Midwinter

Mauritane said nothing for a long minute, watching Honeywell ride up the hillside. Finally he said, "You heard the man. Let us respect his wishes."

"What will he do?" said Silverdun.

"He'll wait until his opponent raises his hand to begin the parlay and then he'll run the man through. Then he'll ride directly for the first man who comes after him. It will buy us some time to escape."

"How do you know all that?" asked Silverdun.

"Because that's what I would do," Mauritane said. "And Honeywell knows it. When you see the Colthornan raise his hand, break for the river at top speed. When we hit the ice, drop your reins. Streak will guide the horses across." Mauritane bent down and whispered to the beast, his eyes never leaving Honeywell.

They watched the two riders approach each other warily, the Guard leader suspicious of Honeywell's every move. The Colthornan stopped his mount a few paces from Honeywell and said something none of them could hear. Honeywell raised his arm in the salutation of parlay, his unsheathed sword hidden behind his back.

The Colthornan raised his hand in answer and Honeywell dug in his spurs, his horse rearing beneath him. The horse leapt at the Colthornan, and before the man could lower his arm, Honeywell's sword had already pierced his chest. Honeywell rode past him, pulling his weapon from the Colthornan's body without looking back.

"Go! Now!" shouted Mauritane. As one, they spurred their mounts and raced for the water's edge.

Mauritane spared a glance back toward Honeywell. The guardsmen had responded admirably; some of them already had their blades drawn when Honeywell engaged them. The first to gain his wits was one of the Hawthorne Guard. Honeywell rode straight for him and managed to unseat him with a bold thrust. Unsure what to do next, the other riders forgot about Mauritane and his companions and concentrated on the more immediate problem in their midst.

Mauritane reached the river first. Streak hit the ice at a run but slid quickly to a stop and resumed with a tall, prancing gait that resembled the trot of a parade pony. "Drop your reins!" shouted Mauritane.

Streak called out in the language of horses to the other mounts, instructing them to follow his lead. With some difficulty, they copied his gait, and they began to make progress across the slick ice.

Mauritane looked back again. At some point in the intervening seconds, Honeywell had fallen. He lay on his back at the top of the hill, a spear in his chest, his mount bolting for the hills above. His maneuver had bought them even more time than Mauritane would have expected; they would be halfway across the river before the guardsmen reached its banks. Only now were they resuming the chase. Without a leader, they had little hope of mounting an effective pursuit. Mauritane urged Streak faster anyhow.

The guardsmen took the slope at a gallop, jumping their horses onto the ice and spurring them on. It was a critical error. The running horses lost their footing on the frozen surface of the Ebe and most of them went down, throwing their riders. They few that remained standing slowed to a walk and began to pick their way carefully. The rest would eventually recover, but by then it would be too late.

Mauritane led them to the far side, prodding Streak up the steep western bank. They stood on the bank briefly, looking across the river, all of them hoping for a glimpse of Honeywell. But he was too far away, and the snow was beginning to fall again.

"Let's ride north for a few minutes," said Mauritane. "Then double back through the trees and rejoin the road a few miles south. "It'll confuse them."

As they rode off, Gray Mave remained in the rear, hiding his eyes, hoping that no one would catch him crying.

mortal creatures!

the bittersweet wayward mestina

Deep into the night and through the forests near Miday they rode, skirting the few towns and villages they came across, running the horses to the point of exhaustion. The trees swept by in a blur of white, gray, and brown, sometimes whipping their faces with tiny branches and dead leaves. The bitter southern wind reddened their faces and hands and stung their eyes. Fortunately, their flight left no opportunity for conversation; no one felt much like talking.

Finally, Streak begged to be allowed to rest. The other horses, he said, were dangerously fatigued and desperate for water. Mauritane ordered a stop and saw to the horses himself, anything to further delay speech. While Silverdun started the fire and Raieve and Satterly began cooking, Mauritane took the horses two at a time and walked them. Just downhill from the campsite, a trickle of a stream ran past some brown grass, and Mauritane left the horses there to feed and water themselves, ordering Streak to keep them nearby.

Mauritane returned slowly to camp, his limbs aching and his head low, unable to put it off any longer. "All of you sit," he said. "It is time to remember our friend."