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Authors: John R. Fultz
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asked.
“Now.”
D’zan pulled on his boots. “Can we not stay here a bit longer? It is… comfortable.”
“No, Prince,” said the Stone. “It is not safe. Nor will it be safe for us anywhere until we find sanctuary. We are for Uurz, and right away. You always liked riding, eh?”
D’zan nodded. He was a good horseman. When he turned twelve his father had given him White Flame, a highbred steed. For the first time, he missed the horse. He wondered if the royal stables had burned when the palace caught fire.
Don’t think of that; think of the road ahead
.
The horses were pale imitations of the champion stallions bred by Yaskathan horselords, but they were strong and swift. In the inn’s muddy courtyard Olthacus loaded both animals with packsof hastily prepared food and gourds of water. D’zan climbed into the stirrups and introduced himself to his steed.
“Does it have a name?” he asked, petting the horse’s mottled neck.
“I didn’t ask the seller,” said the Stone, pulling himself up into his own saddle.
The horse neighed and stamped the mud lightly beneath D’zan, and he decided the beast was good-tempered enough.
“I’ll name him then,” said D’zan. The Stone was silent, adjusting the sword belt over his shoulder. A brand-new crossbow hung from his saddle, and a quiver of bronze-tipped bolts. Was Olthacus expecting trouble on the road to Uurz?
“You are Northwind,” D’zan told the horse, rubbing its neck.
“And mine?” asked the Stone. Every now and then he indulged the Prince in a boyish whim or two.
“Yours is Stormcloud,” said D’zan.
“Very good,” said the Stone, looking at the steed below him as if truly seeing it for the first time. “Then may Northwind and Stormcloud speed us to the City of the Sacred Waters.”
Olthacus steered his trotting horse through the courtyard gate, D’zan and Northwind following close behind.
Thunder split the air, and a soft rain began to fall. The horses carried them slowly through the crowded streets until they reached the eastern edge of Murala, and the green plain stretched away toward a gray horizon where lightning danced between heaven and earth. The wide unpaved road cut across the plain with hardly any curves. There were no hills here to speak of, hardly any trees… just wide-open flatland and tall green grasses waving in the winds. D’zan smelled fresh rain on the air. He spurred his horse and galloped away from Murala with Olthacus riding alongside him. A grassy wind caught up his hair, and he found himself smiling for the first time since leaving home.
He glanced back at the gray-green ocean and the black roofs of smoky Murala one last time. He would not miss the ocean.
But he might miss that girl in the Inn of the Skull and Sapphires.
Each day on the road, it rained. Sometimes the rain came in gentle sheets, other times in driving squalls, when thunder and lightning split the sky. They rode between blue lakes surrounded by groves of slim green trees. Often farmhouses sat near the lakes, and on the second day the road ran through a tiny village. Olthacus and D’zan did not stop to ask the hamlet’s name, or to see if there might be a dry public house in which to sleep. They slept instead well off the road, nestled among the tall grasses. The thrill of traveling on solid ground soon disappeared for D’zan. His cloak and garments were soaked through with rainwater, and at night he sat shivering by the campfire, drinking brandy. It warmed his bones, but the damp was an ever-present nuisance.
Along the road itself they met scattered traffic. Small groups of riders or single horsemen, the occasional ox-drawn caravan bound for trading in Murala. Most wagons bore the green-and-gold sun banner of Uurz. Once a merchant rode by in a chariot pulled by three white stallions, his servants riding behind on a covered wagon filled with kegs of Uurzian wine. Behind the wine wagon came a cloistered carriage where the merchant’s wife
“Now.”
D’zan pulled on his boots. “Can we not stay here a bit longer? It is… comfortable.”
“No, Prince,” said the Stone. “It is not safe. Nor will it be safe for us anywhere until we find sanctuary. We are for Uurz, and right away. You always liked riding, eh?”
D’zan nodded. He was a good horseman. When he turned twelve his father had given him White Flame, a highbred steed. For the first time, he missed the horse. He wondered if the royal stables had burned when the palace caught fire.
Don’t think of that; think of the road ahead
.
The horses were pale imitations of the champion stallions bred by Yaskathan horselords, but they were strong and swift. In the inn’s muddy courtyard Olthacus loaded both animals with packsof hastily prepared food and gourds of water. D’zan climbed into the stirrups and introduced himself to his steed.
“Does it have a name?” he asked, petting the horse’s mottled neck.
“I didn’t ask the seller,” said the Stone, pulling himself up into his own saddle.
The horse neighed and stamped the mud lightly beneath D’zan, and he decided the beast was good-tempered enough.
“I’ll name him then,” said D’zan. The Stone was silent, adjusting the sword belt over his shoulder. A brand-new crossbow hung from his saddle, and a quiver of bronze-tipped bolts. Was Olthacus expecting trouble on the road to Uurz?
“You are Northwind,” D’zan told the horse, rubbing its neck.
“And mine?” asked the Stone. Every now and then he indulged the Prince in a boyish whim or two.
“Yours is Stormcloud,” said D’zan.
“Very good,” said the Stone, looking at the steed below him as if truly seeing it for the first time. “Then may Northwind and Stormcloud speed us to the City of the Sacred Waters.”
Olthacus steered his trotting horse through the courtyard gate, D’zan and Northwind following close behind.
Thunder split the air, and a soft rain began to fall. The horses carried them slowly through the crowded streets until they reached the eastern edge of Murala, and the green plain stretched away toward a gray horizon where lightning danced between heaven and earth. The wide unpaved road cut across the plain with hardly any curves. There were no hills here to speak of, hardly any trees… just wide-open flatland and tall green grasses waving in the winds. D’zan smelled fresh rain on the air. He spurred his horse and galloped away from Murala with Olthacus riding alongside him. A grassy wind caught up his hair, and he found himself smiling for the first time since leaving home.
He glanced back at the gray-green ocean and the black roofs of smoky Murala one last time. He would not miss the ocean.
But he might miss that girl in the Inn of the Skull and Sapphires.
Each day on the road, it rained. Sometimes the rain came in gentle sheets, other times in driving squalls, when thunder and lightning split the sky. They rode between blue lakes surrounded by groves of slim green trees. Often farmhouses sat near the lakes, and on the second day the road ran through a tiny village. Olthacus and D’zan did not stop to ask the hamlet’s name, or to see if there might be a dry public house in which to sleep. They slept instead well off the road, nestled among the tall grasses. The thrill of traveling on solid ground soon disappeared for D’zan. His cloak and garments were soaked through with rainwater, and at night he sat shivering by the campfire, drinking brandy. It warmed his bones, but the damp was an ever-present nuisance.
Along the road itself they met scattered traffic. Small groups of riders or single horsemen, the occasional ox-drawn caravan bound for trading in Murala. Most wagons bore the green-and-gold sun banner of Uurz. Once a merchant rode by in a chariot pulled by three white stallions, his servants riding behind on a covered wagon filled with kegs of Uurzian wine. Behind the wine wagon came a cloistered carriage where the merchant’s wife
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