The Protectors war

They came to a big paddock set up with a six-rail fence; there seemed to be a commotion there, and then Juniper saw a horse rearing and bugling its battle call, hooves flailing. "Make way, there!" she said quietly; she knew the difference between a horse venting and one in genuine fear and anger. I won't have cruelty here.

Sam filled his lungs and shouted: "Make way for the Chief!"

People did a double-take and let her and hers through to the fence. For a moment everyone was spellbound, watching tense black loveliness canter around the enclosure, forgetting even the bleeding groom being helped through the gate as hooves seemed to barely touch the ground beneath floating grace. The mare arched her neck and dodged back and forth as she saw the staring mass of humanity, then did another circuit, wedge-shaped head high and high-held tail streaming.

"Oh, my goodness," Nigel murmured. "Sixteen hands, would you say, AUeyne?"

"And a fraction. Warmblood with a fair bit of Arab folded into its family tree," he replied. "Looks a little like a hunter, but faster, I'd say. Fit for a destrier of the best. Have to see how her wind holds up over a long course, but I'd wager she'll run most things on four feet into the ground."

The horse chose that moment to hop in place, lashing out with its hooves behind in case anyone should be sneaking up in its blind spot, then landed and took up its canter without missing a beat.

"Look at her motion, would you, Father? That one has dressage in her genes," said Alleyne. "What a horse!"

Rudi wiggled forward and sprang onto the fence, standing on a rung and resting his hands on the top rail, his face shining. Nobody paid him mind; across the paddock was the party from Larsdalen, Mike Havel at their center. The murmuring died down until it was a background hum, quieter than the drum of shod hooves on packed dirt.

In the quiet, the voices of the men were easy to make out; and the desperation in the voice of the ranch-country wrangler talking to the Bearkiller bossman.

"My lord, you aren't going to see a better horse than Do

Mike Havel's slanted eyes looked at him coldly; that was a lot of money in terms of the ninth Change Year in central Oregon, where barter was still more common than coin; easily twenty times the price of a good-quality riding horse.

Then he handed his sword to his wife and vaulted over the tall fence with fluid grace, approaching the horse slowly, speaking softly and soothingly. That turned to a curse and a catlike leap backward as it reared and milled its forefeet like lethal steelshod clubs, and then stood with its head cocked and ears forward, nostrils flaring red pits as it snorted warning and wrath.

"You'll never see a more intelligent four-year-old mare," the wrangler said. "See how she's looking at us right now, thinking!"

Havel gave a snort of laughter, almost as loud as the horse. "Mister, she's not looking at us that way because she loves us, and that's a fact, by Christ Jesus."

"You could easily train this one to rear up in battle and strike at the enemy!"

"Well, shit, yeah, and have her get a spear in her belly and leave me standing in front of someone's lance point with my thumb up my ass," Havel said dryly.

"Lord Bear, I've been raising horses all my life and-"

The man stumbled to a stop at a cold gray-eyed gaze. Havel spoke over his shoulder. "Will, how long have you been wrangling?"

The middle-aged ex-Texan. had been watching, squint-eyed. Now he spat into the dirt of the corral and scratched the back of his neck.

"Since my daddy put me on an old cow-pony, when my momma was still changing my diapers," he said. "I've seen that look in a horse's eye before. Back when I was riding roughstock."

Then he slipped between the bars and tried in his turn. "Whoa there, girl. Whoa, there, Do

He got two paces closer than Havel had, and had to dodge teeth after a warning snort; Hutton went forward, into the space by its shoulder where a horse has trouble kicking, then backpedaled as it turned and struck with its head extended like a snake.

"That horse is a man-killer!" he swore.

Hutton backed for a moment to be sure the horse wouldn't charge, but it seemed satisfied to have driven him off. Then he turned to the Bear Lord, keeping a weather eye cocked on the mare.

"Mike, this man's right. That's a fine horse; don't think I've ever seen a better, for a war mount; good legs, short back, deep chest; she'll go like a jackrabbit with those haunches and she moves right pretty, as pretty as sun on water. Only you'd have to say it was a good horse, before this damn fool ruint it, tryin' to break her spirit. Look there, see? She's been whipped up under the belly. He's got her afraid of her own shadow, and killing mad at the whole human race besides. This shitheel ain't fit to break a pig's head in with a hammer, much less wrangle a horse."

"My lord, for you, two hundred-"

He stopped and winced as Havel poked a finger like a steel rod into his chest; it hurt even through the leather jacket.

"Mister, I wouldn't get on that horse it you paid me to do it. When I go into a fight, I've got the enemy trying to kill me-I can't afford to worry about my own damn horse trying it too. I might give you fifty for her as breeding stock-no, I'm not going to risk my farm staff getting kicked into next Thursday. Not a pe

He turned away. The wrangler took off his battered Stetson and threw it down and stamped his riding boot on it, then glared murder at the horse. It was easy enough to see his thought; any likelihood of a sale had just publicly evaporated, and he wasn't going to go to the trouble and danger of taking her back east over the mountains.

Rudi murmured, just loud enough for his mother to hear: "He'll kill her! Kill her and feed her to his dogs!" Then, aloud, calm and happy: "What a waste!"

Rudi's clear young voice sounded like a bell of crystal, cutting through the murmur of the crowd; kilted Macken-zies and leather-clad ranchers and Bearkiller A-listers alike fell silent. A few of the Corvallans and traders from the Protectorate pointed and told each other who he was.

"A horse in a million, going to waste, Uncle Mike! All she needs is the right hand!"

Havel turned back, gri

"She's a good horse, all right, but she's spoiled, Rudi," he called.

"I could ride her! Like an eagle on the wind!"

"Kid, if you can convince your mother to buy that horse, go ahead!" he called again, his voice warm and friendly. "I'll go halves on the price for a colt of hers, if Juney can magic her into not being crazy-mean."

Signe Havel's voice was coolly neutral as she called: "I'll pay the man's price myself and give her to you if you can ride her, Rudi!"

The boy was off the fence and out in the middle of the corral before Juniper's astonishment-slowed grab was halfway to his plaid. The crowd was shocked into silence.

Mike Havel's voice was soft and commanding, a controlled contrast to the throttled fury and fear in his eyes: "Get out of there, Rudi. Back off to the fence. Do it now."

The boy laughed. "Don't worry, Uncle," he said. "She knows me, you see."

"Rudi," Juniper called, her voice tight with urgency. "Do what Mike says. That's an order. I promise I won't be mad, just do it."

"It's all right, Mom," he said cheerfully, not three paces from half a ton of wild anger and lethal strength. "Really. Epona won't hurt me."