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No creature born solely of nature could have matched that incredible performance, but the coursers could, and as many as one in ten of them might bond with a human rider. And those wind riders were the elite of the Sothoii cavalry—paired mounts and riders who truly fused into single beings, faster, smarter, more powerful and infinitely more deadly than any mere horseman could ever hope to be.
That was the reason the coursers and the Sothoii existed in an almost symbiotic relationship. Only a very small percentage of Sothoii would ever sit astride a courser, but all Sothoii felt the awe which the coursers’ sheer majesty and beauty evoked in any who saw it. And in a way which no other people in Norfressa would ever truly understand, the coursers were as much citizens of the Kingdom of the Sothoii as any human. They lived on the same land. They defended that land against the same enemies. They died with their chosen riders to preserve it. In return for the human hands they required to do what they could not, they offered their incomparable speed and strength and endurance in the service of their common homeland.
That was why what had happened to the Warm Springs coursers filled any Sothoii’s blood with icy fear … and his heart with fiery rage. No one—no one, mortal, demon, or devil—could commit such an atrocity and escape retribution. And if Kelthys felt that way, then how much more did the Bear River coursers feel the same fury … and fear? That was why he’d had to tell them. And it was also why, as he looked back over his shoulder at those huge, beautiful creatures behind him and Walasfro, for one of the very few times in his life, Sir Kelthys Lancebearer’s apprehension and outright fear fully matched his joy in his courser brother’s speeding majesty.
The question in Kelthys’ mind was fretful, filled with as much guilt, despite the speed with which they had outraced the wind itself, as with anxiety. Only coursers who had bonded—and then only with their own riders—had the ability to form thoughts into actual words, but their mental “voices” were as expressive as any human speech could hope to be.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Kelthys replied, as Walasfro sprang back into motion—not a gallop, this time, but a distance-devouring canter that was faster than many a horse’s full gallop—with the Bear River stallions on his heels. “But if we’re not, it’s not your fault, my heart.”
He knew not even a courser could have physically heard him over the sound of hoofs and wind, but he almost always spoke aloud to Walasfro.
Kelthys recognized a rhetorical question, and the gnawing acid of fear which spawned it, when he heard one, and he made no answer.
the stallion continued, worrying his fears like a dog with a bone, and Kelthys tasted the lingering wariness, hovering on the brink of distrust, in that querulous insistence. The courser had seen as much evidence of Bahzell’s champion’s status as Kelthys, but he found it even harder than his rider to overcome the fact of Bahzell’s hradaniness.
“They weren’t there,” and Kelthys said firmly. “Walasfro, you know that as well as I do. Just as you know how lucky we are that a champion of Tomanak was there.”
Walasfro shot back.
“A champion,” Kelthys said even more firmly. “If Tomanak Himself accepts Prince Bahzell as His own, don’t you think we ought to be able to do the same?”
Walasfro muttered in the back of Kelthys’ brain, and the wind rider sighed.
In the Sothoii tongue, which was much more directly descended from the ancient Kontovaran than most languages in Norfressa, Walasfro’s name meant “Son of Battle.” It had been given to him by his herd stallion when he was barely a two-year old, and like most of the names herd stallions assigned, it carried a keen insight into the bearer’s personality … and not just on the field of war. Not even a god’s testimonial to a hradani’s character was enough to change his mind. Not entirely.
“I’m sure he’ll do all that any champion of Tomanak could do, once he arrives,” Kelthys said now, and watched Warm Springs’ outbuildings growing steadily larger as Walasfro thundered towards them.
Lord Edinghas’ masonry manor house stood on an artificial mound of earth, surrounded by an outlying earthen wall and rampart which also enclosed all the manor’s other critical structures. It had not been designed to resist armies or sieges, but it was more than adequate to stand off raiders, or even sizable detachments, if the attackers lacked proper siege equipment. As Sir Kelthys, Walasfro, and the Bear River stallions pounded through the open gates, they saw far more sentries than usual atop the deep, thick berm. No one challenged them, of course. One of the consequences of being a wind rider or a courser was that one was both highly visible and instantly identifiable.
The senior officer of the watch didn’t even speak to Kelthys; he only waved his helmet from atop the rampart in greeting, then pointed at the main stables. Kelthys raised a hand in reply, and he and Walasfro—trotting now, no longer cantering—led the Bear River stallions in the indicated direction.
Their shared anxiety had grown sharper than ever as they neared the end of their journey, and although Kelthys couldn’t directly speak to or hear any of the other coursers, he felt the echo of their own tension and uneasiness through Walasfro. The sound of the other stallions’ hooves grew louder as they entered the built-up area of the manor, and Kelthys’ mouth twitched in a humorless smile as he realized those hooves were falling in a synchronized cadence. The Bear River stallions were closing ranks, forming up as if for battle. But then the stable was close before them, and they slowed even further, dread at what they might find honing their anxiety even sharper.
They moved forward at little more than a walk, past the ring of armsmen surrounding the stable. And then, with a sudde
Seven foals and a filly stood with four mares in the stable paddock. The youngsters huddled close around the mares, wariness and the echoes of remembered terror drawing them into tight proximity. There were scars on all twelve of them, some savage, and yet, as Kelthys looked at them, he could almost feel their healthiness. And then he realized he was feeling it, feeling it through Walasfro. He’d always known his courser brother had a powerful personality, but until that moment he’d never fully realized how powerful it actually was. Walasfro might well have become a herd stallion himself, had he not chosen to bond with Kelthys, and it was that herd sense that reached out and touched those scarred survivors.
One of the mares raised her head, whickering in response, and Walasfro shook himself, very much as a human might have done, as he tried to recover from his stu
He heard equally startled equine sounds from behind him as the Bear River stallions realized, albeit more slowly, what Walasfro had already sensed. Bahzell’s and Jahlahan’s message had warned them that according to the messenger from Lord Edinghas, all of the Warm Springs survivors hovered close to death, but there was no trace of the deathly illness Alfar Axeblade had reported in any of these coursers. Scars to mark its passing, perhaps, but no more. Even the shadow of the terror they had endured had been somehow lessened. Not set aside, or erased, but … transformed. Transmuted into memory which might frighten but could no longer paralyze or crush the indomitable spirit which was any courser’s birthright.