Book of Herd, page 8
“Bala stopped stamping. She took her first steps.”
Eirwen started low, soft-clopping one hoof in front of the other as she walked in a circle around the regent’s chambers. She stretched a little with each step, rising higher and higher, until she was high stepping.
“And with every step, Bala grew taller,” Eirwen said. “Stronger. She who drained her mother’s blood, who sacrificed her father. She… Bala… She broke the plains with her hooves and the earth cracked and the centaurs cowered.”
Eirwen stopped. She shrank to her normal size, adopted a comfortable stance, and raised a slender charcoal-black finger.
“All but one.”
Gorfodi shrank back onto the cushioned bench. He gripped the wooden arm running down one side, his knuckles whiter than Eirwen’s hair as he stared at her.
“Who?” he breathed. “Who dared not to cower?”
Eirwen nodded her head and smiled as if he had asked a good question, the only question.
“Teyrnas,” Eirwen said. She raised one hand above her head and bent her palm as if measuring a centaur’s height. “Tall,” she said. Eirwen pressed her hands around an imaginary basket in front of her, then narrowed the gap between them. “And thin.” She bent one arm and tapped her muscle, then shook her head. “Not strong. Not here.” Eirwen pressed her finger to her cheek, stroking it as she thought, before splaying her fingers as if she suddenly remembered. “He was strong here,” she said, tapping the side of her head, smudging her hair with more charcoal.
Eirwen paced in a tight but languid circle in front of Gorfodi.
“Teyrnas. Teyrnas. Teyrnas.”
She stopped, and Gorfodi fidgeted, watching her, waiting for her next words.
“He was smart, but Bala…” Eirwen stamped her feet. “She had broken the plains of Ceffyl. She could break him, break you,” Eirwen said, pointing at Gorfodi’s face. “Bala could break the world.”
Gorfodi reached for another pitcher of mead, the last of the three the usher had set on the table. He stared at Eirwen as he poured a fresh cup, spilling mead over the side as Eirwen resumed her pacing, her thinking, plotting and planning. Gorfodi sipped from the cup as Eirwen became Teyrnas, the tall, thin centaur before the herd.
“How to defeat a sudden god?” she said. “She is of blood, strong blood, strong enough to break the plains.” Eirwen stopped and turned around, pacing in the opposite direction. “Blood is thick. Blood sticks.” Eirwen lifted her hand to study her skin. “It stains and remains, never to leave, unless scrubbed.”
Eirwen stopped and appealed to Gorfodi with the wave of her arm.
“We scrub and wash her away, into retreat and defeat,” she said, and Gorfodi nodded, not entirely sure what was expected of him, but unable to stop what he had started. “We must break the banks of the river.”
Eirwen took a step to one side, looking down as if watching the river coursing beside her. She directed imaginary centaurs, miming the use of picks, the kicking of hooves, the heaving of rocks, and the sudden rush to one side as the bank was broken and the waters spilled over the plains, rushing towards Bala the black mare. Eirwen clapped her hands as if removing soil and then folded her arms across her chest, fixing her face with a smug smile and nodding to Gorfodi as if to say, “I’ve done it. I’ve tamed Bala.”
But the plains were broken.
Bala had broken them.
And the river gushed into the cracks and was gone.
Eirwen feigned shock, and then, as Gorfodi lifted the cup to his lips, she switched from Teyrnas to Bala and roared, spittle flying from her lips as she bared her teeth and stared across the plains brought to life, to stare down the upstart centaur as he tried – he tried – to tame her.
“But,” Eirwen said, catching her breath, taking another. “As the river emptied, and the sun shone, the plains dried out until the grass withered, the soil turned to silt, and the silt blew away in the wind, leaving only stone and flint. The plains were empty and there was nothing to eat. But the centaurs were smart. Tall…” Eirwen raised one hand high above her head. “Thin.” She held her palms in front of her chest, close, without touching. “Teyrnas was smart,” she said. “He knew drought before Bala was born. He knew hunger. He knew to plan and to store, and he knew, when Bala came – for she would come – he would fight before she took their grain.”
Eirwen ducked low, grasping an imaginary spear as she lifted her head to peer over the broken banks of the parched river.
She turned to Gorfodi, pressed a finger to her lips, and whispered, “The land was dry. Bone dry.” She grasped an imaginary handful of the earth and turned it towards Gorfodi, opening her palm. “Just flint and ash,” she said, letting the earth fall from her hand onto the riverbed she had created in the regent’s chambers.
She pointed suddenly, and Gorfodi turned his head as Eirwen plotted Bala’s arrival with jabs of her fingertips, closer and closer until she reared up on her back legs and cast the imaginary spear. Eirwen shouted for the other centaurs to join her, pointing at Bala, directing each throw.
“Kill the mare,” she cried. “Kill Bala, before she takes our grain and comes back for our children!”
And then Eirwen backed up, eyes wide. She pointed, turning Gorfodi’s head to look at the space in his chambers where Eirwen imagined Bala was stalking the centaurs. Eirwen plucked the charcoal from the floor and striped her arms with it. She became Bala, plucking spears from her flanks, breaking them beneath her hooves before sparking the ground with one deafening hoof strike after another.
Gorfodi watched as Eirwen turned. He held his breath as she struck the stone floor with a crack of her hoof and a swish of her tail as she fanned the dying flames into one last lick of life.
“The plains were dry,” she said.
Eirwen slammed her hoof onto the floor and fanned another lick of flame into the regent’s chambers.
“The plains were littered with flint.”
Another hoof strike.
Another swish of her tail.
More flames and embers twisting onto the stone floor, past the damp straw closest to the fire, to land and spark and ignite the dry straw where Eirwen had sat and read the Book of Bala.
“Eirwen!”
Gorfodi rose from the bench as the straw burst into flame. He reached for the last pitcher of mead and rushed forward, only to halt when Eirwen raised her hand, commanding him to stop with the black hand of Bala.
Eirwen held her arm just above the flames and said, “Fire flooded the plains. Fire halted Bala. Teyrnas saw the flames, and he fanned them, pushing Bala back…”
Eirwen took a step back.
“Bala retreated.”
She took another step, moving closer to the door.
“The plains were broken, they were dry, they burned, and Bala retreated.”
“Eirwen,” Gorfodi said, taking a step towards her. “The flames.”
Eirwen nodded and took another step closer to the door, picking up the book from the table on her way.
Gorfodi extinguished the flames with the last of the mead and then stamped the embers beneath his hooves. He looked up as Eirwen reached the door.
“Teyrnas saved the plains,” she said, raising her voice to carry the length of the regent’s chambers. “He formed the Balanian Guard, protecting Ceffyl from Bala forever and whenever she returned.”
Eirwen pressed the book to her chest and smiled at Gorfodi.
“Goodnight, Regent,” she said as she opened the door. “The palace is yours.”
Eirwen stepped out of Gorfodi’s private chambers and did her best not to smile as the usher rushed into a smoky room splashed with mead and spit and charcoal.
“Eirwen?” Leolin said as he reached out to touch her arm. “What just happened?”
“Call me Bala,” she said as she pressed the book into Leolin’s arms.
Eirwen left the scholar and the Book of Bala outside the regent’s chambers and galloped into the night.
Thus ends the tale Of Bala and the Broken Plains.
14
Idris of Fferm paused outside the gates of Helynt under the watchful eye of a pair of Hingst guard. He acknowledged them with the flat handed wave reserved for the Hingst, but without Hingst armour or gear of any kind they might recognise, the guards were wary, and Idris had no intention of spooking them. He approached with caution.
Despite the urgency of his report, Idris had taken the least direct route to Helynt, choosing detours and interesting diversions whenever possible. Yes, he felt there was a considerable threat to Ceffyl, and yes, he understood it was his duty to report it, but reporting to Urien was one thing, returning to Helynt was another thing entirely. No matter what his uncle Merfyn believed when he convinced Idris to join the Hingst. Idris had always thought of himself as a farmer, working his father’s farm until the land was too dry to produce more than the bare minimum required to sustain Idris and the horses he kept. He was a recluse, and a stubborn one at that, and neither trait suited the Hingst. And yet, Idris’ hardworking and solitary nature made him ideal for the Dirgel, and once he caught Urien’s eye, he knew exactly what to do with him, even if Idris’ uncle did not.
“You’ll stop there,” the taller of the Hingst guard said as Idris approached.
“And you’ll turn around,” the mare in full guard armour said when Idris stopped within a spear’s thrust of the gates.
Sounds of mock combat blistered across the grounds inside the compound, bringing back unpleasant memories and adding to the apprehension Idris felt at stepping through the gates. But he did what he was told, dropping the satchels he wore across his broad chest and removing the cloak when the guards ordered him to.
“Where have you come from?”
“From Cilmeri,” Idris said.
“The fort?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Resting.” Idris kept his eye on the tip of the mare’s spear as her companion went through his satchels.
“Resting?” The mare sneered, and said, “Don’t you mean languishing? No one rests at a fort. Were you a prisoner?”
“I have been, once or twice,” Idris said. “Although, not at Cilmeri.”
The guard going through Idris’ things stiffened at his words and dropped the satchel he was inspecting to take a defensive stance before bellowing for the gate master to come to the gate. Idris cursed silently, wishing he had lied instead, as the truth was often harder to accept.
“Over here, Master,” the mare said as the gate master approached.
Whereas the master at Cilmeri was a grizzled old hand, the gate master at Helynt was younger than Idris. Younger, but no less experienced. Idris grinned as he recognised him, and then again at the expressions on the guards’ faces as the gate master barrelled past them to tackle Idris in a bone-crushing embrace.
“You’re alive,” the gate master said. “You old bastard.”
“It’s good to see you, too, Yorath,” Idris said.
Yorath, a hand taller but of a slighter build than Idris, stood back to take a good look at him. He noted the scars on Idris’ chest, the dust in his beard and hair, and the fact that he was naked. Yorath whirled on the Hingst guard.
“You ordered him to strip? Did he not give the signal?” Yorath turned back to Idris before they could answer, and said, “You gave no signal?”
“He gave a signal, Master,” the mare said. “But he carries no identifying gear or marks.”
“Because,” Yorath shouted, jabbing his finger at Idris as he glared at the guards. “He is with the Dirgel? They don’t carry identifying marks. If they did so, they would be dead. Have you learned nothing at Helynt?”
“Master…” the taller Hingst started, only to stop again when Yorath stabbed his finger into the centaur’s chest.
“This,” he said, with a nod at Idris, “is Idris of Fferm. You’ll treat him with respect. You’ll be at his service for however long he stays at Helynt. He will eat first, bathe first, and shit first…”
“Yorath,” Idris said.
“And…” Yorath continued, turning his head ever so slightly to wink at Idris before he turned back to the guards. “You’ll start by collecting his gear, cleaning it, and bringing two… That’s two,” he said, flicking two fingers at the guards, “cups of cold ale and bring them here, on the double. Full gallop,” he roared when the guards stumbled. Yorath fixed them with an impenetrable glare until they turned to gallop through the gates before dropping his mask and roaring with laughter.
“That was unfair,” Idris said.
“You think so?” Yorath recovered, and then draped his arm around Idris’ shoulders. “Maybe so, but they pulled guard duty for a reason, my friend. A little extra hazing won’t hurt them.” Yorath pulled Idris closer and said, “I really thought you were dead, you know?”
“I’m not dead, Yorath.”
“But Urien said you went north.” Yorath lowered his voice. “North of Ysbail.”
“That’s right. I did.”
“And now you’ve returned – back from the dead.”
“I didn’t die, Yorath. You have to believe me. This is me.”
Yorath shook his head. “By Roan, I know that, Idris. But north of Ysbail? In Tondu’s backyard? No Dirgel has ever been so deep inside the feudal lands.”
“How would you know?” Idris said.
Yorath nodded. “That’s true. How would I know? But what does it matter? My guards have brought ale,” he said, pointing at the two Hingst as they galloped back to them with one hand pressed hard on top of the cups of ale they carried. Yorath took the cups and then sent the guards away with Idris’ gear and cloak to be cleaned. “A quick drink,” he said, once they were gone, “before you talk to Urien.”
Idris smiled and clashed his cup against Yorath’s before the brothers in arms drained their cups after true Hingst tradition.
“So,” Idris said, wiping his mouth. “You’re master of the gate?”
“For the time being.” Yorath nodded at the gates, and they walked towards them. “Urien is going to give me a column. Just as soon as this last batch of recruits is fit enough to form one.”
“A column of fresh recruits?”
“Aye,” Yorath said. “And I’m to march them to the border.”
“To Cilmeri?”
Yorath shook his head and said, “Northeast, to Cae.”
“Cae?” Idris stopped at the gates. “Why?”
“War, Idris,” Yorath said. “Why else?”
15
Nia took the narrow path from the beach and up along the side of the sheer cliffs overlooking the sea. She knew the path well and lifted her hooves to avoid a familiar sharp-edged rock jutting out of the eroded path here, stretching her legs to step over a deep pit in the path there. She stopped at a favourite lookout point and let the sea wind brush her cheeks and tousle her hair while teasing the wayward strands from her antlers. The sea was too far away to converse with, but made its presence known with the salt that bit Nia’s tongue when the wind brushed her lips. Nia turned back to the path and walked the last steep stretch to the top of the cliff and then paused to study strange hoofmarks in the sand between the top of the cliff and the first row of thin trees marking the boundary of the Hela Woods.
The print was cloven like the steers on the farms to the east, but none of the farms near Teifi had cattle in their fields. She bent her forelegs for a closer look, tracing her finger around the print and frowning as she sized it against her own.
“You’ve found something,” Anaddas said, startling her as he approached from the woods.
Nia caught her breath and then took Anaddas’ hand, too curious about the print to say anything until Anaddas had seen it.
“Cloven,” he said, to which Nia nodded. “But bigger than cattle.”
“Bigger than mine,” Nia said, and she placed her hoof beside the print to demonstrate. Anaddas did the same and Nia squeezed his hand as she said, “Bigger than yours.”
Anaddas lifted his head, turning to scan the path and then the woods. The wind caught his long hair, twisting it around his neck and brushing it across his brows. He stared through the strands, and then shrugged.
“How old is it?” he asked, knowing that Nia, of all centaurs, could reveal such things if she tapped into her energy, or her magic, as Anaddas liked to call it. He watched as she placed her palm over the print, holding it there for a heartbeat before pulling her hand back and clutching it to her chest. “Nia?”
“It’s old,” she said, massaging her hand.
“As in a few days?”
“A few centuries,” Nia whispered. “And it’s…”
“What?” Anaddas said when Nia stopped talking. “Nia?”
“It’s evil,” she said, turning towards him. “An ancient evil.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” Anaddas pointed at the ground and said, “And why is there only one print? Why not four?”
Nia pressed her palm to her chest as she took a breath. “It’s said that during first herd, and even before the herd…”
“The herd is law,” Anaddas said.
“And long live the herd,” Nia said. “But before the herd, there were older beasts, not quite centaurs, and not horses, either.”
“Human? Like the Marchog?”
“Definitely not,” Nia said. “But these beasts supposedly had cloven hooves. There are stories about them, passed from one bone-born to another, like a shared wisdom, but never is it mentioned how many of them there were.” Nia pointed at the hoof print and said, “They hid their tracks. One could always see where they had been, but never how many, because…”
“They left only one print.”
“In a line, yes,” Nia said. She took Anaddas’ hand, and they walked along the path towards the woods, following the direction of the solitary print. “It’s as if the ground rejected their touch, refusing to show the beast’s passage, or how many.”
“Like magic?”
“More like revulsion. But the beasts used it to their advantage, of course, hiding their numbers.”
