The Horse Road by Troon Harrison Page B

where usually she was dignified and upright. Her left arm hung against her side, motionless. Her legs dangled slackly and her booted feet, usually held away from Grasshopper, swung and jostled against the mare’s ribs. It was horrible to see my proud mother riding like a slave, like someone who always walked and never mounted a horse.
    â€˜She is very weak,’ I muttered to Batu, riding just ahead of me.
    â€˜The evil eye is still upon her,’ Batu said. ‘It mustbe the curse of a powerful shaman. When we reach Ershi, perhaps one of your magi can turn it aside.’
    I nodded doubtfully, wondering how we would find time to fetch a priest, and to round up our horse herds, and to drive them out of the valley, before the army arrived. Although we had ridden all yesterday afternoon, and through much of the night, northwards and westwards under the moon’s silver stare, I felt the army of the Middle Kingdom pressing like a cold wind on the back of our necks. We were travelling perhaps only a half-day’s march ahead of it.
    I glanced at Batu’s wiry form swaying easily along ahead of me, clad still in his leather armour covered in scales of hoof.
    â€˜Batu,’ I called softly, ‘are you frightened?’
    He glanced back; the sun gleamed along the high angle of his cheekbones and the dark slant of his eyes, and burned blue in the mane of his hair.
    â€˜No! I have been training to fight our enemies since I was old enough to walk. The cavalry of the nomads, and of Ershi, are more skilled with bows and arrows, and horses, than any other. As soon as we have moved your herd to safety, I shall join the battle! It will be over quickly!’
    He grinned fiercely, but then perhaps he felt my eddying fear. ‘What is wrong?’ he asked.
    It was hard to find the right words. I shrugged miserably and stroked Gryphon’s black mane, separating strands of it between my fingers; they were ascalloused, and decorated with many rings, as were my mother’s.
    â€˜I can guide a galloping horse with knee pressure alone,’ I said at last. ‘I can pull arrows from a quiver and shoot them true and straight. My mother has given me her greatest gift: her warrior skills. But no one will let me fight, Batu.’
    â€˜Saving your horses, driving them to up into the mountains, is more important for you to do,’ Batu said kindly. ‘My own mother is a warrior yet now she is at home guarding the flocks.’
    I nodded. What Batu had said was true and yet I knew that he didn’t live where I did, lost and drifting between separate worlds: the nomads’ roaming freedom, my father’s opulent home; my mother’s foreign tongue, the Persian poetry of my betrothed. Only on horseback did it all cease to matter; only there did I truly feel at ease.
    I rubbed my eyes; they felt as gritty as though I’d been out in blowing sand. Very late, as the moon sank, we’d stopped for a few hours of restless sleep. I’d lain awake on sheep fleeces covering the wooden planking of the wagon that Berta had given us, insisting my mother might need it. Then, as dawn stained the sky pink like wild rose petals, we had mounted up and journeyed on.
    Now the sun was high overhead. Foothills shimmered in the heat, and the smell of wild oregano rose from the shining grass, making me think longingly ofsavoury lamb, run through with skewers and cooking over a low fire. At home, our cook often rubbed herbs into meat before preparing it; out here in the mountains, I’d had nothing all day but hard cheese soaked in tea. My stomach griped and pinched as the afternoon dragged past. I stared unseeingly at Rain’s black and white haunches moving ahead of me, at the fall of his black tail streaked with white hairs.
    Creak, creak, creak.
The two high wheels of the wagon bumped and lurched over the rough ground, over fallen tree limbs and dry stones. Lizards flickered out from beneath the