Page 6 of Seducing the Sorcerer
The horse walked with him to the trees at the edge of the road. Grand. Now, he needed something to tether it with. If only he’d got that halter he’d asked for. He could rip strips from his shirt, but it was the only shirt he had. He examined the creature again in the failing light and its drooping tail gave him an idea. But could he? Would it be cruel? Ah, but it wasn’t a real horse. It was nothing but a conglomeration of sacking and straw and magic. It wouldn’t be unkind. He backed it to a small tree and tied its tail tightly about the trunk.
“Stay,” he commanded, adding under his breath as he walked off, “Get out of that, you great lummox.”
But he’d barely walked a hundred yards and the horse was before him on the path, with its daft pert expression, its flapping tongue and its shining rune. He tried clapping and waving his arms and yelling “shoo”. He tried pushing past it, but whatever he did, it kept circling in front of him and standing in his way.
He was sweating again and his chest felt tight. He must think. Perhaps that rune was the source of all the trouble? He smeared it with a handful of silky dust from the road but the horse seemed not to notice. He tried doubling back. He tried darting from the road and pushing his way through thick undergrowth, but all he got was scratched hands and a new tear in his shirt.
The horse was perpetually in his way. Not aggressive, not threatening, but simply there. Infuriatingly, gallingly there.
It was night now, though there was a bright moon. They came to an open place where fields and fences began again. Crickets chirped and great furry moths kept blundering into the eldritch blue glow of the rune. In the distance, the white radiance of dozens of crystal lanterns was casting the outlines of houses into relief. The scent of frying oil came on the breeze. He’d reached the village.
He was stopped short by a reluctance so visceral it made him hot all over. A village meant people. People who would see him with this sackcloth monstrosity bobbing about in front of him. People who would stare. People who would laugh. People who would ask him where he’d got it and laugh again if he admitted he’d been cheated into accepting it. Because why, oh why had he been so fucking stupid as to make a bargain for a horse he hadn’t seen? Like a fool. Like a green boy. Like the worst kind of bumpkin imaginable.
The fact that it was a horse shaped monstrosity made everything worse. Because Fenn knew horses; knew how to judge them and manage them and train them and have them do as he wanted. This great unaccountable lump made him look incompetent into the bargain. Fenn hung his head, unable even to look at the village. His day had become a nightmare. Not a terrifying one, but a ghastly one for all that. Because he didn’t want to be laughed at. Not again. Not today. He was still raw from the humiliation at the farm. He’d rather bear a beating or a month in prison than more laughter.
He’d not go to the village tonight. He had those pie crusts in his pocket. Wasn’t thirsty. He’d hide in the woods, get some sleep and decide what to do with a fresh head in the morning. There was a wooded spur of a low hill off to the right. That would do.
Wearily, he swung a leg over the fence at the side of the road. The horse hopped over the fence too, back legs kicking up like a rabbit. It positioned itself in front of him, its broad back beneath him, its side pushed hard against his left leg. There was no room to get down.
“Get away.” He shoved at its flank with his right foot, to no avail. “Stupid thing. Ain’t riding you.”
His own words gave him pause. Perhaps that was what the creature wanted. Perhaps that would make it obey? Aye, and then it would gallop to the nearest lake and toss him in to drown.
And yet—
He was used to judging the characters of horses. This one was infuriating, intransigent, silly, stubborn. But it didn’t seem cunning. Or evil.
And the idea of a ride—
Any ride. Even on a horse like this one.
In the old days, Fenn had been known for being able to ride anything. Anything at all. Even without saddle or bridle. What would it hurt to give this thing a go, out here in the dark with nobody to see? If it wouldn’t stay put and it wouldn’t let him lead it any distance, he had to try something. It would be better than trying to ride it in the morning, with an audience of hysterical farmers. If the creature bolted, he could fling himself from its back. The ground here wasn’t too stony. He knew how to fall.
And if the fall killed him, did it really matter? Or if he broke a leg and couldn’t work and died in agony and hunger—well, again, wasn’t that the sort of end he expected for himself? Did it matter if it happened sooner than later?
No, it did not.
He wove the fingers of his left hand into the horse’s mane and swung his right leg over its bulk. The horse took a dancing step, then another. He nudged it away from the fence and they were gliding over the field at a beautiful collected trot. Its gait was smooth as silk. Perhaps because it had no hooves and wasn’t actually touching ground.
He sat down into its stride. “Whoa. Whoa there.”
And it was walking. A good, brisk, keen walk.
He urged it to a trot, slowed it to a walk again, checking that he had control. He did. Even without bit or bridle, the creature knew what he wanted, as horses always had. He squeezed with his heels and they were cantering. Such a pace it had! Easy as a rocking chair, joyous as love. Fenn found he was grinning, stomach clenching with the pleasure of riding again. Smiling! He was smiling! He’d almost forgotten what it felt like. He nudged the horse to the left, circling, then had it change leg and canter to the right.
Incalcitrant on the ground, the horse responded to his aids like a well-schooled saddle horse. The oddest thing was the silence—since it had no hooves—but everything else was the same: the power of the animal beneath him, the breath of freedom, and that gut-deep sense of connection. They were aware of each other, listening to each other, doing it together. Water streamed from Fenn’s eyes. Ridiculous. It was the wind of their passing, that was all. He dashed the tears away with his cuff.
At the far end of the field was another fence. Hadn’t the horse cleared an identical jump from a stand? Why not give it a try? Fenn put it at the fence, collecting it with seat and hands just before it leapt. The horse took the jump, ears pricked, game as a grasshopper. Fenn leant forwards too, timing it perfectly, the rough fibres of the horse’s short mane twisted in his fingers.
The horse jumped wide. Too wide. Fenn leaned further into it, trying to help.
But they didn’t come down.
Time seemed to stop. The ground was getting further and further away. Something, perhaps a bat, smacked into his forehead. He gasped, wobbled, kept his seat. The movement of the sacking body beneath him now imitated a gallop. But they weren’t galloping.
They were flying.
The wood he’d thought to sleep in was below, the treetops at least ten yards down. There were the flat roofs and the shade cloths of the village, the scent of cooking in his nose. Now they were crossing a lake, the moon reflected beneath them like a flickering lamp.
