On loose rein, and without any perceptible command from Damian, Fox picked up into a fast, ground-eating trot. Ero loped ahead, his nose periodically poking above the brush as he paused to make sure everyone was coming along, then he’d dash off again, tail wagging. That tail, Karigan thought, could probably fell a tree. He had no trouble keeping up with the horses and appeared to take joy in running ahead or alongside them.
The trail they followed was well beaten and churned by horse hooves, leading Karigan to believe that it wasn’t only the Frosts who used the trail, but the herd as well.
Thickets of trees turned to low-growing scrub and, after some miles, the scrub became mere islands in an expanse of rolling grasslands. The tips of the grasses, now golden brown with the season, brushed the soles of Karigan’s boots as she rode along.
Damian slowed Fox to a walk and the three of them rode shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. “We are technically in Rhovanny,” Damian said. “And this is the southernmost finger of the Wanda Plains. There are many herds of wild horses that roam the plains. Mine tend to call this area their own territory.”
“Why are there so many wild horses here?” Fergal asked.
“It is passed down through my family that the plains horses are descendants of warhorses who lost their riders during the last battle of the Long War, which took place on the central plains. Sacoridian horses, Arcosian horses, Eletian horses, Rhovan…Those horses escaped the bloodletting and ran free, becoming as feral as their own ancestors in the time before humankind first domesticated them. They mixed their bloodlines in a way their human counterparts could never hope to. Horses have more sense than people, I often think.” Damian paused and rubbed his chin, his gaze far off.
“The horses do well enough here, despite the harsh winters. Those in the north plains find it more difficult. Not only are the winters tougher, but there are more predators—wolves, big cats, and the groundmites that den in the region. Our family has always kept wolfhounds, and that has helped stave off the predators, though Ero here is as like to invite a wolf to play as to attack it. All in all, the plains and the original mix of horses have yielded a very sturdy beast.”
Karigan patted Condor’s neck, wondering about his ancestors and the bloodlines that must flow through his veins. Were his ancestors of Eletian origin? Or, like her, of Arcosian descent? If so, she was comforted by the thought. If anything Arcosian could lead to a horse like him, she herself couldn’t be all that bad. She smiled.
“We still have a little way to go,” Damian said. “We keep shelter in some old ruins, and we’ll find Gus and Jericho there.”
He picked up their pace again, this time easing into a lope. Condor’s ears were at attention and his step lighter than she ever recalled. This was his home and she tried to imagine him as a foal running among spring grasses, kicking up his hooves and nudging close to his mother. What did she look like? Did he resemble his dam more, or his sire?
The sun continued to climb and the grasslands spread around them as their horses beat across the land in a hypnotic rhythm. Ero bounded through the grasses, eyes bright and tongue lolling in evident delight.
If only every day could be like this, Karigan thought.
Soon a knoll rose above them, crowned by unnatural shapes jutting from the earth. Damian reined Fox to a jog, then a walk.
“Here is our shelter,” Damian said, pointing up the knoll.
The ruins were made of stone, and were round and jagged like broken teeth. As they neared the ruins, she saw that these were remnants, just foundations, as though some great hand had emerged from the sky and knocked the structures over, except for one that looked to be partially rebuilt. Smoke issued through a hole in its conical, thatched roof.
Ero bounded off, pausing only to lift his leg here and there. Slabs of cut stone, most too large for a single man to lift, littered either side of their path. Whatever force toppled the buildings had been cataclysmic.
“What are these ruins?” Fergal asked.
“Tradition holds,” Damian said, “that this was easternmost Kmaern. If so, this was but one village destroyed by Mornhavon the Black.”
Though it was by now midday and the sky clear, a shadow seemed to pass over them and just briefly Karigan thought she could hear lost voices carried on a breeze and away. She shuddered.
“They lived in towers,” Damian said. “They were the greatest stoneworkers in all the lands, and it was from them the D’Yers learned their craft. Mornhavon despised them and obliterated them. Even their towers could not withstand him, except for the very foundations that are rooted to the Earth.”
“Didn’t any of them survive?” Fergal asked.
“Hard to say, lad. Hard to say. Kmaern, at any rate, is dead.”
Dead, dead, dead… the wind seemed to say as it passed over the ruins.
Gooseflesh spread across Karigan’s skin.
At Ero’s bark, one of Damian’s sons emerged from the shelter and waved. He played with Ero until they reached him. Karigan had no idea if this was Jericho or Gus. It had been too dark last night to distinguish between the two.
“Well, son,” Damian said as he drew Fox to a halt by the shelter, “I assume Jericho is out watching?”
“Aye, he is. The wind has changed and the herds are joining.”
Karigan and Fergal exchanged glances.
“Jericho can see the patron,” Damian said.
“I can’t. Not yet, anyway,” Gus said, with a downcast look.