CHAPTER THREE
THE MEDICINE CHEST
The wind had picked up and began its unearthly moaning through the bamboo, whipping up the crystalline snow into eye-stinging gusts. He was used to this—living out here, you had no choice but to brave the weather—but even so, there were limits. Trudging through the snow with a wounded war horse tied to a dilapidated sled was one of them. Thankfully, she wasn’t anywhere near as heavy as he’d thought, even layered as she was with the golden armour. It was probably brass, and a lot of it too. Nobody had that sort of money to equip their mounts, save the local lords, and maybe not even them. He’d seen the warriors setting out on their frequent raids, and they’d never looked anything like this creature. There was something about her that pulled at his mind and his heart, though what it was remained a mystery.
Rush coughed and spat the dislodged phlegm out onto the snow. He had no time for mysteries, and now it felt like he was coming down with something. He swore aloud and placed his full strength into pulling his equine cargo back up the last stretch. What was he going to do with the thing? Maybe, he thought, he could sell her at the horse fayre in the city, perhaps making a pretty amount of coin on the armour too. The thought felt exciting and yet…wrong. Why exactly, he wasn’t sure, but he was probably just tired. It had been a long day, and by the looks of things, it was going to be even longer still.
The door to the house was just wide enough to allow the sled to pass through, with a little encouragement. The runners grated on the floor as Rush pulled and eventually pushed the thing up near the side wall of the living area. He glanced down at the mare, wiping the sweat from his brow, knowing he couldn’t leave her on that thing all night. Rush sighed. There was nothing for it; his last few bundles would have to do.
Returning from the workshop, he laid out the last few bundles of reeds onto the floor beside the sled. It would be a lot more comfortable for her than the hard wooden slats or the floorboards. The problem he had was getting her from the sled onto the makeshift bedding without the shock aggravating her injuries. Rush hung his gear and outdoor clothing before returning to the stricken equine.
“I’m sorry, girl,” he said to her quietly, stroking her mane. “I’m going to have to move you so you’ll be more comfortable.” He patted her still damp mane. “Forgive me, this may hurt, but I promise it’ll only be for a few seconds.”
Taking the blue blanket once again, he pulled. The mare twitched, letting out a gasp and muffled cry of pain as she slid from the sled and onto the reed bed.
“Shhh,” he murmured to her. “It’s over now; you’re a good girl. I’m going to get some medicine that will help make you better, and then we can get you something to eat and drink, alright?”
The mare let out a little whinny in response, making him smile to himself. Part of him had thought she wouldn’t make the journey, but by the tone of her muscles and the brightness of her coat, she had been in peak condition before she’d been injured. Hopefully, that strength would see her through this. Although no veterinarian, Rush knew enough about medicine from his mother to know that the first night was the most critical.
His mother’s medicine chest was placed next to his patient, the sled returned to its home in the workshop. Setting the lantern next to her, he stoked the fire, adding more heat and light to the room while serving extra duty in boiling water for cleaning the multitude of wounds.
“Steady now, girl,” he said gently. “I want another look at that armour of yours. If I can get it off you, I can better treat you. It can’t be comfortable either.”
Rush ran his hands over her, feeling for any catches, clips, or straps that may indicate some fastening method he could operate to free the mare from the metal prison. She twitched at his touch, letting out a low moan.
“I’m sorry, my brave girl. I have to do this to help you.” His heart ached to see another living creature in this state. How could anyone have done this to her, let alone leave her like that? He was beginning to curse the day he’d agreed with Nasta to meet with his daughter. Nothing good ever came from dealing with other humans. They were sick, diseased beasts that cared nothing for others except themselves. Rush gave himself a shake. Damn it, why was he thinking like that?
In the firelight, he was better able to examine the snow-white mare as she lay on the reeds, her chest rising and falling beneath the armour. Whoever had made this was damned good at their craft. It fit beautifully and they’d even incorporated a stylized horn for the head piece. ‘Impractical,’ he thought to himself, ‘but probably nasty in battle.’ It was a bit thin for combat, though, and a little too long for a real weapon. Most likely it was a showpiece for one of the lords to impress his underlings. He was likely compensating for something with that. Rush allowed himself a quiet chuckle as he continued to feel around the mare for a way into the stubborn metal that encased her.
“Wha…?”
His hand had brushed against something that moved of its own accord under the blue blanket. It felt like…feathers? Probably another blanket or saddle underlay, or whatever they bloody well called them. He wasn’t an expert on horse tack. Still, he was sure it had…
“Good gods!” he exclaimed, jumping back. There was something there for sure. Fighting back his shock, Rush picked up the corner of the cloth and threw it back. His eyes went wide. Surely this wasn’t right?! Some damned fool had glued wings to the side of the mare! Now that just wasn’t right. Showing off was one thing, but this was just cruelty. Rush shook his head. They’d have to come off. Some warm water should soak the glue well enough for it to become tacky, and he could get them away from her. She’d probably have a bald patch for a while where they’d been glued on, but her fur would grow back eventually.
Returning to his original task, Rush ran his hands up and down the mare’s armour. He cursed quietly under his breath; the plates were virtually seamless, frustrating every attempt at removing the cursed metal. He sat back on his heels and wiped his forehead,
“If only you could speak, girl. There must be some way to get this off you…”
There was the faintest ‘click’, and the chest piece opened before his eyes. Rush hung his head in relief.
“Thank the gods,” he muttered, bending to remove the intricate piece and placed it carefully to one side. The inside was padded and showed signs of wear and sweat staining. This had been worn before, and regularly by the looks of it. Small scrapes and dents showed that this was far more than merely for show. It was almost weightless too. This was like no metal he’d ever seen; it certainly wasn’t brass and wasn’t gold either. He’d have a better look later.
The next few sections of the armour came away as easily as the first. The design was incredibly elaborate, even down to the detailed guards covering the front of the ornamental wings. The hinged flank plates overlapped one another, allowing both freedom of movement and protection. Rush was well aware that this area was especially sensitive for horses. They would buck off predators with a vicious kick if touched in this area, so he moved around her to pull it off from the top, avoiding her metal shod hooves. Rush breathed a sigh of relief when the mare didn’t as much as flinch at the armour’s removal. For the second time that night, he sat and stared open-mouthed at what he’d unveiled.
There, on her flank, was a large painted emblem of a sun, compete with golden rays around its circumference. Before he could stop himself, Rush placed his hand on the mare’s flank, running it carefully over the strange marking. She shuddered beneath him at his touch, making him pause. Had he hurt her? No, there were no signs of injury that he could see, but he’d best check to be certain.
The marking itself was smooth. Not painted then, probably dyed. The lords all used family symbols which were fixed on their clothes, banners, flags, and even buildings. They were the overt symbols of their power and prestige, rather like putting a large stamp on something that screamed ‘This is Mine!’ All in all, this sun symbol wasn’t all that surprising. It would grow out eventually. In fact, it might be a better idea if he let it before taking her to market. Knowing his luck, if she still wore that, somebody would most likely recognise the clan marking, and he’d be spending his final hours in a cell before an unceremonious beheading for horse theft.
Rush ran his hand down the white mare’s hind leg, following the lie of her fur. It was like velvet, so soft it made his skin tingle. She was still a little damp, but the fire was drying her off nicely now. At some point, though, he’d have to turn her, and that was something he was dreading.
Guessing she was probably as used now to the feel of his touching her as she was ever going to be, Rush took hold of one of her hoof covers and slid it off as carefully as he could. She didn’t react, not to that one nor the other three which he stacked next to all the other pieces of armour.
The covers were as intricately made as the rest of the set, beautifully inlaid and actually surprisingly practical too. They were designed to protect her but also offer grip. He’d never seen anything like them. Normally horses had horseshoes, didn’t they? Rush shrugged—the rich had their ways and the poor had theirs. He’d never had much money, but out here in the hills he’d never had that much need for it except for the essentials. He looked over her injuries and shook his head in dismay. If this is what being rich did to you, they could keep it.
The head piece was the next and last piece to come off. He’d have to be careful with this one. That sharp-looking spike could blind him if she thrashed about, although he had to admit that so far she’d been the perfect patient. Animals could be surprisingly astute, he’d found, often knowing on some instinctual level that you were trying to help them. Hopefully somewhere in that horsey mind of hers, she realised that too.
With a barely perceptible click, the head piece came loose and began to slide upwards over the long white horn. Rush gasped in shock. For the umpteenth time tonight, he stared at the mare in amazement. He took off the head armour the rest of the way, then placed it quickly with the rest before returning to gaze in wonderment at the mare’s head. The ‘spike’ wasn’t a spike at all. Neither was it some ostentatious addition by a vain warlord, nor an armourer’s idea of a useful addition to the rider’s weaponry.
It was real, was a part of her, growing from the mare’s head in a tapering spiral the same colour as her coat. Rush scratched his head in wonderment. What on earth was she? Certainly not a horse. Was she one of the….
He shook his head to dismiss the foolish notion. The locals believed in forest spirits and mountain gods, yet he’d lived here for the best part of his life and had never seen any evidence of such beings. No, there had to be some other explanation, but in reality, what was the point of such speculation? She was a living, breathing creature the same as him, and that was all that mattered, wasn’t it?
Curiosity prickled at him, and he looked back at those folded wings. Gently, he slid a hand under the one he could reach and felt around. Living skin and the bone beneath shivered at his touch, the feathers rippling as if they were ready to take flight. He hung his head and closed his eyes in realisation. They weren’t glued on at all. What a fool he’d been.
He clicked his tongue and turned to take the hot water off the fire, and poured some into the bowl. Regardless of what she was, he had a job to do. His patient had been quiet and calm this whole time, but now he was probably going to hurt her whilst her tended to those wounds. He’d just have to be careful and do what he could to keep her calm.
When Rush had been a child, his mother had sung a song to calm him when he was upset. He couldn’t remember all the words, but the tune itself was one he’d never forgotten. He began humming it, occasionally quietly singing the words that he could recall. Rush would be the first to admit, it was as much for him as for the mare lying quietly on the reed bed. Her breathing had slowed perceptibly but was still too rapid for his liking. Nodding to himself, he decided to start with her head and work down from there.
Rinsing the cloth in the warm water, he began cleaning her. Wiping the muck and blood from her coat as best he could, Rush concentrated on cleaning the wounds of grit and dirt. The mare flinched as he peeled the cuts apart to wash them out. It was messy work. It might have been uncomfortable for him, but it was painful for her, and his heart ached at what he had to do. His mother had taught him a good deal of her craft, and it had served him well over the years. The best thing she’d left him was the battered old medicine chest, and it was thankfully still fairly well-provisioned for battle injuries such as these. Mostly he’d only ever had to deal with the odd cut and splinter. Now, the long thin needle and thread he’d always hated using would have to see service once again.
The mare hadn’t opened her eyes since he’d found her, and it worried him. Even wiping around them, her head, horn, and muzzle, she’d barely made more than a small gasp, groan, or whimper. She was clearly weakened and probably exhausted from her trials. Unfortunately, they weren’t over yet.
Rush mixed poultices and cleansing herbs, preparing the jars and bottles, laying them out so they were close to hand. Each of the wounds he washed out with water first, then rinsed them with a special infusion which would help avoid any suppuration of the wounds as they healed. Next, he took out his razor, sharpened it on the strop, and carefully shaved around the larger wounds. He could only hope and pray there were no internal injuries. Thank the gods her legs weren’t broken—he’d heard how horses had been ‘put down’ after suffering a break. He’d never agreed with that. Surely there had to be some way to heal them, even if they would never be able to run again?
“Humans,” he grumbled to himself, threading the needle and moving the lantern closer so he could better see the ugly work that needed to be done.
“This may hurt, my beautiful mare,” he said in a voice a lot calmer than he felt right then. “It’ll be over soon, and we’ll have you all better”
He hoped so. The mare twitched beneath his touch and whimpered aloud as the needle pushed into her skin. In a way, it was like he was doing this to himself, the pain not in his skin, but deep inside, in his heart. Rush hadn’t felt like this in a long time, a very long time. Each pass of the needle was necessary to help her, each movement of his hands, washing and applying the healing poultices and ointments was as much an ordeal for him as it was for her.
Why did he feel this way? He’d worked on wounded soldiers before and never felt anything other than a calm sense of ‘getting the job done’. Rush was experiencing emotions and sensations here he couldn’t ever recall having had before, not even when he’d lost his mother to the summer flux that passed through the land every few years. He’d been upset certainly, saddened by her loss, but nothing like this.
Rush reached up and wiped his eyes. They were stinging and tearing up. It must have been the vapours from the infusions; that must be it. Being in the confines of his house, there was little ventilation to remove the smell of the strong smelling herbs, but he didn’t want to open the windows to the chill air outside. His main concern, though, was having enough of the herbs to treat her. So far, he’d only dealt with one side of the mare. The other still needed to be addressed, and he was nearly at the point where he would have to do that. Still, that was a bridge that needed to be crossed, and crossed it would be.
He ran his fingers down the mare’s leg and lifted it gently, inspecting her underside. Slowly but firmly, he ran his hand along her chest and belly, feeling for any abnormalities and thankfully finding none. The mare had groaned as he’d run his hands over her, but not finding any injuries, he’d shrugged and continued.
The reed-worker-turned-veterinarian sat back on the heels and wiped his forehead. He’d done what he could, but now the task of turning her over was next. How the hell was he going to do this? He didn’t want to risk bursting her stitches, but he couldn’t just leave her like that. The best course of action he could think of was to roll her, and he had just the plan.
It was crude but would have to do. He’d placed his own bedding on the other side of the mare and tied ropes to her legs. Rush had tried to be as gentle as he could, even wrapping cloth around where the ropes touched her legs, but he knew this was going to be uncomfortable for her one way or another. He stroked her mane and spoke softly to her.
“I’m going to roll you now, my beautiful lady. It may hurt a little, but I have to treat both sides of you.”
There was no reply, only a sighing noise from her which gave him pause. He didn’t want to do this to her, but what choice did he have? With a deep breath, he began steadily tugging on the ropes, the body of the white mare beginning to roll onto her back until her legs were straight up in the air. A little more effort and she began to roll onto her other side. The mare cried out briefly but then settled once more, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
Rush quickly untied the ropes and went to her side. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know it hurts. The worst is over now; we just need to treat this side and then we’re done.”
He began working on the mare immediately, knowing from experience that the quicker he finished, the better her chances of survival would be. Rush shook his head sadly. This side was just as bad as the other. Together with numerous smaller cuts and bruises, there were several deeper gashes that had bitten through into the muscle beneath. Internal injuries were something he’d never had to deal with, and he could only hope that his ministrations were going to be sufficient to help her pull through.
Throughout the long hours of the night, the reed worker tended to his charge, the lamp sending strange flickering shadows onto the wall of the wooden house as he cleaned, stitched, and bandaged the mare. Any thoughts of what she was, or how she had come to be where he’d found her, were forgotten. Rush’s mother had taught him well. A healer must focus on their craft, work quickly and thoroughly, then move on to the next patient.
This time, there were no more patients, no more cries and moans of the wounded and dying. Sometimes, even now, he would wake in the middle of the night, hearing the pleas from those he hadn’t been able to reach or had simply been too badly injured to help. It must have had more impact on him than he’d thought at the time. He’d talked about it with his mother, but she had admonished him for being too ‘emotional’, too ‘attached’ to those he was treating.
“You cannot become emotionally involved,” she had said. “Remain professional and keep a calm demeanour at all times. People trust a healer who appears unflappable whilst others are panicking around them. It eases their fears and soothes the heart.”
Rush’s mother, always the consummate professional. He had envied her ability to completely detach herself from her work when she returned home. She was a mother, a wife, the lady and mistress of her home. Her husband, Rush’s father, always came across as more of a lodger in their family than the traditional ‘head’ which was pretty much the norm for life in the village. As the only son, he had helped his mother and learned the family trade, her trade. His father didn’t really do much at all, just…drifted like a lost soul.
Rush had tried to engage with his father, taking time to talk to him about his plans, how his training with his mother was going, and he’d nod and offer pleasantries. He wasn’t listening. Rush could have been talking about the moon being pink with blue spots, and his father would still just sit there and nod, before inevitably saying, “That’s nice.”
It was always ‘nice’.
Eventually, Rush found that he’d simply stopped talking to him, and his father hadn’t even seemed to notice. The two were like strangers in the same house. They’d say good morning or the like if they met, but other than that, nothing.
It was one day in the spring that Rush had been woken by a loud hammering on the front door. He’d been in bed at the time, but was wide awake now, calling to his mother in alarm. A cacophony of voices had filled the house, and the baker from across the street had appeared in the doorway.
“Stay in here, boy, you hear me?”
The bedroom door slammed shut, and that was when he had heard the heartrending scream of horror from his mother. Rush had hammered on the door to be let out, to reach his mother and console her, but the cursed thing had been shut fast. He had been inconsolable, crying and howling his rage at the mocking barrier between his mother and himself. Falling to the floor, Rush’s tears had echoed those of his mother’s. Why would they keep them apart? What was happening?
That night, the house had been in silence and darkness, save for the dim light in his mother’s bedroom. Quietly, Rush had headed into the front room where most of the voices had been earlier. There, on a table under a sheet, had been the still form of his father.
He’d just sat there, staring at the man who was his father, had been his father. Rush didn’t know what to do. What could he do? His father was dead, blood staining the broken armour that he still wore, just another casualty in yet another pointless war.
His mother had changed after that terrible day. She had become cold, distant. He had tried everything he could think of to help her, just to make her smile again. She never did. Rush did not understand it. His father had been such a selfish and thoughtless man, and yet his loss had impacted on her to such a degree that she’d been left a broken shell of the mother he loved. The indifference he’d felt towards his father soured, eventually turning to a bitter resentment. He had treated Rush like a stranger, his mother like an unpaid servant, and yet even in death, his insidious influence continued.
He hated the man.
The flame of the lamp began to flicker as its fuel supply became exhausted. Rush was just about finished anyway; he could fill the lamp up in a minute. The mare’s breathing was still too fast for his liking, though. Her muzzle was hot and her eyes had never opened in all the time she’d been in his care. He’d be the first to admit that she looked a fright, covered in bandages, poultices, and dressings. The medical chest had never been intended for this much use, and it hadn’t been fully stocked in the first place. Resorting to ripping up clothes, towels, and anything else that he could find that was clean and usable, Rush had pressed them into service to help the wondrous creature now taking up his bedding roll.
“Guess it’s the floor for me then,” he muttered, trying to gather what he could to make up a makeshift mattress. It wasn’t working, and he gave it up as a bad job. He had a stack of unworked reeds in the work shed, but to go in there now meant letting the cold in and disturbing the sleeping mare. That wouldn’t do. He’d just have to stoke the fire and catch short naps when he could. With luck on their side, she’d survive the night.
Throughout the long hours, he tended her, keeping the fire hot, washing the rags with which he gently wiped her face. She was feverish, groaning and murmuring occasionally. He must have been exhausted himself—he was starting to think she was saying actual words! Rush shook himself and made a cup of tea to try and stay awake. He’d already done a full day’s work, and his body was demanding rest. He dismissed the thought with a grunt. Anyone who thought that taking care of the sick was an easy job needed their head examined.
The wind had died down at least, the sun just starting to crest the hills, and he smiled as the dawn’s chorus began. He loved this time of day, even though he often slept past it. Occasionally he’d wake early enough to listen to the birds singing in the forest. He felt a connection to it, one he’d never felt with other humans. He wondered if he’d been a forest creature in a previous incarnation. The world of men just didn’t feel as if it really had a place for him. Sure, Nasta had tried to help him, tried to bring him out of the forest and back into normal village life, but… No, it wasn’t for him.
She was shivering.
Despite the heat of the fire, the pure-white mare was shaking. Rush slid around and placed his forehead on hers. She was burning up. Quickly, he hurried over to the old trunk in the corner of the room, buried under years of junk and the detritus of a single man’s life. Handfuls of old tools, ropes, and the gods knew what else were unceremoniously thrown to one side until he was able to pull open the lid. It was covered in filth, but the items inside were as good as the day he’d put them in there. With a pang of nostalgia, he grabbed the cloak and blanket, shaking them out before walking back over to the mare.
Carefully, Rush lowered the blanket over her, rolling up his old cloak and placed it carefully under her head as a pillow. He reached over and stroked her mane. It was sticky with sweat; her tail probably was too. Rush didn’t want to risk washing them now. He’d wait until she’d had a good amount of rest and then he’d tackle that job. In a strange way, he was actually looking forward to it. Having someone to care for, to devote yourself to… well, maybe it wasn’t so bad. Perhaps he should go and see Nasta about his daughter after all. It couldn’t hurt, right?
The sun was fully up in the sky now, and Rush’s charge was sleeping peacefully, her chest rising and falling gently. Her fever had broken as well, he was very relieved to see. Yawning expansively, Rush checked the contents of the medical chest, noting morosely how severely it was depleted. Market day wasn’t for another week yet, so he’d have to go out and hunt for the herbs and ingredients he needed the old fashioned way, the way his mother had shown him all those years ago. He was sure he’d seen the sickle in the corner with all the other things he’d moved to get at the chest, and sure enough, there it was. A little rusty, but some work with a whetstone and it quickly took an edge. He walked over to the mare and ran his hand over her head. Good, not sweaty any more—that was a good sign. Rush leaned forward, placing his forehead on hers, and sighed in relief. She was a lot cooler than she had been last night,
“Looks like the fever's broken, girl. You’re one lucky…” Lucky what? Horse? What was she? Rush shrugged, taking in her magnificent horn and the bulge of her wings under the blanket.
“I don’t know who you are, or what you are,” he said quietly, watching her breathing steadily, “but I can’t keep calling you ‘girl’.”
Rush scratched the stubble on his chin—he’d really need to have a shave today. He looked at the mare lying on the reed bed, her coat as pure as the snow that covered her the night he’d found her. If she’d been any other colour, he might have spotted her sooner, but as it was…
“Snow,” he whispered. “Yes, I like that.”
The reed worker stood and collected his gear, heading for the door. Before he left, he paused, looking back over his shoulder and gave her a little smile. “I’ll be back soon, Snow. You rest and get your strength back. We’ll have you back to your old self in no time, you’ll see.”
He closed the door behind him and leaned back against it, looking up into the pure blue sky. Despite the cold of the early winter’s morning, he felt a warm tingling inside his chest, a feeling he wasn’t familiar with that made him smile. With a sudden burst of energy, Rush started to run, giggling to himself like a child, running and running for all he was worth. Snow kicked up around his feet as he ploughed through the virgin drifts, laughing wildly at the absurdity of the world around him. He must be losing his mind, that was it. Exhausted, overexerted, but he didn’t care anymore. He was…happy? Yes! By the gods, that was it. That inexplicable feeling down in the cold depths of his heart, one he hadn’t felt since he was a child.
Rush smiled. He was actually happy.
Collecting the herbs wasn’t as easy as he’d hoped. Many were seasonal, and some of the more common ones had shrivelled considerably with the cold. Fresh was always better than dried, but if he mixed what he’d managed to find with the dried, it would do a passable job until he could see the trader.
The cold breeze stung his cheeks as he traipsed back up the hill to his home. He’d managed to collect a sizeable amount in the end, including some of the red bark from the aptly named ‘fever tree’. It probably wasn’t its real name, but it was what it was. His mother had tested him on his knowledge time and time again until he could recite from memory the recipes, potions and concoctions of the healer’s trade. He’d thought that one day he would follow in her footsteps, but it wasn’t to be. Fate had not been kind to Rush, but still, that same fate had brought him the white mare, and for that at least he could be grateful.
He stopped a moment to catch his breath. Damn it all, he wasn’t young any more, and running about like a lunatic had set his old injury off, making him grit his teeth against the pain. Leaning against a tree, he pushed against it, feeling the pain ease slightly. Rush knew from long experience that it was going to take at least a week to settle down again, but he was damned if that was going to hamper him. He couldn’t slow down, not now, not with Snow needing him.
A movement further back in the forest caught his eye and he froze. A bear? Maybe, but they were usually in hibernation this time of year. Whatever it was though, it was big, and watching him. He couldn’t see its eyes or make out its shape, but he could feel them boring into him, watching his every move intently. A shiver ran down his spine, making his heart leap in his chest. He hadn’t experienced this in quite a long time. Trying to avoid looking directly at the thing, he began walking calmly back up the hill, keeping a wary if surreptitious eye on it, just in case it—
Whatever it was made a sudden move, stepping between the bamboo and making them sway as it brushed past them. Fear, that most primal of emotions, struck Rush like a sledgehammer and he broke into a run. The shape began moving quicker now, accelerating towards him as he himself picked up speed.
His pursuer came on, any attempt at stealth abandoned in its headlong charge through the forest. Bamboo bent and snapped, the sound adding speed to Rush’s heels as he ran for all he was worth.
The ground hampered him and the pack slowed him, but if he dropped it, he’d have nothing to treat Snow with. He kept her focused in his mind as he ran. ‘Think of the goal, not the race,’ his mother had told Rush when he was training. Gods damn it, that was easier to say than to do! His lungs were burning, his legs screaming in protest, but cold fear was pushing him on now. His pursuer was getting closer; he didn’t dare look back, but could hear it gaining on him. It was unnaturally fast, and he knew with horrifying certainty that there was no way he could outrun it.
There was a crash behind him as the cabin hove into view. With a final surge of speed which he never knew he had, he flew through the door, slamming it shut behind him and bolting it. Rush grabbed his reed knife and the old spear, turning toward the door and backing away, expecting the thing to burst through at any moment.
Silence.
His heart hammering in his chest, he gulped down air and readied himself for a fight. Outside, nothing moved, nothing stirred, only the sound of the wind through the bamboo and there, just faintly, the sound of breathing.
It wasn’t human.
Through the thin cracks in the walls, he could see something moving, something huge. The thing paced back and forth, thwarted by its quarry taking shelter. It snorted, pawing at the ground. Even though Rush couldn’t see the thing in any detail, he could sense the anger and frustration emanating from it like an open furnace. He changed his grip on the spear, holding it as he’d been trained. He gritted his teeth and moved to the shuttered window, trying to see through the crack, but all he caught was the briefest glimpse of a black shape just out of eyeshot.
Rush took a deep breath. “Come on then!” he yelled. “What are you waiting for? You want a fight? I’ll send you to hell where the demons will feast on your stinking soul!”
There was a sudden loud hiss and clicking sound from outside, followed by the distinct neighing of a horse. So, the riders had come back, had they? They were out of luck if they were looking for Snow’s rider, but if they thought they were getting her, they were sadly mistaken.
He waited. They were only seconds, but still dragged by like hours. Rush could feel his heart beating hard, his breath hot in his lungs, the tightness of the grip he held on the spear, yet nothing came. The thing was still outside, he knew it. He could sense it watching, waiting. In a sudden flurry of churned up snow and mud, the black shape turned and charged off back in the forest's depths. Rush took a deep breath and collapsed onto his knees. Dear gods, he was too old for this nonsense. Why couldn’t people leave him alone?
Whatever the mysterious rider wanted, he was gone. A quick look out of the windows confirmed it, the ground around the cabin churned up by a horse’s hooves. Blasted soldiers—even out here, their incessant fighting and murderous ways had come to his door. The hills and mountains were thick with bandits, a lot of them former vassals of fallen warlords left without employment… or food. He could negotiate with them. They could see he had nothing and leave him be. Occasionally they would stay with him for shelter, take what little food he had, and leave. Scum they may be, but at least they left him with all his limbs and his life.
Whoever that had been was different, and it scared him. He wasn’t easily frightened as a rule—living out here wasn’t for the faint of heart, to be sure—but this… this was something that made his blood run cold.
Speaking of cold, the fire had burned down low, the temperature in the room dropping to such a degree that he could see his breath. Thank the gods he’d remembered to bring in plenty of firewood—going outside now suddenly didn’t seem like such a good idea.
Rush’s tortured muscles came back to remind him of his recent exertions, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the aches that began to assail him in earnest. Rubbing his shoulder and legs, he sat himself down by the white mare, carefully removing the blanket.
He leaned forward and sniffed. Good, no bad smells—it looked like the wounds hadn’t become infected. If they had…Rush shook his head. No, it didn’t bear thinking about. Nothing good ever came of negative thoughts, although he certainly had more than his fair share of those. His patient, though, wasn’t out of the woods yet, but whether she’d survive now was as much down to her as it was to him.
She was a magnificent creature. Despite the bandages and poultices, Rush could picture in his mind how she must have looked before those animals had attacked her. He could understand bandits, soldiers possibly, attacking her rider and that she could very well be hurt in the ensuing melee, but her injuries looked like someone had deliberately targeted her. But why? Was she the focus of rage from a thwarted enemy, a symbol of their foe that they wanted to kill out of spite? There were so many questions about her that it made his head spin.
Snow couldn’t speak, but animals had a kind of language all their own. You just had to listen.
He smiled, wiping her forehead with a clean damp cloth and stroked her ear. “Well, my young lady, it’s time to get that hair of yours washed. That’ll make you feel better.”
Now this was something Rush had some experience in. Working in the lord's employ as a youngster, he’d earned a few coins by taking on odd jobs. One of them had been to help the farrier and stable master with the mounts. They were tall, lean creatures, some of them having quite a mean temper as well, as he’d quickly discovered. On one occasion, much to the amusement of the other stable lads at the time, he’d been painfully bucked into a steaming pile of dung by the lord’s own stallion.
He’d eventually found ways to thwart the more skittish of the horses there, and surprised himself to discover he actually began to enjoy the hard work. Snow, on the other hand, was a different matter. He didn’t know her. She could suddenly come to, panicking at her surroundings and attack him. She was clearly a war horse, one who was quite likely trained to be as much of a weapon as the spear her rider had carried. However, that was a thought for later.
Soon enough, the water had been heated just enough in the small cauldron, and Rush took off the lid to check the herb bag. It smelled wonderful: fresh, lively, and clean. He poured it into the bowl and collected his old kit bag. Good, it still had the brushes and combs from his days at the lord’s house. Rush wouldn’t describe himself as a hoarder, but he certainly threw nothing away if it was still usable. Why he’d kept these was a bit of mystery, though, but whatever the reason, he was glad he had.
The herb-infused steam soon began to fill the room. Lavender—it had always been his favourite. If nothing else, Snow would feel a little more comfortable for having her sweat-stained mane and tail clean. With no time like the present, Rush took up her long mane and dunked it in the water.
There was still dried blood in there, mud, twigs, and the gods knew what else. He worked at the tangles with the comb, holding clumps of it whilst he did his best to get the knots out. Cutting knots was the last resort, but he’d never had to do that yet, and the thought of it with Snow made him shudder. No, she’d been ‘cut’ enough through her dreadful trial in the forest, and it was up to him now to do what he could to restore the majesty of this enigmatic creature.
Rush had all but forgotten about the rider in the forest from earlier, lost in the strangely therapeutic combing and brushing of Snow’s mane. It was starting to glisten now, and the brush ran through it without any snags or pulls. He smiled, lifting her mane and draping it over a drying rack he used for the reeds. Her long mane needed air to dry, and he worried about the dampness against her coat. He’d done his best to dry it off with a towel, but it still needed to dry thoroughly. The fire was giving off plenty of heat, so it shouldn’t take long before he could give it a final brush out.
Snow’s tail was much the same: dried mud, small twigs, and other detritus had stuck to the long hair and were a devil to get out. He was surprised by just how long it was as well, far longer than the horses he used to tend. The stable lads were always mindful to keep the tails and manes of their charges deliberately short. Snow’s, by comparison, was incredibly long. Rush shrugged as he began picking out the worst of the debris.
This was going to take a long time…