The Knave of Souls - Fantasy - Sequel to The Jack of Souls

Chapter 7

Said the First Herald to our knowing queen, "Krato never intended a woman to rule."

Holy Chasia replied, "Yet in Krato's own herds the Phyros mares are larger than the stallions they rule. Does this not show a woman's place is the throne?"

                                    —Excerpt from a court gossip rag published in Kingsport

*

*

 SPITFIRES &  MAGIC

*

Harric dragged the bodies from the stables. He moved in a daze, his mind scattered, his body still in shock. Not only had he witnessed gut-twisting violence, but any trust Willard still had in him had vanished. The old knight had left him to clean up his mess with Gren and another soldier; as soon as he'd saddled Molly, he left Harric to "bag up what's left of Lane" and rode up the pass to join Caris.

It felt as if an icy wind blew through a huge hole in Harric's middle. He knew Willard was wrong and hypocritical and unfair in a number of ways, but the old man was also Harric's childhood hero. He was every bastard's hero. Without Willard and the Queen, they'd all be slaves. So no matter how big an ass the old knight was, it hurt.

You'll never get his approval, he chided himself, so stop wanting. He doesn't like trickery. He doesn't like magic. He doesn't believe either can help fight the Old Ones.

"Harric!"

Harric looked up. He realized then that Gren had been talking to him, and he'd had to raise his voice to get Harric's attention. "Sorry, Captain."

The captain studied Harric, a frown darkening his gaze. He nodded to Molly's blood-spattered stall. "I'll take care of Lane. You get your things together."

Harric nodded. He wanted to thank him, but he felt the daze rising around him like a protective fog.

Someone laid a hand on his shoulder, and pulled him back from it. "Help me into my saddle?" Brolli stood beside him. He looked up at Harric, studying him, gold eyes edged with worry.

Harric followed the Kwendi into the stables, trying not to look at the gore in Molly's stall.

"You saw these men attack?" Brolli said, as they entered Idgit's stall. Caris, it seemed, had already saddled the pony. Brolli rested a long-fingered hand on the front cantle of the saddle and paused to look at Harric. "I never should have left him alone."

"They didn't touch him. Molly warned him."

Brolli's brow creased. "You saw it."

"I heard Molly's roar."

Brolli sighed and clambered easily up the saddle to perch on its summit. From his satchel he produced a small pillow to position beneath him; Harric waited with the straps while Brolli fussed with it like a cat preparing its bed.

Brolli frowned. "You Stilties have the large rump. I have only bone."

Harric recognized the ambassador was probing him for a smile. He managed to lift one corner of his mouth. "Stilties?"

"Yes. It is my name for your people. I wonder how you balance so high on your stilts."

Harric pulled the strap across Brolli's legs and buckled it.

"Too tight," said Brolli. "Use the third hole."

Harric frowned and readjusted the buckle. Kwendi proportions were all wrong for a regular saddle: not only did he have no rump to speak of, but his burly arms and torso made him ridiculously top-heavy over his dwarfish legs. Worse, the legs were too short to grip the horse with his knees. He could clutch the stirrups with his fingered feet, but that quickly exhausted him and in any case couldn't be maintained when he slept in the saddle.