“Time to go, Gifford,” Padera said.
The old woman walked toward him, holding a sword and a scabbard. Roan wiped her eyes and sniffled. She grabbed up the weapon and thrust it out to him. “I made this for you, too.”
Gifford looked at the most magnificent sword he’d ever seen. Like the armor, it shimmered. “I don’t understand. How—how was all this done so quickly?”
“Not quickly,” she replied. “This sword, the armor…I was making a present. Padera said one day you would need all of it. And besides, I can’t make a fancy vase. This isn’t an amphora with a picture of you on it, but…it’s the best I’ve ever made. I poured my soul into this. It’s light, and stronger than anything; this sword is sharper than a razor, and it shines in the sun so bright it blinds.”
“She’s not kidding,” Frost said. “This is the finest weapon I’ve ever seen.”
Flood nodded, the two agreeing for the first time that Gifford had known them.
Gifford took the weapon from her, surprised by how light it was. “You all weal-ize I don’t know how to use this.”
“You weal-ize it’s the thought that counts?” Padera took the sword and buckled it around his waist. “Time to go, Gifford.”
The dwarfs had pushed crates beside the horse, allowing him to climb onto the animal’s back. Malcolm stood in front, petting the animal’s nose and neck, whispering to it, calming it. Gifford inched his good leg over. He could feel the beast breathing beneath him, pushing his legs out with every inhale. Gifford’s hands shook as Malcolm handed him the reins.
“Tie the ends together so they don’t fall,” Malcolm told him. “Gifford, Naraspur is a smart horse. She can sense you’re frightened. That fear scares her. She’ll try and throw you off her back. So don’t be scared.”
“How can I do that?”
Malcolm smiled. “You’re about to ride through an army camp of the Fhrey, who will attack you with swords, spears, and magic. Given that, do you really think you ought to be afraid of falling off a horse’s back? Naraspur is a good horse, a brave horse. She’ll help you if you let her. Hang on. Trust her. Trust her, and she’ll trust you.”
Gifford lay across the horse’s back, holding on to the mane and the leather straps of the bridle as he listened to Malcolm explain how to get to Perdif. When Gifford could recite the directions back without error, Malcolm smiled, clapped him on the leg, and said, “You’ll do fine. Now remember, stay to the dark areas and the mist. There’s always mist this time of year. And don’t stop. As soon as you cross the bridge, ride up the bank of the Bern to the north. Then when you see the sun, ride toward it.”
“Good luck, Gifford,” Tressa said. “And…” She hesitated and sniffled. “Thanks for being a friend when no one else was.”
“Your mother is proud of you, my boy,” Padera told him, her voice still abrasive enough to sand wood. She mushed her lips around, her eyes all but disappearing in that pile of wrinkles that some called a face. “I misjudged you. I’ll admit that, and I’m sorry. Go be the hero your parents always knew you’d be.”
Roan handed up the helmet, and he put it on, feeling the leather sit perfectly on his brow.
“Gifford, I…” Roan faltered. “I…”
“Just let me imagine the west of that sentence, okay?”
Malcolm took hold of the bridle and led the horse. When he was clear of the smithy, Malcolm gave Gifford one last smile and then made a clicking noise. The animal began to trot.
* * *
—
Staying on the horse’s back wasn’t easy. Gifford bounced and banged, slamming hard against the spine of the animal. It wasn’t only difficult to stay on, it hurt. There was no padding where he needed it the most. Clapping as he was against the horse’s back, only his tight grip kept him up. On the positive side, he wasn’t afraid of the horse anymore. Having sat on her for so long, he’d gotten used to the animal. Even so, he nearly fell twice when the hammering caused him to drift too far to one side. What’s more, Gifford knew the horse wasn’t at top speed. Not yet. What will happen when she runs? How fast is she? Are my arms that strong? Will I just fly off? And if she isn’t fast…
He hoped she was very fast.
Gifford caught many a strange look from the few people out in the courtyard and through the city streets as he traveled down through the tiers, but no one said anything until he reached the front gate.
“Where are you going?” the soldier there asked.
“To Pewdif. I’m gonna bwing back help.”
The guard, a Fhrey in full armor, which included a plumed helm, looked at him with a smirk. “Is that a joke?”
He shook his head. “The Fhwey blew out the signal light. No way to light it.”
The guard narrowed his eyes at him, then pointed at the gate with his thumb. “There’s an army out there. You don’t stand a chance. They’ll kill you.”
Gifford nodded. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” While the soldier was puzzling this out, he added, “Open the gate.”
The guard shrugged. “Your funeral.”