Ghost Fields - Book One of The Fields of Mendhavai Trilogy

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Lundir gleamed coppery in the blood red light of early dawn; it seemed an unnatural shade for his coal-black coat. His long, silky mane brushed softly against my hands, and my flowing dark green skirt, split and tailored to ride astride, flapped in the gentle breeze. The thud of his heavy, feathered hooves on the wooden bridge over the moat echoed against the stone walls behind me, along with those of my small escort. Peps had insisted that, though his night shift was over, he should be the one to lead the men.

Peps had always been one of my father's most trusted men, second only to the captain. No one knew his true name, or even where he had come from. He had the dark skin and slanted eyes of the pirates that used to raid Garli, but he was too tall and broadly built to be entirely of their race.

Rumor had it that while I'd been incapacitated with grief over the loss of my family, Peps had gone four days without sleep and little food to guard me personally. I didn't remember much of that time, but I did remember a few glimpses of him hovering outside my bedchamber. He had lost a younger sister early in the attempted invasion by the Navorans and so the feeling of protection I felt from him, like that of an older brother for his younger sister, made perfect sense. He was passionate in his loyalty to me, without becoming more familiar than was proper for a guard protecting his charge. Rumor had it that my father, on his deathbed, had been overhead asking Peps' sworn word to protect his headstrong daughter, at least until I had reached adulthood and proven myself capable of the responsibility thrust upon me at such a young age. I knew that Peps respected me as an adult now, but he still took his vow to my father seriously, and I expected he would until old age forced him into retirement.

The golden wheat along the side of the road sparkled with dewdrops as the morning fog burned off in the early autumn sun. Flocks of blackbirds circled overhead, diving and darting to catch the last of the dragonflies and other insects that swirled lazily around the cattails growing alongside the river where fed into the moat. Those birds would soon leave for the winter and only the red-capped finches, chickadees and ravens would remain.

In a few weeks, the autumn harvest would begin. Blessedly, the oats, barley and wheat were growing abundantly this year, and the orchards and vegetable gardens were producing well. The grains and vegetables would be needed more this winter than ever, with such a heavy loss of the livestock.

Every time another farm was victimized, my feeling that it wasn't the dragon killing the animals grew stronger. Even logically, it simply didn't make sense. There was only one of the ancient - almost mythological - creatures left anywhere near here, its dwelling high on the volcano north of Raldia. It had left us in peace for centuries, living off the forest animals. The carcasses of our farm animals were left in pieces, not carried off to be devoured whole as a hungry dragon would do. The only reason I would expect a dragon doing these things was if it had somehow contracted a disease that made it prone to violent episodes. We'd seen something like that before in the raccoons and sometimes the dogs and feral cats. Veyga, our resident healer, had called it Rabies. No, some other creature was doing this, but I would still travel to see the dragon if for no other reason than to satisfy the residents of the keep and village, and my own curiosity.

Our party topped a small rolling hill, crossing over a tiny wooden bridge spanning the irrigation ditch that ran the ridgeline. On the breeze wafted the scent of rotting flesh. I gagged and pulled a kerchief from my sleeve, holding it to my nose and mouth. My eyes watered and visions of blackened, bloated bodies from the past floated before me as the scent recalled unwanted memories. I closed my eyes as Lundir snorted at the smell, and willed the images and nausea to go away. My steed tossed his head, his nostrils wide, but did not falter in his step. The fifteen year old stallion was a seasoned warhorse, accustomed to the scents of blood and death that would spook most other horses. He had been my father's pride and joy in the stable and had sired many great horses that now carried royalty all across the land.