The Enemy Across The River—Chapter One

A fantasy tale

Go to Chapter Two…

Samwick

We're going to lose this war… The thought flashed through Samwick's mind, not for the first time. Now another trailed behind: and I may not live to see it. His right arm dangled, blood pulsing from the shoulder. How could he, one-handed, guide Aumersa—herself wounded—to any kind of safe landing?

At least we'll go down together. Rough consolation.

A ripping sound, too close: another crossbow-quarrel. Shock clarified his thoughts: one-handed, defenceless. He couldn't reload a crossbow one-handed; in theory he could hurl a spear, but poorly. Even with his right, he wasn't the greatest spearman; his skill was with the bow. And as a flier, of course.

Defenceless—but he sensed that the battle was shifting, or that Aumersa's limping flight was carrying them clear. He glanced over his shoulder. Pain flared and vision misted. "My bloody bollocks!" he muttered through teeth clamped tight.

Cautiously, Sam looked the other side: bad, but endurable. He saw only dancing specks among the clouds, behind and above. That last close shot must have been a long-range one, flight already arcing downward. Wise grounders kept indoors during aerial battles. A quarrel plummeting from a thousand fathoms was as lethal as one loosed at point-blank range.

Aumersa banked. Sam glimpsed the River, a jade-green ribbon, still far below. Then he realised she hadn't banked by choice; her left wing was scarcely more use than his right arm. They were spiralling like a falling leaf. "We're a pair, aren't we, girl?"

To last four years on active duty with scarcely more than scratches for him, scorched coverts for her, was exceptional. All down to skill, he'd often jested, but he knew they owed much to sheer luck. Perhaps it had finally deserted them.

He tried shifting his weight toward the good wing, but movement sparked new agony, hollowing his bones. The world darkened.

When vision cleared, they were much lower. The fuzzy band hemming the River resolved into individual trees. The water was half a league wide: no chance of making it across again. What lay below: friendly territory, or the enemy's side?

Guess I'm about to find out… They flashed past the turrets of a fortified steading, shockingly close. Cries of alarm, upturned faces, then trees rushing up to meet them.

Fendry

The Kingsbeast plunged into the orchard, one wing trailing, the other flailing apples from the trees.

Everyone else ran to the Rider, who'd been flung from the saddle. Only Fendry, it seemed, thought about the Beast. Some said she cared more about horses than about people. It wasn't true. At least, it wasn't only horses.

Expert in inconspicuousness, she faded back as others pressed forward. No one spared a glance as she slipped between two trees, scurried along behind. No one was looking as she sidled back again, emerging just beyond the Beast.

Then she had no eyes for anything else.

It lifted a head as large as her entire torso. Fendry froze, hands low, every fibre of her embodying I'm no threat. After a minute, she advanced a single pace.

A membrane flickered across the Beast's eye. Just like a big lizard, she thought. Aye, something in that: the scales of head and neck glinted the same way, colours fickle in the orchard's dappled light; blue and matt in the shadows, shimmery green where caught by sunlight, elusive flickers of lordly purple when the Beast moved.

She stepped again. That great head tilted slightly, eyes in their shadowy sockets never leaving her. Whether it was the calm gaze of a predator sizing up a morsel, like a buzzard looking at a shrew, or mere curiosity, or something unfathomable, she knew not.

Dense silence enveloped her. She heard only the pounding of her own heart, a low hissing breath from the Kingsbeast. If the head resembled a lizard's, the body was more like a bird, feathered, not scaled. The colours were just as shifty, though, as on a magpie's wing, the head of a mallard-drake.

"Well," she said softly, "Here we are." She didn't know why she started talking; it just seemed the thing to do. It worked with horses. She was good with horses, they said; had a hand with them. The stablemaster and the other grooms had been slow to admit it, but they knew it now.

Another step. "I'm Fendry. Don't s'pose you can tell me your name, can you? How shall I call you then, Sir Beast?" She hardly expected it to start talking back, but who really knew?

The Beast's injury was becoming clearer. Its right wing was tidily furled, but the left hung loose, sprawling across grass and scattered apples. Don't reckon anyone'll be gathering today. She swallowed a laugh. She was close now. If it wished, the Beast could simply stretch its neck, send her flying with a quick swing of its head. Somehow she didn't believe it would.

"I see you're hurt," she murmured. "Would you let me take a look? Exhausted, too, ain't you? And hungry, thirsty? I'll see what I can do for that soon, too."

She had no idea if the Beast understood her words, but surely it understood something. Her tone, the way she moved, the look in her eye. Maybe even her smell.

Some claimed horses understood everything you said; others asserted they didn't understand a single word. The truth, surely, lay somewhere between. Horses did recognise certain words, beyond doubt. Some might understand more; some horses were smarter than others, same as people. And, even if it was mainly tone of voice, the words mattered to you. The right words helped you form the right tone.

If Kingsbeasts responded like horses, she had a chance.

She sidestepped, approaching the injured wing. The Beast watched with one unblinking eye, big as a cooking-apple. It gleamed the gold of winter bracken, bottomless green of a calm backwater. Its dark centre held a tiny reflection of herself.

There was intelligence in that eye. Something in that gaze was like a horse, and she'd often thought that horses were smarter than some people—kinder too, sometimes. She was sure of it. She'd stake her life on it. The thought lurked that she was staking her life on it. She was in reach of those great claws, talons gleaming dully like pewter. They could rip her open if the Beast chose.

She felt the heat of its body now. Draff, it's hot. Was that normal? With a horse, heat, in cannon or gaskin, could reveal much, and Fendry's small hands were adept at gauging it. But, straight after a ride, a horse would be warm all over; and this Beast had been in the air mere minutes ago. She could only tell that it seemed to be hot everywhere.

She ducked down to examine the underside of the wing, saw no obvious wound. She wasn't tall enough to survey the upper side. Fendry rarely minded being small. It was just how things were. When necessary, she'd stand on an upturned bucket or fetch a ladder. Neither were handy here; she might shin up a tree, but she'd only get a distant view.

"If you was a horse, I'd kneel you. Don't s'pose that's a word you know, is it? Ah, what the hell, worth a try. Kneel?"

The Beast tipped its head toward her. She almost laughed. "If you was a horse, I'd say you was trying to tell me somethin'. How about it, Sir Beast?" She tried again, trying to sound like she meant it. "Kneel. I need to see your wing. Kneel…"

To her utter astonishment, the Beast slowly folded scaly, strangely angulated, legs, and sank to the ground.

Go to Chapter Two…