A Rider through Shadow

Synopsis

Outside the forest he was condemned as a demon's child. To the forest folk he's an 'outsider'. But no-one can deny Mikhyle has a rare talent for taming the wild horses.

What they don't know is that he's also inherited supernatural powers; a legacy he's done his best to bury. Until now.

When petty grievances flare into violence between the forest clans and innocent blood is spilled, ancient evil awakens. Only Mikhyle can contain it. But first, he must face his past, confront his fears, and ride into the shadow.

Chapter 1

The doors of the Great Hall were still closed. A faint breath of wind stirred the leaves of the four ancient oak trees that framed its massive structure. Carved figures stared blindly down from the canopy, the shifting patterns of sunlight and shadow fooling the eye into thinking that they moved. Maybe, on this endless afternoon, they did.

The townsfolk of Forest Hall stood in little groups at the foot of the steps. Some sat on the sun-warmed roots, others had climbed into the lower branches and rested there in the shade, but all waited with a singular expectancy. There was none of the noisy chatter that would accompany a less serious gathering.

Mikhyle had watched a patch of sun move inexorably across the scarred floor of the communal room in the Horsebreakers' Lodge marking out the slow passage of time. Now he shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench, wondering how much longer it would take for the council to reach a decision.

The air of tension was palpable. Only Barik appeared unaffected, ripping another leg from the carcase of the chicken that he had devoured single-handedly. His plump features glistened with grease, and he belched noisily.

Mikhyle stood, stretching his cramped limbs. At eighteen he still possessed something of the gawkiness of a young horse that hasn't yet filled out its adult frame. He strolled over to the window and looked out. Nothing had changed.

'Anything happening yet?' Barik asked.

'No.'

Sunlight made the nearest leaves translucent and an invisible bird shrieked in the green depths. Mikhyle suddenly shivered as a shadow swept the length of the clearing, and the branches were disturbed by a fierce gust of wind that seemed to hold all the chill of winter's breath. The doors opened, and people surged forward. Their voices rose in a wave of excitement.

'What is it?' Barik was on his feet, moving more quickly than you'd imagine for someone of his size. Others too were up, and making for the windows, or running down the stairs for a better view.

'Exile. That's what they're saying.'

Even at this distance, the cries were clearly audible as the crowd worked themselves up to a frenzy of hatred. The condemned man was brought out by members of the council, who had to beat a path to the tethered horses.

'Murderer!' called a woman. Her shrill voice acted as a catalyst for the first missiles to be thrown; rotten vegetables, horse dung, stones. Some folk simply shouted abuse, or spat if they were close enough.

The escorts mounted their horses, and gave a tug at the rope binding the prisoner's wrists, as a signal for him to get moving. People ran alongside, aiming blows. Someone tripped him, and he fell heavily.

'Let the common folk have their bit of fun.' Barik threw the chicken bone in their general direction. Like all Horsebreakers, he wore an air of superiority along with the outward trappings of his honourable position; the traditional horse-tail braiding of long hair that fell onto shoulders tattooed with intricate spiral patterns and stylised leaping horses. Barik's assuredness was also due to his being the only son of Metaz, the Horsemaster.

Mikhyle made no comment. How could he? He'd been 'common folk' himself -no, worse - before his talent with the horses had resulted in his being raised to the dizzy heights of forest society. And Barik's casual dismissal was not something he would ever be able to emulate, although Barik would not have said it to belittle him. He wasn't that subtle.

Mikhyle watched as the man struggled up from the ground, only to fall again as a well placed blow caught him on the side of the face. The story was that he'd killed another man over a bet that had been made during the midsummer races. At least, there had been a fight, and his opponent had died as a result. Same thing, as far as these folk were concerned.

'Why don't they just finish him off?' He still found many of the forest customs strange.

Barik replied in pompous tones reminiscent of his father. 'Unlike the outsiders, we believe that only the gods may judge what any man deserves. Once he's through the gates, the outcome is in their hands.'

Outsiders - that derogatory term for everyone who lived without the bounds of Frashad. By all accounts, Mikhyle was an outsider, at least, on his mother's side. The forest folk assumed that if they could forget this, then he could too. He was Vran now, adopted into the family, and his previous life was of no consequence.

This time, the man took much longer to regain his feet. Blood ran down his face, and he limped heavily as the procession made its slow way toward the main gate. The crowd had not finished with him yet. They still had plenty of things to throw, and the torrents of abuse continued. Mikhyle could not believe that they would want to stop while the object of their hatred still breathed.

'So once he's outside, that's it? He's free?'

'He has a night's grace during which no one may hinder him. After first light tomorrow, he can be legitimately hunted down and killed. But if he escapes, then it's because the gods have willed it.'

Barik turned away from the window. 'I've seen enough. Let's go find out what Frehni's serving up for tea.'

Mikhyle didn't follow straight away. Down below, the long shadow of the Great Hall had covered most of the clearing. Cries of anger and pain were borne on the wind. He knew he wouldn't be able to eat.

That night, Mikhyle dreamed. He knew what it was to be alone in the forest during the darkness, having lived out there among the wild creatures and the spirits before he had come to Forest Hall. He dreamed of the exile; the murderer, running through the trees. Above him, a chill wind ripped the last leaves from the branches. An owl looked down, unblinking. Fast moving clouds sailed across the sky, casting a veil across the moon, making his flight all the more difficult.

Twigs cracked beneath his boots, drawing unwanted attention to his presence, as he looked around nervously and stumbled on a concealed root. He fell hard, twisting an ankle, cursing.

Mikhyle could see the shadows gathering, absorbing any stray light, radiating a kind of intense darkness in return. There was menace abroad. He could feel it. He wanted to shout out a warning to the man, to make him get away from here, but as is the way in dreams, he could only watch, unable to interfere.

The presence grew stronger, until the air breathed threat, and crackled with the imminence of danger. Only then did the man suddenly look up, still rubbing his injured ankle.

Something lurked in the high branches, blotting out the sky and the gentle moon. Wide black wings outstretched, and on the down-draught of air, Mikhyle caught the scent of carrion. Death was poised above the glade.

Fear registered at last on the man's face as he realised how the trees had closed in on him, and how utterly impenetrable was the darkness between.

It moved. It swooped. In that terrible instant of descent, Mikhyle had a brief impression of hooked claws, a cruel, curved beak, and the dense, suffocating blackness.

He woke, abruptly. Couldn't feel his body. Was aware of moonlight pouring in through the shutters over the window, and that where its light could not reach, shadows lurked. He tried to move, to speak. His heart was pounding. Above its frantic beat, somewhere, far off in the forest, he heard a soul in anguish; a mindless howling, suddenly cut off. He fell, from a great height, back into his body with a jerk.

It had happened before; he remembered now. When he was a child, back in Thornwood, he had experienced those same vivid dreams - no, they were not just dreams. He had soon learned not to speak of them; not to attract any further attention to himself. At such times, he wondered if the rumours about his birth were true.

His mother was presumed to have been a young girl called Sulyen, who had been carried away by a demon on Midsummer's eve.

'She asked for it,' his step-mother had often said. 'Meddling with things she shouldn't; always going off into the forest alone. It wasn't natural. Why she couldn't just settle down, I'll never know. There were plenty of lads who'd have married her, but she snubbed them all.

'And then came that Midsummer's eve. Every time I looked over to her, she was staring off toward the forest as if she expected someone - something - to appear. Well, she got her wish. I'll never forget it, as long as I live.

'All of a sudden, the music stopped, and the dancing turned into a kind of panicky scramble. I heard screaming. That's when I saw him; riding out of the darkness. He was seven feet tall, at least, and all swathed about in smoke and shadows, so you couldn't make out his face properly, even if you dared to look. And the horse he rode struck sparks from the ground, and snorted fire.

'Sulyen started walking toward him, where he waited just out on the edge of the light. She was smiling as she took his hand, and swung up behind him into the saddle. Then the horse gave a mighty leap, and turned about, and in a moment they were gone, galloping away to the forest. And that was the last I ever saw of my sister.

'But a year and a day afterward, I woke one morning to hear Sulyen call out my name. "Go to the door, Mina," she said, clear as day. "Quickly, now." And when I did you were outside, all wrapped up in a shawl against the night's chill. I just knew you were hers.' She always left unspoken the question of whom, or what, his father may have been.

Like Sulyen he'd never fitted in at Thornwood. His step-father, Jarvis often found fault with him, the more so as he grew older. And like his mother, he too found solace in the forbidden, haunted glades of Frashad. Here in Forest Hall, no one cared about his past, or even asked him about it, and that suited him. He would rather forget the misery of life outside. By all standards, he had done well for himself.

But - and this he had also learned; there are always 'buts' - nothing comes without a price. At times he felt as if they had fully accepted him, then something would happen to make him conscious once again of his humble origins. An event would be spoken of that everyone else remembered, or, like today, he would have to ask the reason behind a certain custom. He felt as if he was playing a role; that Mikhyle the Horsebreaker was someone other than the orphan from Thornwood, and neither were wholly himself.

Therefore, he wouldn't tell them about the dream.

A party of riders set out at first light; the relatives of the murdered man together with an escort of Horsebreakers. All through the morning, a feeling of tension was apparent in the town as everyone waited for news that the sad business had reached a conclusion.

The family of the exile had shut themselves away in the Rowan Lodge, where they would be praying for his safe deliverance. No one thought any the less of them for this; he was family, after all.

'Although it's fortunate that both the victim and his killer were Vran. That's all we need just now; an inter-clan murder.' Barik ate a hearty breakfast as usual, unaffected by the atmosphere. 'I suppose we'll hear all about it when they return. Aarke and Jae have gone along; apparently the fellow was their second cousin.'

Aarke and Jae were twins, two years older than Barik. Of all the Horsebreakers in Forest Hall, Mikhyle found them the least arrogant, and the most genuinely friendly. He spent a fair amount of time in their company, and lately had found himself wondering if friendship with Jae might not develop into something more, although beyond being kind to him (and she was kind by nature), she had given him no real encouragement. But then, forest courtship was another area that, as yet, remained a mystery.

Today, though, his thoughts were otherwise occupied. The dream had affected him badly. There was no doubt in his mind that the man was already dead, and that it had happened exactly as he had seen. Having it confirmed would be to acknowledge that strange talent which he would rather not own, a difference that was worse than merely being labelled 'outsider'

When they returned mid-afternoon, it didn't take long before the gruesome truth of the exile's fate was being told all around Forest Hall. It was in the Apple Tree, a popular tavern with Vran family members, that Barik and Mikhyle caught up with the news. Mikhyle squeezed through the crowd to get as close as he could while Jae gave her version of events.

'We tracked him easily enough. He'd gone a lot further than you'd have imagined, being on foot, and in the darkness and all.' She spoke quickly, and stopped to brush strands of her unruly red hair back from her face.

Mikhyle noticed that she looked even more pale than usual.

'We were moving at a fair old pace. Someone got themselves knocked out by a low branch; you know how these folk are when they have to ride off the trails at any speed.' The inevitable dismissal of non-Horsebreakers by the privileged few.

'Get on with it,' Aarke put in. 'Get to the gory bit; it's what everyone wants to know. It's why they've all bought you drinks…'

'You tell it then…' Such bickering was normal between them.

'No, no. Carry on.'

'Well, we found him, in a little glade, beside a stream…' She paused. 'What was left of him, at any rate. The horses wouldn't go anywhere near the place. There was a lingering…chill. A sense of fear. Something, anyway, that made me want to get away from there as quick as I could.'

As she spoke, Aarke was describing in hushed tones and gestures to those closest exactly what he had seen. Mikhyle looked away, and concentrated on Jae's version.

'Even the victim's father was shocked - and he'd have been happy enough to finish the man off if we'd caught him alive. It's one thing hearing about such things happening, in stories. Quite another to see it with your own eyes.' She took a long drink. Mikhyle noticed that her hand trembled, in the instant before she realised that he was watching. He looked away quickly.

If she was an outsider woman he could comfort her. He would know what to say; what to do. But Jae, for all that she looked tiny and fragile, was of the forest folk. Maybe she despised him for seeing that moment of weakness. If only he could take her aside and say that he understood what she had seen; that it terrified him as well. He didn't think she'd laugh at him, as some might, but you couldn't be entirely certain.

'Well, he got no more than he deserved,' Barik said, with his usual lack of sensitivity. 'Now, come on Aarke, and give us a song. Cheer up your sister.'

Music, and drink, thought Mikhyle. The two essentials that shut out the darkness, whether here in the depths of the forest, or in one of the settlements that lay uneasily at its edges. Only the sound that the lyther made, as Aarke drew his fingers across its strings, reminded him of icicles shattering as they hit the frozen surface of a pool, and he saw a man running, in the dead of winter, with the hunters close behind him.

Voices receded, slipping away as they do when you are on the verge of sleep. The dreams seeped through from the shadow world. Looking across to the far wall, he saw faces peering from between the beams, lifting the corners of the hangings; ancient lined faces that grinned obscenely at the revellers below.

He clutched at the table, as if its solidity could keep him from sliding further, and then, unexpectedly, there was someone's hand on his arm, and a concerned voice.

'Are you all right?' It was Jae.

'Yes. Yes, I'm fine.' The effort of speech sent the demons scurrying back to their dark hidey-holes. Aarke struck a merry chord, and in a few moments, the music brought him all the way back. He sang along loudly to keep himself there.