Chapter Two
Left behind and unharmed save for the aching in his arms where the now motionless Varpan had gripped them, Madrenga continued to stare down the alley toward the place where his surviving attacker had disappeared. Lowering his gaze, he eyed the bloody knife. Turning slowly, he contemplated the still, lifeless shape of the brigand who had been but a moment from putting an end to Bit. Then he carefully wiped the knife against his right leg, resheathed the crudely cleaned weapon, walked over to the wall opposite the dead body, leaned against the stones, and threw up. Looking on, Bit whined with concern. Orania shook out her close-cropped mane and turned away. Nostrils flexing as she lowered her head, she began searching the crevices between the cobblestones for anything that might prove edible.
Lucky. He’d been lucky, he knew. If he had not fallen to the ground to beg for his life when the smaller brigand had executed his sword thrust, the lethal blade would have gone through him instead of over his head. If at the same time Orania had not kicked the bigger man in the back and caused him to stumble forward, he would not have met his death at the point of that very same blade.
It struck Madrenga that this was an odd coincidence.
No, not coincidence, he told himself. Luck. Some long-gone, unknown ancestors had been watching over him. Had there been three bandits, or four, the outcome might have been very different. Turning, he looked toward the busy marketplace beyond the alley. No one had noticed the altercation that had taken place within. Or if they had, they had chosen to ignore it. What would have been surprising was if anyone had bothered to intervene. As for members of the cityforce, they were doubtless busy shaking down some poor fruit merchant. When it came to simple matters like assault, ordinary citizens like Madrenga were on their own. But he was used to that.
What he was not used to was the kind of formidable intercession that had been shown by his companions. Picking up Bit in both hands, he grinned at the pup and brought him close. A pink canine tongue too big for its mouth flopped out to slather the youth’s nose with cheery saliva while the rest of the dog hung loosely in his master’s grasp like a brown sack of wet sand. A glance behind him showed that Orania had given up her futile attempt to graze the cobblestones in favor of nuzzling the back of his legs. Setting the pup down, Madrenga wiped his nose and gave the pony a hug. She whinnied softly in delight as Bit, barking furiously, ran excited circles around them both.
“Bit’s bite I understand, Orania, but what made you kick like that? You’re not a dog, much less a mule.” As the uncomprehending pony looked at him sideways the youth wondered what he was doing, standing in an alley talking to a horse. It wasn’t as if there was going to be a response. “No matter. I’m just glad that you did.” Frowning, he eyed her more closely.
“I must be dazed. Your mane looks longer and I know I had it cut not more than a couple of fortnights ago.” Dropping into a crouch, he scrutinized her legs. “Bedamned if I don’t think you’ve grown these last weeks more than I’d noticed. Bit seems a bit bigger, too.” He straightened and shrugged. “I need to pay more attention to the both of you. When most of one’s waking hours are devoted to just getting enough for everyone to eat, I suppose one tends to overlook such things.” His attention turned once more to the bustling, seamy marketplace. Lying in repose nearby, the hulking mass of the slain bandit was beginning to weigh on his thoughts.
“Let’s get out of here before someone comes looking for this dead stench. Daria isn’t getting any closer.”
No one so much as glanced in their direction as the youth and his animals emerged from the alleyway entrance. Slipping smoothly into the ebb and flow of the market, its energy quickly swept them along. Nor did anyone, either interested authorities or friends of the demolished, materialize in pursuit as Madrenga made his way outside the city proper and started up the main road heading east.
That evening he made camp among a loosely organized crowd of fellow travelers. Reluctant to start spending the money Natoum had given him so early in the journey, he foreswore the comfort promised by a nearby travelers’ inn. The small waterproof tent that comprised part of the supplies packed on Orania’s back would serve his needs perfectly well. Wrapping himself in the single blanket that had been provided, he lay on his side with a snuffling Bit pressing tight against him. Outside the tent Orania stood quietly, head down and occasionally shuffling her feet. There was no need to tether her. Madrenga knew she would not run off.
Small as she was, though, that did not mean someone would be averse to taking her.
Horse theft had not been a problem in the city. Even as a foal her markings had been distinctive. Taken, she could have been found. Stealing is always more difficult in the presence of witnesses.
Late that night there were no witnesses save the moon, whose opinion everyone seeks but which is immune to subpoena. The man who in the darkness silently approached the untied pony was elderly but not decrepit, clever if not intelligent. He was also very hungry and in mind of preparing a mess of horse jerky, some of which he could also make available for sale. While the pony’s owner had chosen a sleeping site somewhat isolated from the other travelers, the angular chef-thief still approached with caution. Though quite ready to fight for the animal, stealing off with it quietly was much the preferred course of action.
Within the tent Madrenga slept soundly. It would have been a tiring first day even without the stressful encounter with the two would-be muggers. He was exhausted and his body demanded rest.
Not so with the four-legged lump cuddling against his chest. Bit’s head came up nose-first as he sampled the air. As every dog knows, malice smells just like shit, and the pup was instantly on alert. Alert, but not yet certain of either the stink’s source or intent. Sniffing energetically, he padded away from his master and outside the simple round tent.
The elderly horse-eater was already reaching for the reins that hung from Orania’s bridle. Clutching them, he gave a firm, no-nonsense tug. As far as he was concerned the horse was already his. His tongue smacked against his palate. With one this young the meat would be tender. There would be steaks and stew meat.
Roused by the pull on the reins, the prospective stew meat opened her eyes and regarded her would-be abductor. He saw something, or thought he saw something, within them that was not horse. Whatever it was it was enough to cause him to scream softly.
Flinging away the reins the old man stumbled backward. As he did so something small, brown, and pudgy leaped for his throat. This caused the incipient horsenapper to scream again. Flailing wildly at his canine assailant with both hands, the old man turned and ran.
Sleepy voices began to rise from suddenly awakened travelers. Some were irritated, others concerned. They were joined by Madrenga. He emerged from the tent gripping his knife. But there was nothing to be seen. A voice called to him through the darkness, inquiring if the young traveler was alright.
“I’m fine!” he yelled back. “Everything is well. Go back to bed, friends.”
Concern was replaced by muttering as, one by one, the other campers returned to their own tents or blankets. Still holding the knife, a puzzled Madrenga regarded his two companions. Orania shook her head while Bit sat down on his backside and gazed up at his puzzled master, tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth.
“You two—if it’s going to be like this all the way to Daria I’ll never get any sleep.” Turning, he bent low to re-enter the tent.
Orania had certainly grown, he told himself as he slid back beneath the blanket and pulled it up to his neck. How had he failed to notice such a recent growth spurt? The warm body that wriggled in to rejoin him was also larger than he remembered it. Was there something wrong with his memory, he wondered? Or was it his eyes? Reaching around, he scratched Bit’s side and back. Squirming beneath the blanket, the pup whimpered with delight. Much bigger, for certain, a confused Madrenga told himself. Surely too much bigger to casually overlook. Yet that was what he had done. It was a puzzlement for certain, and more than a bit of a mystery.
Too tired to marvel further, he fell asleep with one hand resting on Bit’s butt. Had he been less exhausted he might well have reflected on the realization that his open palm could no longer fully encompass the dog’s backside. Also, unlike when he had originally retired, the blanket was no longer long enough to completely cover his own feet.
Morning dawned bright and cheerful as a baby’s giggle. Some relaxed bargaining bought him a ride in the back of a wagon bound for Bariele. The hokounut merchant with whom he had struck an agreement for transportation did not even mind that his paying passenger brought his pup on board with him.
“If he pees on one of the barrels,” the happy-go-lucky businessman told Madrenga, “just try to make sure he sprays evenly and not all in one place.” When he winked, one huge bushy eyebrow descended over an eye like a caterpillar protectively screening the next leaf on its menu.
Nor was Orania a problem. Loosely tethered to the fold-down rear door that doubled as a loading ramp, she trotted along behind the barrel-filled wagon. As it bumped along the increasingly rough road Madrenga marveled at how in only a couple of days her legs seemed to have lengthened and strengthened. As had, for that matter, Bit’s—and his own.
An illusion, he told himself. A consequence of for the first time in his life emerging from the cosseted confines of Harup-taw-shet and striking out into the vast country beyond. Or perhaps it was the result of some undeclared parting magic on the part of his sponsor, the wily Natoum, that was designed to facilitate the carrying out of his mission.
If that were so, though, why not announce the intention to enchant prior to his departure from the city, Madrenga found himself wondering. What was there to be gained by withholding such information and leaving the recipient to swim in his own bemusement? He shrugged. It was not for him to fathom the motivations of Counselors to the royal court any more than it was to wonder at the contents of the scroll he carried. That scroll—a quick peek, surely, could do no harm, would cause no empires to tremble. Even if he couldn’t read it, there might be images and symbols he could recognize.
Reaching to his waist, as he habitually did several times a day, he found the corium cylinder still secured to his belt. The cap was closed with red sealing wax, true, but it was nothing he could not repair. He could remove the contents, at least have a look at what lay therein, and reseal it with any flame. No one, least of all Alyriata of Harup-taw-shet or Zhelerasjju of the Darians, would be any the less for the experience.
But would he? That was the imponderable he could not ignore. What if the scroll contained some horrible protective spell laid upon it by Natoum or some other court sorcerer? A spell designed to inflict horrors upon any not qualified to peruse the contents engraved on the gold foil? Merely glancing at an illustrative image or words he could not understand might turn him into a smear on the road, or a toad, or a road toad, or …
Stop tormenting yourself, he thought firmly. Put it out of your mind. You are a delivery boy, nothing more. And as such, the perusal of palace poetry is beyond your purview. Do your job and shut your thoughts.
“Damn it all to Calequa!”
The curse and the wagon came to a halt at the same time. Wondering at such atypical vehemence from the driver, Madrenga climbed out to see what was the matter. It was only recently that he would have had to gently carry Bit out with him and set the pup on the ground. Bigger and stronger through means that continued to baffle his owner, the dog simply hopped out by himself, sniffed at the nearest wheel, and waited for his master to join him. At least the pup’s dripping tongue, the youth reflected, seemed to have changed in proportion to the rest of the dog’s body.
While Bit accompanied him around to the front of the wagon, Orania turned to her left and began quietly cropping at the grass and weeds that crowded the side of the dirt track.
The hokounut merchant’s wagon was not the only one drawn up on the near side of the river. A dozen other vehicles crowded nearby, having pulled off onto a level flat clearing by the side of the road. Their interiors lined with velvet and down, a couple of large wheeled ovals were passenger transports. One such was dominated by a crooked upside-down funnel from which emerged puffs of smoke. This was suffused with the rich, earthy aroma of smoking meat.
The source of the merchant’s curse, his sudden halt, the impromptu assembly of eclectic transports, and the downcast babble of voices from the nearby clearing was one and the same. Flowing from north to south, the river that now blocked travel to the east was in near flood, its surface as much white as blue. Having fallen on the remnants of the winter snowpack, recent warm rains had rapidly melted any snow lying at lower elevations and sent it tumbling and crashing toward the distant sea. None of which would have mattered to those stalled on its western shore had not the earth beneath the bridge support pylons on that same riverbank been undermined and given way, sending that end of the bridge crashing into the water below.
Having trod a careful path down to the river, a couple of dozen men and women stood surveying the damage. Several burly individuals were wrestling with the ropes attached to one of the pylons, trying to drag it ashore.
It was plain to see that while the various components of the bridge remained intact, putting them back in place and restoring them to service was going to take some time. Most likely, word would have to be sent all the way back to Harup-taw-shet. An engineering and construction team would be assembled and marched to the site. Rebuilding would take days or possibly even weeks. Meanwhile, merchants and travelers stuck on the west bank would have the option of taking a long, long way around, southward to the next bridge. Or they could hire a dragon to ferry them and their goods across.
Madrenga smiled to himself. That was likely. There were no such things as dragons. Only rumors and stories, tall tales spun by old men who had traveled far and wide, if only in their own imaginations.
He couldn’t wait days and weeks. He was on a royal mission. Having been plucked from obscurity and handed a singular and unexpected opportunity he was not about to squander it through delay. He turned to the merchant of hokounuts.
“Thank you, Pymar, for the kindness you have shown to a lone traveler.”
The rotund trader grunted. “You paid. No kindness was involved.”
“Nevertheless, I thank you.”
While the merchant looked on, his young passenger walked to the back of the wagon, only to return a moment later with his small pack-laden horse in tow. When he gave every sign of proceeding onward instead of joining the rest of the stalled travelers, Pymar pushed his cap back on his wide forehead and called out.
“Now where might you think you’re going, lad?”
Madrenga paused to look back. “I’m going to cross the river.”
The merchant indicated the youth’s companions. “With them?”
“With them.” Madrenga nodded.
“Well then, say hello to Death for me when you meet him. I’ve myself always been curious as to his actual appearance, though more percipient folk than I say it’s best to avoid the meeting as long as possible. You, it would appear, are of a different mind.”
“We’ll get across.” Madrenga spoke with an assurance he did not feel. But he knew he had to try. At worst, perhaps, he would be swept downriver, later to crawl out cold and drenched and, with luck, on the far shore.
“You will entertain, is what you will do. I will watch, and inform the others, so that at least your demise may be the source of some healthy betting. Though I fear the contesting will suffer from a dearth of those willing to wager any money on your survival.” He shook his head. “Always a pity when someone dies before they have had a chance to live.”
Finding the merchant’s commentary more than a little depressing, Madrenga resumed heading downslope toward the river.
“You will gain nothing from this adventure, lad, save a lesson! And a lesson that cannot be used is worse than a continuation of ignorance.”
“Not so,” Madrenga shouted back. “I will for certain gain something, as all this blather of yours is making me thirsty!”
His bravado shrank in proportion to his proximity to the river. By the time he reached the rocky western shore the true force of the snowmelt was fully apparent. White water was everywhere as the power of the current raged over hidden boulders and pinned against them entire trees that had been washed down from the high mountains. If he lost his footing out in the current and was pushed beneath a log, he would be trapped and drowned. If he stepped in a hole he would be swept away and drowned. If a piece of fast-floating debris struck him he might be knocked unconscious and drowned. But if he turned back now, Pymar and the others would laugh at him and call him coward.
There are fates worse than drowning. Fashioning a leash from a length of leather, he placed Bit on top of the pack on Orania’s back, jabbed a finger at the pup, and yelled above the roar of the river, “Stay!” Wrapped in slipskin to protect against damage from rain, the contents of the leather pack should remain dry. Whether they would remain intact remained to be seen.
He took a long pause to study the foaming torrent. From what he knew, water raced most furious where it flowed most shallow. Those were the dangerous places where the chances of being swept away were greater. But quieter water would be deeper, likely over his head. Still, better where possible to swim than to fight. Before leaving Harup-taw-shet he might not have considered what he was about to try. But he felt stronger now than ever he had in his life, as if he had grown and matured in a matter of days. Feeling he had seen similar changes, inexplicable though they might be, in his animals, he saw no reason why the mysterious maturation should not have extended to himself. Gripping Orania’s reins tightly in his right hand, he stepped into the water and began wading across, angling for the less contorted, less angry stretches of stream. The pony followed without hesitation.
No doubt those on shore, alerted by the merchant Pymar (who doubtless had taken charge of any betting pool), were watching. Doubtless they were also yelling encouragement or expectations of disaster according to their individual temperaments. If so, he could hear none of it, so loud was the roaring of the river in his ears. Feeling his feet lose any semblance of grip on the bottom, he started swimming, still gripping Orania’s reins.
It was more than passing strange. Instead of growing weaker with the effort his body demanded simply to stay in place, he felt himself becoming stronger. This be an illusion for sure, he thought. But if so, a useful one. His right arm dug at the water, pulling him forward. The only thing he could hear above the thundering rapids was Bit’s nonstop barking. There then came a moment of fear when the reins went slack in his hand. Whirling in the current, he expected to see that the bridle had come loose from Orania’s jaws and that she was being swept downstream. Neither proved true.
Having redoubled her own efforts, the young horse was catching up to and passing him. As her light brown flank slid past, Bit turned atop the pack to bark furious encouragement at his master. Facing his dog and confronted with his horse’s hindquarters, Madrenga kicked harder still. Noting Orania’s unexpected progress he felt confident enough to let go of the reins altogether, which restored the use of his left arm for swimming.
Eventually all three of them emerged on the far shore. Cold, drenched, and dripping, he found a smooth sun-warmed boulder and laid down upon it, soaking up the drying, warming rays of the sun. Turning his head to his right, he could see excited spectators high up on the far side of the river gesticulating in his direction, though he could not hear what they were saying. No doubt the most enthusiastic, he told himself, were those few who had bet on his survival and now stood to collect their winnings from the enterprising Pymar. Breathing hard, he closed his eyes against the sun. He too had laid a bet, and had won bigger than any of the travelers and traders he had left behind.
The snowmelt-swollen river had presented a challenge. He had accepted it and had prevailed. Through determination and luck he had defeated a force of Nature much as he and his companions had overcome the pair of brigands back in the city. Someone, perhaps his mother (of whom only the vaguest images occasionally teased his memories) had once told him that every victory over adversity makes one stronger. The aphorism was at the forefront of his thoughts as he rose and looked down at himself. He had never had occasion to believe the parable should be taken literally.
This time there was no mistaking what he saw. Not only had his legs grown perceptibly longer; the muscles of his thighs and calves had thickened as well. Even his feet appeared to have widened and lengthened. What’s more, his attire had stretched to compliment his increased size. Squinting, he leaned forward. Was that a hint of armor that had appeared, out of nowhere, to cover both his shins? What manner of magic was this, to manifest itself in the wilderness shy of the presence of any apparent architect? Astonishment overcame his exhaustion as he slid off the rock and stood. Bending forward, he examined his legs, running tentative fingers downward from his knees. The metal shining there felt familiarly cold and hard to the touch.
Metal like steel it was, but different. Light but strong, not unlike the cylinder that protected the royal scroll. Whence had it come to him, and why? When initially he had marked its appearance, he had been bewildered. Now he was scared.
His fright and uncertainty deepened when he again took a moment to consider his companions. Kneeling beside a complaisant Orania, he marveled at the gleaming breastplate that now shielded her chest. Fashioned of the same exotic material that had appeared over his shins, it was attached by woven metal strands to a saddle that …
Saddle? Where had a saddle come from?
Utterly baffled, he straightened. It was only when he did so that he realized how much the pony had grown. As if in response to their clash with the swift river current, her legs had lengthened anew and strengthened even more. Though not yet the height of a full-grown horse, she was now far too big to be considered a mere pony. Pushed to the rear by the inexplicable appearance of the saddle, his simple pack now lay behind it, still firmly secured in place. The pack itself appeared unchanged.
It wasn’t much of a saddle, he saw. Plain leather straps for stirrups, a raw wooden pommel, and an unpadded seat. Even so, between its appearance and Orania’s increased size, the way forward to Daria suddenly appeared more manageable … assuming that she would let him sit on her back. Lightweight as he was (or had been until recently), he had never tried riding the pony, even in jest. Would she tolerate his presence and his weight atop her spine, or would she buck him off? Only one way to find out, he told himself.
Putting his right foot in the thin stirrup strap, he threw his left leg over her back and plonked himself down in the saddle. She started and her head came up sharply. There was a penetrating whinny, she reared up on her hind legs (though not enough to throw him), and then she relaxed.
“Good girl, Orania.” Leaning forward, he patted her on the side of her neck, then stroked it repeatedly. “Good girl!”
So far so good, he told himself. There remained the awkward fact that though she seemed willing to carry him, he had never learned how to ride. Fair enough, he told himself. She had never learned how to carry. They would have to learn together.
Giving a light chuck on the reins induced no forward motion. Repeating the action while accompanying it with a soft kick of one heel into her right side caused her to start forward. As she was still far from a fully-grown animal his feet swayed perilously close to the ground. But the strange new sensations of riding and being ridden quickly became comfortable for both of them, and his feet hosannaed their thanks.
Bit trotted alongside, occasionally wandering off to sniff at a bush or rock on the side of the rough road. As Orania had somehow blossomed into a small horse, so had Madrenga’s puppy swollen into a semblance of a dog. The street mutt was starting to take on the appearance of an identifiable breed, though the specifics eluded the perplexed youth. No sleek hunting dog was Bit. No fluffy household pet, either. His hair stayed short and had grown darker. It was jet black now, the lightly jouncing Madrenga decided, though when the sunlight struck it at a certain angle the dog’s color took on a peculiar purplish sheen, as though the fur was momentarily infused with amethyst. He shook his head wonderingly. Considering everything else that had happened to him and his animals since embarking on the undertaking, why should he be surprised by the abrupt transformation of a puppy into a partially purple dog?
Bit’s head had grown larger, too. Enough that it seemed slightly too large in proportion to the rest of his body. A longer tail might have served as a visual counterbalance, but that appendage remained stubbornly short and thick. Then there was the troubling change in the dog’s teeth. Sharp canines were to be expected in a growing dog, but Bit’s were unusually pointed. As were the rest of his teeth, as if his mouth was filling up with nothing but canines. If that did not change it might present a problem, Madrenga decided. How could a dog chew if his jaws were filled with nothing but canines?
It was too much to think about all at once. Mulling the many mysteries of the morning could wait for another time. What was important was that he was safely across the river. If forces unknown had chosen to gift him with shin armor and his pony—his horse, he corrected himself—with a handsome breastplate and related tack made of similar material, who was he to question the Fates’ interest in boys and horses? Regarding what had happened to his own body, his longer legs would make easier the crossing of future streams and crevasses. Feeling better about himself and his circumstances, if no less confused, he tilted back his head and contemplated the sky.
“I thank whoever or whatever is responsible for these mystifying gifts and abase myself before such power.” He paused, thinking, and added tentatively, “I could use some fresh food, too.”
Nothing fell from the sky in response to his request. No loaves of warm bread, no chilled fruits, no dried and salted meats. A pollu bird did pass by and leave behind a gift, but it was one the youth did not request and could have done without. The removing of it did, however, serve to take his mind off unsolvable mysteries and return him from a place of expectation to a state of humbleness. It might well be, he reflected, that he had received everything in the manner of unrequested intervention that he was going to receive, and should be both grateful and content with as much as had come his way.
So it was, that days later his thoughts turned to more immediate matters of sustenance and shelter by the time he entered the outskirts of the hill town called Hamuldar.