(ICly this tale took place last spring. I've just been sorely slow in getting it written.)
The air was thick with the scent of green, growing things. On either side of the packed-dirt road, grass thrust itself skyward in thick, eager clumps, dotted with tiny wildflowers of white and buttery yellow. Butterflies flickered through the scene; here one moment, and then lost again among the sedge. Beneath the heavy clomp of the patchwork stallions’ hooves, birdsong filled the thickets that clustered snugly about the fence posts. It rang out from the boughs of the scattered oak and willow trees that dared to brave a spot along the tussocked, wind-battered hills. Lazy snorts mingled with the sweet warblings, and all was accompanied by the squeak of old leather, and the jangle of stirrups.
“A good time to travel,” said the woman upon the horse’s back. The sun shone against her flaxen head, giving the gossamer strands a haloed appearance. The waist-long locks were harnessed into a single plait that rested along the curve of her spine. She was dressed for a journey, clad in practicalities rather than decoratives. Her tunic was very dark green, and there was a short sword on her left hip. Her countenance was fair and smooth with youth, though a deep furrow was between her eyes as she squinted against the bright light. Bringing a hand to her brow as a shield, she looked into the distance.
The path wound away like a sandy ribbon, dipping and curving into shallow dells as it fled to the horizon. A line of mountains sat far off to the east, gray and faint. She swept her gaze to the right, inspecting the sun-drenched plains. A crofter’s house was cozied among a little gathering of trees, perhaps a quarter of a league from where the horse now walked.
“A good time, indeed,” she murmured again. The stallions’ ears swiveled to catch her voice whenever she spoke. “Do you know where we’re going, Jack?” Her palm clapped affectionately against the hard muscle that formed the graceful arch of his neck. “Of course you do. I can hide nothing from you, can I?”
Jack’s only reply was another, hefty snort as he began to descend into a little hollow that was shaded by drooping willows. She leaned back in the saddle to ease the weight on his forelegs as he climbed down. Willow fronds bent over the path like sheltering arms, brushing against her face, making her sputter and chuckle as she swatted them aside. As they traded garish sunshine for cool shade, the air became damp and sweet, and a whispering voice bespoke that a stream lay before them.
“Do you miss them already?” the woman asked her horse. “Aye, I know. I miss them, too. But think of who we might see at the end of the journey! Does that not make you a little happier?”
Her musings were cut short by the abrupt halt of the stallion, which threw her gently forward over his neck. “Jack, what…” Even as she spoke, she was straightening up, lifting her hand to push aside a feather-leafed branch from her face and clear her view. Jack was pawing at the damp earth, and it took the span of several breaths for her eyes to sweep over the scene and find what was amiss.
The stream was now in sight; a crystalline ribbon gurgling among moss-covered stones in a gully that sliced through the road, and was spanned by a small wooden bridge. On the eastern side, a Dunlending wagon was sitting, toppled over onto its side near the water’s edge. She could see neither the bed nor the seat, for the wheels were pointing towards the road where horse and rider stood.
The woman reached slowly for the sword at her side. “Easy then, Jack,” she said quietly. “Slow and steady.”
Jack’s head was held high, and his ears were stiffly perked. She could hear him drawing slow, deep whiffs through his nostrils. His tail flicked sharply, swatting against her thigh, and he began to ease forward.
Her heart was thudding heavily behind her breastbone. She scolded herself inwardly, blinking hard to force her focus onto the scene before her, and tuning her ears to every twitter in the trees and snap of twigs beneath Jack’s hooves. The overturned wagon was fifty feet away. Once they stepped onto the bridge, she wouldn’t be able to see underneath it. The space didn’t seem ripe for hiding bandits; six feet between the chugging water and the bridge timbers at most. But there was an odd feel to the air that was sapping the warmth from her fingers. Jack’s hide twitched and shuddered as if he were being nagged by invisible flies. She looked to the road further ahead. More willows stood close and tight on the opposite site of the stream, obscuring the view. Plenty of places to lay in wait for careless sojourners.
“Easy,” she whispered again, hoping to reassure herself as much as her steed. The birdsong carried on without interruption about them, and she took a small comfort in this, for the animals would go silent and scatter if the path had recently been trod by anyone making noise. But even a small comfort did not reset her pulse; it marched on, hammering unsteadily.
Twenty feet to the bridge, and the upset wagon beside the water. Jack’s head began to lower, his muzzle outstretched, snuffing the air. It was only when the first of his hooves struck the wooden planks and made a hollow *thunk* that she was able to bend over for a closer look at the bank below, and saw what lay behind the overturned wain.
The gasp that tore through her throat was loud and ragged, and the cry of dismay that followed set the birds to flight in a great flurry of wing beats.
