Twice, horses had been content to walk down a bluff that would have taken them to a place where they would either have to back up—one of the least-favored choices of most horses—or learn to fly, which Erik judged even less likely. “Whoa!” he shouted at one particularly troublesome horse who was determined to walk off the mountain. He shied a rock at her, which bounced off her right shoulder, turning her in the direction he wanted. “Stupid bitch!” he shouted. “Trying to turn yourself into crow bait?”
Nakor rode closer to the edge than any sane man was like to do and seemed ready to somehow will his horse into flight so he could interpose himself between a horse bolting the wrong way and thin air. Whenever Erik mentioned he might come in a bit, the little man just grinned and told him everything was fine. “She’s in season. Mares get very stupid when in heat,” he observed.
“She’s not overly bright even when she’s not ready to breed. At least we have no stallions along. That would make life interesting.”
“I had a stallion once,” said Nakor. “A great black horse given me by the Empress of Great Kesh.”
Erik regarded the man. “That’s . . . interesting.” Like the others who had gotten to know Nakor, he was reluctant to call him a liar. So much of what he said was highly improbable, but he never said he could do anything he couldn’t back up, so the men had come to take most of what he claimed at face value.
“The horse died,” Nakor said. “Good horse. Sorry to see him go. Ate some bad grass; got colic.”
A shout from ahead warned Erik the herd was bunching up, and he sent Billy Goodwin forward to help keep the horses moving through a narrow defile that cut across the ridge of the mountains. Once through that, they would be heading downward into the valley of the Vedra River.
Erik shouted for Billy to come back to the rear and ride drag while he urged his own horse on, to the head of the thirty horses that served as the company’s remounts. A balky gelding was trying to turn around, and Erik used his own horse to push the recalcitrant animal into the gap, and then the horses were moving in orderly fashion. Erik pulled up and waited for the rest of the animals to pass, then joined again with Billy and Nakor in back.
“Downhill from here,” said Billy.
Suddenly Nakor’s mare took a bite at Billy’s horse, and his animal reared. Nakor shouted, “Look out!”
Billy lost his grip on his reins and fell backwards, and landed hard on the ground. Erik jumped down from his animal and ran over while Billy’s horse ran after the herd.
Leaning over, he saw Billy staring up into the sky. His head rested upon a large rock while a crimson pool spread behind him.
Nakor shouted, “How is he?”
Erik said, “He’s dead.”
There was a moment of silence, then Nakor said, “I’ll follow the horses. You bring him along to where we can bury him.”
Erik stood up, started to reach down to grab Billy, and suddenly remembered having to pick up Tyndal’s body. “Oh, damn,” he said as tears came unbidden to his eyes.
He found himself trembling as he realized that of those who had been sentenced to hang that day, Billy was the first to die. “Oh, damn,” he repeated, as he stood clenching and unclenching his fists. “Why?” he asked the fates.
One moment Billy had been sitting astride his horse; the next he was dead. And nothing more important than a stupid, poorly trained gelding shying from a bite by a mare in heat had caused it.
Erik didn’t know why he suddenly felt so sad at Billy’s death. He felt his body tremble, and realized he was afraid. Sucking down a lungful of air, he closed his eyes and bent and picked up Billy. The body was surprisingly light. He turned and moved to his own horse, who started to shy as he approached. “Whoa!” he commanded, almost yelling, and the horse obeyed.
He lifted Billy across the horse’s neck and the front of the saddle, then swung up behind. Sliding into the saddle, he lifted Billy enough so that he could rest him as much as possible across his upper thighs, so the horse could manage the weight. Slowly he moved after the distant herd.
“Damn,” he whispered again as he willed his fear and anger back deep inside himself.
A man named Notombi, with a heavy Keshian accent, was moved into their tent, taking Billy’s place. The five remaining members of Erik’s company were cordial, but distant. While he was an outsider, his training made him mesh quickly, knowing exactly which duties to perform without being told.
Two days after crossing the ridge of the mountains, Kirzon and his sons pointed the way down and returned to their hunting. Calis paid them off in gold and bade them farewell.
Erik returned to the routine of travel, though the difficult descent into the hills west of the mountains gave little, time for reflection. He buried all his memories of his feelings at Billy’s death and continued as before.
Five days after crossing the mountains, they encountered a difficult rise. Erik went ahead with Calis to scout out a clear trail before allowing the full company to proceed. Turning around nearly seventy-five riders and another thirty remounts was tricky business under the best of conditions. In tight quarters, it was nearly impossible.
Reaching a crest, they reined in and Erik exclaimed, “The gods weep!”