Stallion Mage: A Horse Shifter Mpreg Romance (COMPLETE)

Trouble on the Wind

After Cantril left, Alvarr at least hat the satisfaction of seeing some understanding in the young stallion's eyes.  But Cantril would still shun him in public, just as the rest of the tribe did.  Tribe-think makes one stupid.

He would not go out today.  Yes, there was romeya to destroy and perimeters to check, but... he just couldn't.  He settled back onto his mat and closed his eyes to meditate.

But just a little while after, an older man with flaming red hair pushed Alvarr's woven door open without a word of greeting.  He looked at the wall past Alvarr's shoulder with a story expression.  "Elder Mastok summons you at once to the healing hut."

Alvarr's heart gave a sickening thump.  This wouldn't be good news.  He scrambled up from his pose and tied his hair in a knot so it wouldn't get in the way of whatever healing he needed to help with.

Alvarr wanted to ask why, and how urgent the matter was, but he knew the other man wouldn't answer.  In the end, the answers would make no difference.  No mage could refuse a summons to heal.

As soon as they left Alvarr's dwelling, the other man changed into four-legs and dashed away in a tense canter.  The young mage hadn't expected an escort, but the undisguised rudeness shocked him.

Alvarr ran to the healing hut, the largest dwelling in camp.  A high central pole raised the roof in the middle, with many poles radiating out from it to meet the ground. 

He marvelled at the tent, as he did every time he passed.  Instead of branches, white heavy cloth hung between the poles, and it was smooth and let in no rain.  Not even the mare-mages knew how this was done. 

How has this knowledge become lost?  The mage brushed past the entrance and entered the healing hut's dim atmosphere.

Incense filled the air.  The equine part of him rebelled at the smell of smoke, but he knew it was just burning herbs.  Someone was ill. 

"Elder?  I'm here," he called softly. 

A small old man came toward Alvarr with soft, soundless steps.  He was thin and weathered, his skin showing his many seasons, yet had a hardness to him that spoke of great inner strength.  Like Alvarr, his white hair was longer, brushing his shoulders.

Elder Mastok took both his hands.  "You must come quickly, mage," he said.  "Barron has taken ill."

"Cantril told me he would recover."

The elder shook his white head.  "His wounds have become inflamed.  Come."  He drew Alvarr to where Barron lay on his side on a soft nest of fresh green reeds. 

Alvarr could see the young stallion in an uneasy, but deep, sleep.  Barron's side, with a long poultice made of bark and leaves, heaved with unsteady breaths.  The mage held his hand over the terrible wound and felt the heat of infection for himself. 

Barron never opened his eyes during Alvarr's examination.

"Is it because of the romeya?  Has it weakened him?" Alvarr asked.

"It is possible," the Elder said, shooting the mage a sharp glance.  "It grows so thick this season."

"I have been withering all I find near the camp," Alvarr said, "but it has taken hold of some of the open plains."  He shuddered, remembering the birds he had found dead on the ground from eating the seeds. 

A hard frown furrowed Elder Mastok's creased face.  "You and Barron are the same age."

"We crossed over at the same time, yes," Alvarr replied.