The Mer- Lion (81 page)

Two men were down in almost as many minutes. How many before? De Wynter wondered. How many more? Already the circle of men about the pale horse was dissipating. Many of the men had lost their appetite for this struggle and moved on to more promising ground where the horses were predictable and the competitors could do the savaging. De Wynter did not take his eyes off the horse that now stood quietly, catching its breath, its sides heaving, its nostrils flaring. But he knew the horse was not exhausted. It held its head too high, its small, pricked ears moving rapidly back and forth,

sorting out those sounds that should be ignored. Its black eyes were calm, showing little white. That worried de Wynter. But he had made up his mind. This was the horse he would have.

Draping his rope about his neck, he moved sideways, circling the horse, hoping to come up on its rear and catch it unaware, but his steps in the loose sand betrayed him. Swinging its head about, the horse took its opponent's measure. Something about de Wynter disturbed the animal. Maybe it was his silver white hair... or the air
of confidence the man exuded. Enraged, the horse quickly pivoted to face his opponent, then rumbled—a deep chesty neigh. The man did not flinch or stop, but continued forward. Suddenly uncertain, the horse took one step back. A good sign, de Wynter thought. Still the man moved forward, hands at his sides. Again the horse retreated. That was the plan. To back the horse at least partially against the wall. Again the horse retreated but not before kicking sideways at another man. De Wynter was glad; the horse was keeping his fellow competitors honest.

The tension between the two white-haired ones grew more palpable by the moment. It was the horse, once so masterful, so sure of himself, so disdainful of men, that fidgeted and shook his skin nervously. De Wynter clapped his hands sharply. The horse jumped straight-legged. With that, a rope caught his leg and tripped him up. Within seconds the horse was down, hooves flying wildly. A man's weight on his head, a hand cruelly twisting his ear, another curling his sensitive nostril—the pain was too much for him. With a squeal of hatred, the horse conceded defeat and lay still. But de Wynter's problems weren't over. He had lost his rope in the struggle. Resourceful in his desperation, he unfastened his loincloth and used it as he had done with the ostrich as a blindfold about the white's eyes, then let the horse back up on its feet. Tugging painfully on its ear with his free hand, he led the horse over to where his rope lay abandoned in the sand. Then, though it took some doing", he managed to work his toes about the rope, and, standing one-legged, the horse actually supporting his weight, he brought the rope up to where he could grab it with one hand. After that it was an easy matter to make a noseband-halter out of the rope and lead his horse back—to applause and cheers from the Berbers, especially—to where his friends waited.

John the Rob, totally unsuccessful in every attempt that he'd made, found himself near the zebra. Desperate and taking a lesson from de Wynter, he too undid his loincloth and threw it over the beast's head. But instead of calming the animal as had happened with the white, the beast went berserk. Jerking the loincloth out of John the Rob's hand, it turned and twirled and kicked in every direction at once it seemed. One of its hooves landed beneath another stallion's chin, and knocked that animal off its feet. There was a mad scramble among the nearby contestants for the fallen animal, most getting there before John the Rob. Unfazed, he simply looped his rope around the necks of his competitors. The next thing they knew, they were tied together and stumbling over one another while a small, monkey-faced man calmly walked away with a horse.

Only Cameron now was without a horse, and there were not many horses left. One by one, all but four of the horses had been roped and brought under control, though often not by the man who had originally thrown his noose about the animal's neck. Fighting had been going on almost from the beginning, but now it was rampant Many a horse changed hands as his successive captors were overpowered, each replaced by another. Eulj Ali was no horseman, but he was a good dirty fighter. Maybe one of the best. Cameron was no match for him. A feint, some sand in the Scot's face, a kick in the groin, and when the long-legged one looked up from the sand where he lay doubled over with pain, a redhead was calmly walking off with his horse. De Wynter handed the rope of the white to the nearest man, saying, "Here, hold this." Whatever his intentions—to go to Cameron's aid or to take on Eulj Ali and get the horse back—it was too late. The ram's horn sounded. Silent ones dropped down into the arena from their stations on the first tier. Some rounded up and surrounded the walking losers. Others grasped the dead and the wounded by their heels and dragged them toward the Gate of Death. Still others leveled their lances at the group of slaves over by the wall, preventing de Wynter and the rest from coming to Cameron's rescue. The last they saw of their friend was an arm waving in the air. Whether deliberately, as signal to his friends, or by quirk of his rough treatment, no one knew. Gilliver, however, preferred to think George was waving them farewell. Fortunately for him, once all attention was on the losers, Angus and Ogilvy had each grabbed for
the rope that a grieving, unthinking Gilliver dropped. The judges now, they were sure, could not complain about teamwork.

De Wynter, looking about him, suddenly realized that they had lost more than one man this day. Menzies too was missing. "How?"

"Kicked in the forehead by a horse. He went down without a sound. Never moved once." Gilliver's strained voice supplied the details. He forgot to mention, and Ogilvy chose not to say, that the horse that did it was gray white. For now they had other business at hand, and de Wynter needed that horse for the morrow.

The six men swallowed their grief and numbed their minds with work. Expert hands turned lengths of rope into crude but effective halters. Then, it was a hand up and onto the stallion's back
...
and usually as quickly down on the ground again.

Rubbing backside ruefully or gasping for the wind knocked out when landing flat on one's back, each man had no choice but to get back up onto his unruly mount. Actually, the horses were more exhausted than their riders and most capitulated after only a token battie, but not the pale gray. The struggle between it and de Wynter went on for what seemed hours. To free itself of the rider, the white reared, bucked, sidewinded, fishtailed, fell to its knees, did the capriole again, deliberately fell on its side and attempted to roll over. But though de Wynter was dislodged more than once, he remounted immediately and, biding his time, waited for the horse to rear once more. Then, the white-haired man pulled the stallion back and over, jumping clear of the horse at the last minute. Falling, not by its own design, seemed to take the fight out of the stallion. For when it struggled back up to its feet, its ears were upright, its face relaxed and void of tension or expression.

Gilliver, who had been watching while holding the reins of the Highlanders' mounts as Angus gentled one for Gilliver (Ogilvy doing the same for John the Rob), suddenly spoke up: "If white is the color of purity, then that horse is pure evil." He said it without emotion, without inflection, as if stating an obvious known fact.

De Wynter, inclined to agree, felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck, but it was too late to do aught other than live with the situation. Mounting again, he pressed the horse into a gentle walk. The pale gray went forward like a lady's hackney, as if he'd been ridden all his life. A slight squeeze of the legs and the horse broke
into a slow trot. Urged faster, he moved on into a canter and then controlled gallop. De Wynter couldn't remember bestriding a smoother-going animal. Suddenly, the animal swerved and tried to brush his rider against the wall. But the man was too alert: He threw himself over to the side, pulling his leg out of danger. When he regained his seat atop the horse, the gray was once again going smoothly along. Only one twitching ear revealed any sign of nervousness.

De Wynter smiled grimly. It was going to be that kind of a battle, was it? Then the gray had better learn it had met its match. Kicking the horse savagely, he put it at a gallop and headed straight for a wall. Taking advantage of the animal's poor depth perception, he forced it on long after the beast would have swerved away. Only at the last minute did de Wynter pull the horse's head about, letting its own momentum carry its haunches bruisingly into the wall. There, he thought, letting the horse move at its own pace, discover that two can play at your game. That will give you something to think about.

"Ma'dan!"
A compelling voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Ma'dan. Mutajasur!"
A man in caftan and headdress sat atop the wall of the arena and leaned over.

De Wynter bowed his thanks for the Berber's kind words.

The man smiled at this
mujamala
by a slave. "You speak Sabir?" the desert chieftain asked, the lingua franca uncomfortable on his tongue.

"That or Arabic, whichever you prefer," de Wynter replied courteously. There was something about the hawk-faced man with his gray-tinged beard that inspired the same respect one accorded royalty.

"Good. We will speak in Arabic. The horse—you fought it bravery. What do you think of it?"

De Wynter looked down at the animal, its head cocked and slyly watching his every move. "A beauty in all but manners."

The sheikh laughed silentl
y, without showing teeth. "Agreed. But the silver-haired one may have met its match. We shall talk again. For now, I look forward to the contest tomorrow. May Allah look upon you with special favor." Even as de Wynter was replying in kind, the desert man rose and turned away in a swirl of robes, others similarly dressed, rushing to join him.

If de Wynter had been surprised by this encounter, he was astonished by the rest of the afternoon. As he schooled the horse, many were the Berbers who abandoned their seats in the gallery and came down to the first tier to hail him, compliment him, give him advice, ask his advice—all pertaining to the horse he was working. Some of the onlookers, drawn by their almost fanatical interest in the Arabian, actually leaped lightly down onto the sand to look the horses over more closely.

Although much of the attention centered about de Wynter, none of the others failed to get his share, for every horse represented a stable known for the purity of its lines and the beauty of its get.

CHAPTER
37

A very subdued Fionn returned to the cell beneath the arena. So dejected was he that he didn't notice the gloom within the cell, nor the absence of two of his companions. In fact, he never looked at the others,, instead going straight to his pallet and throwing himself down upon it, burying his face within the crook of his arm.

DeWynter exchanged glances with the rest of the men, then went over and squatted down beside the son of his long-time friend. "Fionn, what's wrong? The work with the horse, did it go badly?"

"No," came the muffled reply. "It went just fine."

"Then what's wrong?"

There was no reply for a long moment; then, Fionn heaved over onto his back and looked straight up into de Wynter's concerned blue
eyes. "Jamie, I mean, milord
" Fionn broke off in confusion.

"No, call me Jamie."

"Jamie," Fionn whispered, "do you remember the head they had on the pole? On the second day?" "Yes, all too well."

"I saw dozens more like it. Outside the arena. Rotting arms and legs, too, lying in heaps outside one of the gates. The smell makes you sick. And Jamie, some of the bones had been gnawed on."

De Wynter put a comforting hand on his friend's shoulder. "Don't think about it. The dead are dead. They have no care for what happens to their bones."

Fionn ignored de Wynter's words, gripping de Wynter's arm
tightly. "That's the point. I don't think they were all dead first.'' Horror permeated his voice, showed in his eyes. "And, Jamie,
I
recognized one of those heads." "Drummond's?" de Wynter asked.

"No. He's probably there, too. But the one I saw had its forehead smashed in. I think—I swear I knew that face."

De Wynter sighed, grimacing in pain. "Yes, it was Kenneth. They tell me he died instantly. Probably, he didn't feel a thing."

Fionn said nothing, merely closing his eyes. De Wynter couldn't tell whether his words gave the boy any relief. Many times he had to remind himself that Fionn was so many years younger than the rest. His vast height was deceiving. Now it was de Wynter's turn to bring up a difficult, unpleasant subject, but he had to know. "Fionn, think back. The heads up there. Did you recognize another one?"

Fi
onn searched his memory and shook his head. Then, the meaning behind the question struck home. "Who?" But be Wynter didn't have to answer. Fionn's searching glance had already discovered the missing face. "Cameron?"

De Wynter only nodded.

"Dead?" Fionn almost sounded hopeful.

"We don't know. We hope so."

"Jamie, tell me, do you think we'll survive this?"

The others could not avoid overhearing, the cell was so small, the room was so quiet. In spite of themselves, they turned toward de Wynter and Fionn, as if by staring at the two, they would hear better.

Normally, de Wynter would have weighed his words carefully, considering all positive and potentially negative reactions. But this time, he spoke with his gut, not his head: "Yes, Fionn. We'll survive. I can't tell you why or how I know. I have no logical reasons for saying so. But I know it. Tomorrow night, we'll be out of this cell and on our way, believe me. As sure as I am sitting here, I know this is the last night we'll spend like this."