Page 55 of WarBride

A shuddering breath escapes my lips. There’s something so awful about such a glorious being begging for help. Begging formyhelp, no less. But there’s something beautiful here too. In that one word, I hear the love the unicorn bears for his rider, and . . . well, the truth is, that love is not unmerited. I may hate the man for what he has brought into my life, but I cannot deny his honor. His courage. His strength and resolve. He risked hislife for mine when he had no reason to do so. No one would have blamed him had he simply washed his hands of me and gone about his day without a second thought. Most men would have.

“Fine!” I growl, anger and resignation warring for dominance in my breast. “Fine, I’ll go with you. But not for long, do you hear me? I’m coming back.”

The unicorn, understanding me perfectly, kneels on the paving stones, apparently expecting me to climb onto its back. The fire licking across his skin douses, leaving behind solid flesh. I hesitate. I’ve seen these creatures flaming in battle, seen how that flame overwhelms their riders. Taar looked like a living torch when he fought Lurodos in the pit. If this unicorn suddenly erupts once more in flame, I’ll probably be incinerated on the spot.

“Skewer it,” I mutter and scramble into the saddle, clutching a handful of mane with one hand as the unicorn rises. My head whirls with vertigo. My gods, but this beast is tall! A worthy mount for his rider. I’ve always been drawn to horses, riding being one of the few outdoor activities my mother considered suitable for my upbringing. But I was usually mounted on dainty hunters bred specifically to carry highborn and delicate ladies.

This is nothing like that. It reminds me instead of the time I snuck out and rode Gloridel, my father’s destrier. Age and retirement had made him docile, but he still rippled with muscular strength. I’d not been able to urge him into more than a canter, but the ground had absolutely quaked under his feet. The thrill of feeling all that power under me had rather spoiled me for other steeds. Though I was punished severely once caught and never allowed near Gloridel or any of the other war horses again, I never forgot that feeling.

This is something like that, only on so much greater of a scale as to be almost laughable. This beast is not only massive in size, but also in the overawing force of his spirit, which no mere horsecould hope to equal. There’s an undeniable sense that so much more of him exists than can be contained within the physical confines of this body, no matter how tremendous that body may be. It’s like his spirit is meant to be a star, burning bright in the vaults of heaven, but has been compressed to fit this form, all without losing any of the power of his true nature. It’s terrifying, overwhelming, and completely exhilarating.

I wind my fingers through his mane, holding on tight as he springs into motion. It feels like no more than a single leap before we leave the town behind. By the time I blink and draw a breath into my tight lungs, we’re already out in open country, speeding down that lonely dirt road. The wind is cold, sharp against my face, but I peer ahead through slitted eyelids, searching.

Finally I see him—Taar, standing in the middle of the road. His back is to me, his arms slack at his sides. He seems to be staring out across the landscape, but when I look beyond him, I cannot see what has captivated his attention. There’s nothing but the forest ahead, no sign of any life, of any enemy or threat.

I let out a breath through my clenched teeth, more relieved than I like to admit to see him upright and whole. But why did the unicorn come out of his way to fetch me? I don’t understand it.

The unicorn slows his pace, coming to a stop several yards back from his rider. Shaking his mane, he utters a strange sound, like a growl and whimper combined. His cloven hooves prance in place, churning up the mud of the road. Taar does not react, does not turn at the sound of his unicorn’s voice. He stands like a statue, and only the wind stirring in his hair betrays any sign of life. I bite my lip, frowning. Should I call out to him? There’s something unnatural about his stance.

“What is he looking at?” I say, leaning over the unicorn’s neck to speak the words to his back-tilted ears.

The unicorn shivers. Fine cracks seem to open up across the skin of his neck. Red light flares through, radiating heat, like fissures in the earth revealing magma at its core. He’s suddenly much too hot for comfort. Fearing a sudden burst of engulfing flame, I hastily slip from the saddle. It’s some distance from his back to the ground, and the landing jars the bones of my ankles. I back away from the unicorn hastily, heart pounding. He tosses his head again, rumbling another strange growl that sounds so wrong coming from his throat. It’s not an aggressive sound, however, but pleading.

“What do you expect me to do?” I mutter, oddly hesitant to raise my voice and call Taar’s attention to me. He looks so odd standing there. I can’t explain it. It’s as though some perception I’ve hitherto been unaware of is trying to warn me of something. Like a song, singing from a great distance.

I glance at the unicorn again. Those hairline cracks are spreading swiftly across his hide, the fire underneath intensifying. Gods, this can’t be good. I pull my cloak around myself, a flimsy shield of sorts. Then, because I don’t know what else to do, I turn to Taar. “Warlord?” I call out softly.

He doesn’t hear me. Perhaps I wasn’t loud enough. I clear my throat and take three steps toward him. “Warlord?” I call again, a little more forcefully this time. “This gods-blasted beast of yours chased me down and brought me back to you. He seems to think something’s amiss.” I take a few more hesitant steps, my brow tightening.“Issomething amiss, warlord? Did you . . . did you send for me?”

Now that I’m nearer, I can hear him breathing—deep, heavy, labored breaths. His chest expands and contracts hugely, the muscles of his shoulders moving with the effort. Though his arms continue to hang loose, his fingers keep curling with claw-like tension, then relaxing, then curling again.

My lips are dry and cracked, despite the moisture in the air. I lick them uneasily. Then, though I can’t explain how I do it, I reach out to him—not with my hand, but with my spirit. With that part of me that feels music, that understands the language and shape of song in ways that defy mere language.

I’m hit by a wave of something dark. It stops me in my tracks so abruptly, I gasp for breath. I stagger back a step, shaking my head. The impression is gone already, leaving nothing but aftershock in its wake. What was that? That sourness of sound, that discord? I’ve heard my fair share of amateur musicians attempt to play or sing—I’ve heard weak voices fail to hit notes, untrained fingers stumble over strings. But those were always mistakes; they never effected the rightness of the song being attempted.

This, however, was no mistake. This was purposeful. It was like the song itself was being . . . bled somehow. Broken, drained, purged of what made it music. A dissonance, a breaking of all melody into madness, done with absolute intent.

I blink and shake my head. A dull ache throbs at my temples, but . . . but did I just imagine it? Thatun-song? Surely I must have. Whatever that was, it was too brief to have been real. My ears ring, but the only sound I hear now is Taar’s deep breathing and my own thudding heart. They work in strange synchronization, making a little counterpoint song all their own. Why do I get the strange feeling that these sounds are all part of a paper-thin reality? That the true world, the true song, exists underneath in that space I cannot quite hear . . .

Suddenly I want very much to turn on heel and run from this place. I look back over my shoulder, half-prepared to flee, but the unicorn stands in the middle of the road, blocking my escape. He too is breathing hard, and those cracks across his skin are spreading fast. His eyes burn, little flickers of red light dancing like trailing lashes from his lids.

“Oh gods,” I breathe, more a curse than a prayer. Steeling my spine, I turn to the warlord again. Uncertain what else to do, I take another two steps toward him. “Taar?” I call tentatively.

At the sound of his name, he turns.

I choke on a scream as the nightmare that is his face appears before me. Black tears pour down his cheeks, running in rivulets from his engorged eyes and spilling through his beard to splatter on his heaving chest. His lips roll back from his teeth, and oozing bile spills over his jaw, spurting with every breath he heaves.

He cannot see. Not through those tears. And yet I feel the moment when his focus fixes on me. His mouth twists in a hideous smile.

“Run,”he growls.

Deep down—down underneath the panic-thrilling jolt of terror racing like lightning through my veins—some reasonable part of me knows that I shouldn’t. If I run, he will give chase. He simply won’t have a choice in the matter. If I’m to survive, my only hope is to stand my ground.

But reason has no place in my mind now.

I whirl in a flurry of skirts and cloak and hurtle back down the rutted road as fast as my feet will carry me.

20

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