The Riders

 Dawn was a slow and gentle process of richer, brighter colors displacing the ethereal light of the planet-lit night sky. The three of them, prince and witch and adventurer, waded through dew-spangled grass rising above their heads in places and in shaded low-lying places fog pooled with thin wisps floating about the edges like a tincture brewing in a witch's cauldron. An exact reckoning of their position wasn't needed, Neteth told the others, for the fields gave way to wetlands closer to the river and they would be able to easily see the right course from leagues away.

Their emergence some hours later into that barren terrain presented them with an unimpeded view of the range toward which Tex and Neteth had walked the night before, snow-capped crags rising imperiously over plains of reeds and shallow lakes in which herons and gazelles and a host of other creatures roamed in search of food. The mountains stood in a haze that made a mockery of their titanic size such that they seemed no further or more solid than a backdrop for some performance and it was perhaps for this reason that the prince began to speak of his dominion over them, something that did not yet exist but his mind's eye rendered with such clarity as to displace the original. He spoke of the realm to be, sutured together by roads of stone and great seagoing vessels, a realm with reach beyond imagining and at its heart a city of golden spires and limestone-clad pyramids that would seem to a traveler as mountains seen through a god's eyes. It would be a city like no other, a hub upon which the whole of man would turn with the same harmony as the stars in their circuit.

“Will my people have a place in your world?” Asphodel asked.

“Everyone will, though some must change to assume their proper place. Just as one weeds a garden, there are evils to be removed before man can prosper.”

“Would you count me among them?”

“If that is what you make of yourself,” answered the prince. “I've heard from the scholars and poets every story of dread antiquity. Even now there is an evil among you and your ways are dark.”

“But it's not so bad when we're on your side,” she said. Something subtle in her eyes and the set of her lips told him that she was mocking him. He looked away from his companions, looking dejected, and said nothing more although both could tell he wanted to.

Shadowy figures glided over the land in a ragged arc from north to west, frantically spurring their mounts, spears and swords glinting in the powerful morning light. Their course bent toward the group on foot and as they worked up to a gallop they knotted into shambolic parodies of military formations.

“I don't reckon you have a trick that would get us out of this,” Tex said to the witch.

“I would need time we don't have.”

Tex nodded to her and lifted his sword as easily as if it weighed nothing. The bandits, having failed twice and overshot their quarry in the night, were crying for blood, a sentiment echoed in the eerie cries of the animals they rode. From a distance the creatures looked close enough to a horse, but their approach revealed the divergences from that form, the flat, almost missing ears, the crude, brutish shape of its squared-off snout like a piece of clay left half-worked on the wheel, the long fangs curving down the sides of an over-sized jaw, segmented feet that were part hoof and part claw and cast clods of mud into the air as they raced along with lather streaming from open maws.

The riders veered off, just beyond reach, and circled whooping and yelling challenges at the three. Two of the braver men went in at the same time from opposite sides. Tex cleft one in half and the other, whose armor held when the prince hit him with the spear, fell thrashing into the mud. Arrows fell about them from further afield. More bandits charged, desultory and with no better result than the first attempt. This was little comfort for the three on foot, who crept forward in a tight group knowing they would be picked apart long before reaching the end of those brackish planes. However, despite their numbers and mobility, the bandits were in a panic verging on terror, the cause of which became obvious during a brief and welcome lull in the fighting: not all the riders were enemies. Among the host chasing the escapees was a small but ferocious contingent in plumed helmets and carrying pennants in the rich purple of the royal house.

When at last the attackers broke and turned their mounts toward the hills the royal guard pursued them briefly before turning back, wary of an ambush in the event they rode too far. They arranged themselves in a circle about the prince who noted with pleasure that one of their number had bound Hati and tied the restraints to his saddle horn. Pashurnipal, captain of the guard, reined his mount to a stop and it stood before them slowly turning its head side to side, tasting the air with its forked tongue.

“It's a relief to find you well, master. There was quite a commotion when you didn't come back,” he said easily.

“I found more dangerous game than I expected. But only in numbers, not kind. Perhaps,” Neteth said, shifting his focus to Hati, “this will be a lesson to you. The last you'll ever learn.”

“You'd be worm food if not for that traitor,” the bandit spat and Pashurnipal cuffed him on the side of the head.

“Bring up three spare mounts,” the captain ordered. Two of his men moved to comply. “And while we're waiting, maybe you'll introduce your friends.”

The prince did so, briefly explaining their raid on the camp and how they had evaded certain death and the captain said nothing, only nodding and sporadically making a sound to indicate his interest.

“I see. Thank you,” he said to the other two, “for protecting the prince in my absence.”

“No problem,” said Tex, and Asphodel said nothing.

“A witch of Nar, huh,” the captain mumbled, and Neteth got the impression he hadn't intended anyone else to hear. Then the fresh mounts were brought up and they all climbed into their respective saddles and rode south. By evening they would be in the capital, where the prince knew his actions would face more scrutiny than the captain's wry acceptance. But he had survived and for that he was grateful. The consequences of these events seemed a small thing, easy to brush aside or, failing that, to live with. This attitude, among others, he could come to bitterly regret.