Chapter 1

Sylvriss struggled desperately to control the frenzied horse beneath her. Riddin born and Muster bred, dealing with difficult mounts would not normally present her with any serious problem, but this was different. The horse was almost demented with terror, and its screaming seemed to fill her very soul. It was as though the animal were trying to obliterate the terrible rumbling clamour that had reached out from the City towards them, shaking and buffeting the countryside as if it were not solid Fyorlund earth, but the surface of a wind-whipped lake.

Almost unseated when the horse had stumbled on the heaving ground, Sylvriss too had felt a terror the like of which she had never known before, and for a moment it was only the deep knowledge that her body possessed that kept the reins in her hand and any semblance of control over the terrified mount.

Slowly her mind entered the whirling turmoil of emotions, and wilful skills began to replace the reflexes that had saved her so far. She knew that the horse could be quieted by being made more afraid of her than the terror that had just thundered over the countryside and, deep inside, part of her relished that. It rose temptingly before her: primitive anger formed from primitive fear. But that was a demon the Riddinvolk had tamed generations ago, and she spurned it. Rider and horse should be one, and Sylvriss knew that the horse’s terror was in part a response to her own; the horse could not be properly stilled until she herself was still.

And stilled it must be. Despite the questions that pounded for her attention, this was no time for debating causes. Suffice it that if she lost her mount, she could not do her husband’s bidding.

‘Go to the Lord Eldric’s stronghold as you planned, my love,’ he had said. ‘As fast as only you can. Raise his High Guard and ride back to meet us. I’ll follow as soon as I’ve had him released — and his son.’

Then he had embraced her, almost painfully, and with a simple command had effectively dismissed her. ‘As you love me, Sylvriss. And our child. Go. Go quickly. Prepare the way, First Hearer.’

And she had left, all questions momentarily silenced by the driving urgency of his manner. When they gradually returned they could not then overwhelm the momentum of her own galloping spirit. But they lingered. What was he going to do? How could he get the Lord Eldric and Jaldaric released? How was he going to face Dan-Tor? And now, what was that terrible noise — no, more than a noise — that force, that had shaken the countryside?

But Rgoric’s plea impelled her more than any command could have, and she must regain control of her horse if she was to answer it. To falter here might be to jeopardize all. There would be time enough later to find out what had happened in the City, and time enough when they met again to learn of his plans and schemes.

The thought of Rgoric, renewed and whole again, burst into her mind like the sun through thunder-clouds, and briefly she had a vision of riding by his side at the head of the Lords’ High Guards, sweeping Dan-Tor and his Mathidrin out of Vakloss and into perdition, to restore again the Fyorlund that had been and the life they should have had.

Despite her struggle with the horse, she smiled ruefully at the thought, so childlike in its simplicity. However, its effect was oddly cathartic, and sensing the renewed control of its rider, the horse gradually slowed in its frenzied thrashing until at last Sylvriss was able to lean forward and embrace its neck, saying softly, ‘We’re whole again. Whatever that was, we’re here together, and unhurt.’

The horse was still fretful and its eyes rolled white, but gently Sylvriss released the reins and let it have its head until its circling and pawing gradually stopped.

Sitting back in her saddle she instinctively reached up to pull back her black hair that had flown free and wild in her struggle with the horse. As she did so she felt the wind cold on her forehead and wiping her hand across it she found it was wet with perspiration.

Looking up from her glistening fingers she stared for a moment at the ragged clouds flying overhead, carried on the gusting wind that had shaken the City all day, like an uncertain harbinger carrying messages of change. Now it seemed that even the clouds were fleeing.

Turning, she gazed back to look at the City, but it was out of sight, hidden by the brow of the tree-covered hill she had been descending when the noise and shaking had so nearly ended her journey. What could it have been? came the thought again. Now in control of her mount she felt she could allow some concession to this question, and gently she urged the horse back up the hill until the City came partly into sight.

All seemed normal. The palace towers rose up majestically, dominating but not overwhelming their surroundings, and through the trees she could see the tops of many familiar buildings. Yet on the wind there were strange noises. A crowd? She thought she had heard a crowd nearby as she had left the palace to clatter through the quiet by-ways of the City, but she had dismissed the notion; the Mathidrin held the streets too well for that. Now, as the distant sounds vied for her attention with the rustling trees she thought she heard again many voices raised in... anger... fear?

She leaned forward, face intent, but nothing would take shape for her. Even the wind felt disturbed, unnatural, now quiet, now tearing at her hysterically, and steadfastly refusing to deliver any clear answer to her query. For a moment she thought of moving further forward, to leave behind the shaking trees and come nearer to the City, but the urgency of her mission reasserted itself. Whatever had happened, it was unlikely she could do anything except be taken by the Mathidrin and held as who knew what kind of a hostage against Rgoric’s plans.

Turning round, she rode back down the hill, trotting the horse carefully but surely through the widely-spaced trees that covered the slope. Soon she would be well clear of the City and able to ride, ride, ride, over the Fyorlund countryside, each stride taking her further from that accursed brown streak Dan-Tor and nearer to her true friends and a new future with her husband.

It would be a long hard journey, but she had done worse in her Muster training, albeit many years ago, and just to be free from the cloying deception of the past months would sustain her far more than any physical prowess could. Ruthlessly she trampled down the ever-present fears for her husband, lest they infect her mount and, in slowing her progress, bring about their own tremulous prophecy.

At last she broke out of the trees to find herself at a high vantage-point. Reining to a halt, she paused to examine the countryside for signs of movement, but apart from the ruffling of the blustering wind, all was quiet. And there below was the old road which she should be able to follow for many miles, avoiding villages, and thus Mathidrin patrols.

She clicked to her horse, but it hesitated and whinnied softly. Frowning slightly, Sylvriss cast around again for some sign of danger that had escaped her first inspection.

Then a distant, rapid movement caught her eye. Before she could identify it, her horse began trembling as if remembering again its recent fear. She whispered to it soothingly and slowly backed it into the shade of the trees where she could watch without being seen.

The movement became clearer. It was a rider, travelling away from the City. Suddenly Sylvriss caught her breath, and her horse shifted uneasily beneath her. Even at this distance she could feel waves of terror moving before the approaching figure. What had happened in the City? came the question yet again, but it was lost almost immediately as she saw that the rider was not simply travelling quickly, he was plunging along the road at a speed that must surely bring both him and his horse to destruction very soon.

The realization cleared Sylvriss’s vision abruptly and the totality of the scene below swept over her. The horse was not carrying one person, but two. Its rider was a large, solid-looking man, but across its neck dangled a second, black clad figure, seemingly unconscious. And it was no ordinary horse. It was a great black stallion — a Muster horse! And a magnificent one at that. There were few Muster horses in Fyorlund, and none the like of that she was sure. Further, it was not being ridden, it was carrying its charges!

Questions overwhelmed her, but she dashed them aside. It was a rare man that such a horse would carry in that fashion.

And no such horse could be allowed to break its heart thus.

Birds flew up in screaming alarm from the jostling trees as Rgoric’s queen burst out of her leafy shelter and with a great cry, urged her horse at full gallop down the steep hill.

And none too soon, she realized as she looked again at the charging black horse below. She must be on the road ahead of it, and travelling fast if she was to intercept it. Fine though her own horse was, she knew it could not hope to catch such a powerful, fear-driven animal if once it got ahead of her. Not catch it that is, until it fell suddenly dead, in all probability injuring or even killing both its riders.

Bending low over her horse’s neck she willed it forward. A fierce gust of wind caught them sideways and, briefly, her horse staggered, but the two of them together caught their balance and the wind only hastened their descent.

As they neared the road, the field dipped below it a little and Sylvriss became aware of the black horse at the edge of her vision, though she did not dare to look lest the hesitation cause her horse...