in the stirrup, Nightcloud snorts and tosses his head, sidling away as if Ralph is a stranger to him.
    “What the …?”
    “Please,” the groom says, “he hasn’t been ridden for a while. He’s grown unused to the feel of a man.”
    “So I see.” And he does. He sees the horsemen have grown lazy and decided that he would not return from the journey with the mind-executioner. They have been lax in their duties, and Ralph’s stallion has been left to his own devices and become skittish.
    With a curse at his companion, Ralph turns and speaks softly to the horse, threading his fingers through his mane and holding him still. “Hush there, boy, hush. All will be well, steady. You know me, Nightcloud, fiery one, don’t you? Yes you do.”
    Moments later, he is in the saddle. The stallion trembles beneath him, and Ralph strokes his neck. The contact there fills his mind with pictures of fire and wind, orange and pure white and, with a gasp, he jerks his hand away. Since the scribe helped him in secret to hone his thought-skills, Ralph’s gifts as a Sensitive have grown stronger, even to the point of sensing the emotions of the higher beasts, should he touch them. He had almost forgotten it. Risking a glance at the groom, Ralph sees he’s noticed nothing out of the ordinary and raises a prayer of thanks to the gods and stars. It would be the worse for him if the people discovered what he is. Mind-skills of any quality have been punishable by death in the land for many years—that is why the executioner came, ostensibly, at least.
    Shaking such memories away, he wheels Nightcloud out of the yard, and the horse trots over the unguarded drawbridge, through the patches of marsh-cotton and starwort. Above them the corn-crows circle, their sharp cry beating at the frosty air. Outside his immediate home, Ralph kicks the grey into a gallop and sets his head past the village for the woods.
    It is only on a horse that he feels most whole, something he doesn’t think Simon ever fully realised, for all the scribe’s skills at reading him. Of course, with his background of poverty and the need for constant flight, always on foot, the opportunities for learning horsemanship never came to Simon. Early on in their acquaintance, Ralph offered to teach him, but he was unwilling. The gods know why. Now, as he gives Nightcloud his head, and the village flashes by in a haze of green and brown, Ralph would truly be nowhere else but here. The rich smell of horseflesh, the rhythmic beat of hooves on earth, the feel of the wind through his hair—all of this takes away the difficulties he wrestles with and leaves them far behind for a while. Not only that, but the ride helps him see things more clearly.
    They gallop through the woods, dodging the thick-set branches of the old oaks and weaving their way with the skill of the familiar through the ash and lichen-trees. Ralph can tell Nightcloud remembers the touch of his hand and the nudge of his heel now. The time for forgetfulness and inactivity is over. He is glad, however, that he did not take him on the journey to Gathandria. He could not have borne to lose such an animal. For the moment riding feels like reclaiming a friend, perhaps the only one Ralph has.
    When they are through to the other side of the woods, he pulls the stallion to a halt. As Ralph expects, he tries to fight the command and maintain his gallop, but at the last the Overlord is stronger-willed. He pats the horse’s neck once more, whispers words of endearment and feels again the thrill of Nightcloud’s colours in his mind. As he dismounts, looping the reins over one arm and staring out at the mountains, the horse whickers at him.
    The mountains are not what they once were. Since his return here, even the shape