Gail was still coming down from the hills when she came across the stallion. He was a dusty brown but by his fine coat and broken bridle she knew he was no Thestos wild. He moved at a purposeful trot and thanks to the mist he was right ahead of her and Soot when the crow gave a cry from her shoulder and the horse spotted them. Her reflexes got the best of her, leaving no question of whether or not she would try to capture him. In one instance she was standing in the field, the stallion approaching, the next she was rolling—albeit awkwardly with satchels, swords, and skins—but she knew that to approach upright would spook him. Instead she came out of the roll, the animal nearly upon her, and popped herself into a standing position. The stallion reared. It couldn’t be avoided, but now she was close enough to reach out, extend her hand, and seize the frayed line hanging from the bridle.
He was a willful beast and did not like being restrained again, letting her know with a hard yank of his head that burned her hands with the rope and nearly took her off her feet. She had expected as much and was braced so that she maintained her balance and gave a firm yank of her own. He quieted after that, recognizing her dominance. She put a hand to his neck and stroked him in response. He was solid, muscular, too large for a mere farm horse. This was a horse of war. No saddle, but with the right persuasion she imagined she might ride him bareback.
She abandoned the notion when three riders crested the ridge and turned towards her. They each cut the same profile, wearing ringmail, surcoats, and helms with nasal guards and leather earflaps. She knew soldiers of the realm when she saw them and twisted the bridle rope in her hands, the stallion shifting on his feet. She offered no greeting, perhaps it was habit from long years as an outlaw, perhaps it was being a woman among three armed men—even if she was disguised as a boy. But the soldiers did not take an aggressive posture as they came to a stop in a row a few feet away. The one in the middle, a sergeant in the Antan army by the gold crest on his helmet and purple surcoat, spoke.
“Good morn’, young man. You have done king and country a service by capturing this horse.”
Young man. For now her short hair and martial dress were working. What young girl would be out in such a region alone, unattended, anyway?
“Obliged,” she said, pitching her voice low, standing legs apart as she imagined a young man would. “You are king’s soldiers, headed on a campaign then?”
“Marching south to aid our sister kingdom Karrith in repelling barbarians from the east.”
“Are any of you honorable men in need of a squire? I can fence, shoot, and ride.”
“Good are you?” the sergeant asked rubbing a spot on the war hammer that hung from a sling on his hip.
“I can put an arrow in a crow’s eye at thirty paces,” she said.
“Not that crow,” one of the other’s said laughing as Soot landed on the rump of the stallion.
“You and every other boy from Rivertown are looking for adventure,” the sergeant said. “Do your mother a favor and go home to her.”
“I already come armed.”
“We can see that,” the third one said as he sidestepped his horse closer to her. “He has swords and arrows enough for a regiment. Where’s a boy like you get kitted out so?”
“I have a martial minded father,” she said, comfortable sharing the truth.
“Truly,” the sergeant said and nodded to the third. “Ramsey, take the captain’s horse, let’s be going.”
Gail stepped backwards, moving the bridle rope out of reach, the stallion following her.
“This horse belongs to your captain, perhaps there is a reward?” she said, grasping at straws.
“The reward is that we will not flog you,” the sergeant said. “If we had a reward for every stallion led up into these hills by the scent of wild mares in heat, the king’s coffers would be empty.”
“Give it here, boy,” the closest rider, named Ramsey, growled.
“Perhaps the captain needs a squire?”
“You try my patience boy. Ramsey, get the horse.”
Ramsey pushed forward on his mount as if to trample Gail, but she was too quick. She pivoted, grabbed a fistful of mane and was up bareback and galloping in the direction of the camp before the soldiers had turned their horses about. Their shouts rose up and carried over the hills in the thick misty air but she ignored them, straining to remain on the bouncing back of the stallion and follow the path of parted grass that was the soldiers’ trail back to the camp. Lose them in the mist, return to the camp, and find the captain herself, and perhaps she would have an opportunity for work. If nothing else she could simply slip off the horse and melt into the moving city of non-combatants that lived on the periphery of the army.
The stallion was fast and the sound of the other horses already distant behind Gail. She turned around a bluff and crossed a ridge only to encounter a new problem. Two more soldiers, surely part of this same search party, were snapping the reins of their own horses, goading them up the hill in her direction. Her stallion had no desire to rejoin their numbers. He came to a stubborn stop along the ridgeline, his steps stuttering, for the drop on either side was steep.
The hesitation was costly. Soot squawked in alarm overhead. Gail turned just as the sergeant came galloping down the hill, rocks tumbling beneath the hooves of his horse, a horse with eyes rolled back in fear as his rider pulled the reins with one hand and lifted his war hammer with the other just before slamming it into Gail’s chest.