The Silver Sparrow

The Hunt

The hunting ground was an hour ride north from the main camp. An hour of flat-out continuous gallop on the toughest horses in the peninsula. It wouldn't have been possible without these mounts, not where they were and not at such a pace. Having adapted to the desert for generations, the Shakshi's horses could endure a ride at bone-breaking speed without rest or water over a ridiculously long distance. The best were those bred in the Vilarhiti mountain range in the north. Vilarians were the fastest and the toughest horses in the peninsula, and the best ones were said to be worth their weight in gold. Springer was one of those and it was no surprise why they all found it so difficult to keep up with Nazir.

There used to be more of them around before the salar had taken over the Vilarhiti, Djari had told him. 'The Rashais have our best horses now. Thousands of them,' she'd said angrily, rubbing down Springer one morning as if it had been her horses they'd taken. Then again, losing the Vilarhiti and those horses was a catastrophe for the Shakshis. The right horses could win you a war. They could shift the balance of power if one knew how to use them, and they had fallen into the hands of a man who knew exactly how to use them.

The salar had been breeding them for over a decade—quite successfully so—in the royal stable. A number of these horses had also been given as gifts to the important figures in the Tower since the taking of the Vilarhiti. He wondered what Djari would say if she knew how common they had become among the elites of Rasharwi. Dee, too, had ten of these horses—the original ones taken from the valleys of Vilarhiti no less. Hasheem could still remember him strolling through the stable, admiring them and saying out loud how clever such a move had been for the young prince who was now the Salar of Rasharwi to have won him over with these mounts. "It's remarkable, isn't it?" Dee had said. "How just ten horses could change the fate of the entire peninsula given to the right person?"

Ten Vilarian horses had, indeed, made sure the right people conveniently died in an untimely manner (or timely, depending on whose perspective it was) to open up a path to the throne.

He could use one of those horses right now, Hasheem thought bitterly. They were made for this, not holed up in some fancy stables in the city. In fact, he might have been riding one now had the Vilarhiti not fallen.

The hunting party, led by the khumar and his fifteen escorts, was joined by the young men waiting along the route. They were mostly Grays with a few White Warriors in the mix, and in the end they amounted to a little over a hundred riders. From his understanding, only twenty hunters were painstakingly tried and selected from each of the five camps to attend the hunt, not including the ones that had been handpicked by the ruling family themselves to participate. According to Djari, it was a great honor to be at the hunt on Raviyani, and one's entire family's status would be elevated in the kha'gan when a son was selected. Now that Hasheem was in the middle of it, he could understand why.

The ride was brutal and made even more so when one had to keep up with Nazir who happened to be a superb rider riding on the back of a Vilarian horse. They were running on hard ground with enough rocks and stones along the path to trip any horse with a careless rider. The trail, narrow and flanked by steep cliffs on both sides, was covered by a layer of sand that created a manmade sandstorm as hundred horses at full gallop passed through it. Around him, the sound of hoofbeats roared like a continuous, never ending thunder, making the ride as deafening as it was blinding. Together, they drowned out most of the senses one might need to succeed in what could only be called an act of suicide.

It was an act of suicide, Hasheem thought, especially for those who didn't have enough skills or experience on horseback, or the trust of one's horse. Pulling the scarf Djari had insisted he wore over his face and securing it with both hands, he guided Summer quickly away from a small rock that suddenly appeared in front of him with his knees. The colt jumped to the right, and almost collided with another horse when a different rider, having just been forced to execute a small leap to evade another obstacle in his way, landed in front of him. Hasheem swore under his breath, leaned back his weight and tugged hard on the rein to back up. Startled by the unexpected interruption, Summer rose abruptly on his hindquarters, neighing loudly as he did and threw him backwards. Hasheem grabbed onto the mane, catching himself just in time as he slid down Simmer's back to narrowly escape being unhorsed from the commotion.