Two weeks later, Colton and Tyran had begun to settle into their new lives. Admittedly, the change was not an easy one—they were living in what was virtually an endless desert, never having been mapped or traveled in its entirety, an attempt to do so being a death sentence. Moreover, they were now sharing a small two room house, almost a shack, with an eremitic old man and no means to leave, unless, of course, they wished to wander as far as the desert allowed until it killed them.
Colton, once willing to fight through any pain and recklessly endanger the permanent health of his ankle, was willing now to pass most of his time in bed or, as the days passed, seated by the window. For his part, Tyran paced the floor in constant thought, his eyes sometimes deep with sorrow, more often fierce with anger. The only thing to occupy their minds was the memory of their recent past within Vellatha, their own situation offering little excitement to distract them.
They learned also what kind of diet the desert offered. A large, dry garden produced the only food they could eat, and it was a small variety. Corn, gourds, and a few thick-skinned fruits formed the greater portion of their meals, a diet entirely unlike what they had been accustomed to.
There was, after five weeks, only one event that caught Colton’s interest. He had been standing outside the house, testing his ankle’s ability to walk without the splint for one of the first times, when a sudden thundering sounded and tore his mind from its thoughts. Not a far distance from where he stood, a mighty herd of horses cantered across the desert, wild manes whipping in the wind as sand flew through the air beneath their hooves. They were fierce, majestic creatures, belonging to the desert and to freedom. At their head ran the greatest of them all, a mighty stallion, fearless against any predator, knowing well that he was king.
At the well stood the old man, leaning over a bucket of water. He paused his work to watch them.
“Where do they come from?” Colton asked.
“The legends tell the story of a wild stallion,” he said, “the first and mightiest of Vellatha’s horses, called by the name Slaynmere. The son of the king, an arrogant and irresponsible lad, demanded the horse to be his, but his father would do nothing in the way of subduing the creature. Such an animal, he said, was meant for freedom. There was something engrained in its mind that refused to be tamed, that knew it belonged to the open plains and to the wind, and would not give up the smallest sliver of its freedom.
“But the boy was deaf to his father’s words. As prince, there was nothing he could do, and upon his rise to the throne the lords hoped he would have forgotten his foolish notion to tame the horse. But they were dismayed to find that quite the contrary was true, and within a week of his coronation he began offering rash promises of ridiculous sums of money for his wish to be fulfilled.
“Against all expectations, men came quickly from across the kingdom, eager to win fame for the undoable deed. One after the other they ventured across the desert and through the forests of Vellatha, but according to records the horse had only been spotted a few times. Most didn’t even know what they were looking for, and returned shamefully with nothing to show for themselves. A few claimed to have seen the horse, even to have subdued it for a short while, but they too made their return empty handed.
“Slaynmere became renowned as the unconquerable horse, the embodiment of power and freedom. There would be more to make the attempt, but their names would never touch the pinnacle of fame. The young king died and more would take his place, and Slaynmere’s time would come as well. The difference was that, while the king’s line would worsen and weaken with each new king, the horses that followed from Slaynmere would always retain the fierceness and strength that began with him.
“It is his kind that roams the desert now, untouchable by men and beasts. There are only a few truly wild herds now, the rest being taken to the city to be subdued. But these—they will never have their freedom stolen, never die except when their wild spirits live out their time here.”
Colton’s eyes lingered on the herd as they faded across the desert.
“Would they have the stamina to take us back to the city?” he asked.
The man turned to Colton, his eyes almost fierce.
“The stamina, yes. They could carry you to the city and well beyond, but in theory only. No man has come close to laying hands on them, and never will. They’re untamable. And there’s nothing waiting for you at the palace but a bunch of angry men eager to have your head.”
Colton was silent, deep in thought as the old man dragged the bucket from the well and walked back inside. Three weeks passed, and as Tyran receded into himself silently, angrily, Colton kept a constant eye on the horizon, always listening for the thundering of horses’ hooves. It was, perhaps, a foolish hope, but Colton could not live out the rest of his days in the middle of this desert, and he could see Tyran was closer to killing himself than remaining there much longer. He guessed what it was that plagued his friend mercilessly, and the thought struck him with guilt. What right had he, he asked himself, to take Tyran from his home and people and the only woman he had ever loved? But it was done now, and Tyran would be dead if they had not left. Colton only wondered if that was perhaps what Tyran wished for now, now that they had been left to endure a monotony far more agonizing than their previous lives.
Eight weeks ago, Colton had promised to himself that he would be content only to survive, so close to death he had not cared what existence he had to endure so long as he did not die. But Ealric had been right—no man was content with such a life, and not a day passed that Colton did not find himself wishing for far more than what he had at present. A part of him wished desperately that he could go back to those times with Ealric, when life held more interest, more action, and ignorance had lent him an opportunity for happiness. Why had he not listened to Ealric, he reproached himself bitterly, and enjoyed life while he could? He had had every chance to be happy, even to have freedom, but he had blinded himself to it and put all his sights on a future that would be founded purely on deception. And upon discovering this deception, what had he done but flee and leave the rest of the kingdom to suffer from it?
Tyran knew they had to return; that much he made clear without ever speaking a word. But as ready as they were to begin walking straight across the desert, engrained logic restrained them from that “death wish,” as their host put it. As much as he made his hate for the king clear, the old man quickly shut down any conversation leading toward the idea of their leaving.
“It is foolishness,” he told them both severely. “You would die halfway to the city.”
“Better a thousand deaths stranded in that desert, at least making an attempt to cross it, than remaining here like a coward,” Tyran said harshly.
“Do you think it is cowardice that has kept me here?” the old man turned on him angrily. “One man cannot overthrow Alastor and all his men. Not three, or ten, or ten score.”
Tyran rose from where they sat, bitterness in his eyes. “Would it be so difficult for one or two men to slip into the palace, to end the king’s life where he lies in his bed, to repay one attempted murder with another, this time, unfailing?”
“No, it would not. And that is why it is so dangerous. Return to the city, if you can, Tyran, and kill the king, for I do not doubt it is within your ability. But that would not end his deception, nor does one murder justify another.”
“Justify! Would you speak of justification, and excuse a man who has destroyed hundreds of lives? Alastor is a murderer, a tyrant, a hypocrite and a liar. Even his death would not justify all the wrongs he has done.”
“If you go to Vellatha with such a state of mind, you will be undoubtedly and mercilessly killed. Alastor may die, but in his place will rise his seven lords and his generals and trainers and his entire army. You cannot stand alone against an empire and defeat it.”
“I cannot imagine Vellatha is so cowardly or so blind as to stand with the king when all his lies have been exposed.”
“But they would not be standing with the king. They would be standing with the city, with the kingdom, with the people. Alastor’s lords are wise, some perhaps more than he. They would offer their own deception in place of the king’s, and cement their own power. The people have been fed lies all their lives—what makes you think they will not readily accept more?”
“They would be fools to do so.”
“They are fools, Tyran, as we were once too. But ignorance is not all that makes a fool. If you go to Vellatha in blind rage to assassinate its king, you will be just as much a fool as they.”
“Rage does not make me blind; it gives me clarity. Apart from anger, I would have no heart to fight the king’s injustice.”
“You must learn to tame your anger, if not eradicate it, for you have no means to return to the city. Build yourself a life here; it is not unrewarding in its simplicity.”
“Build a life here!” Tyran repeated, his fury ignited once again. “What life is there to be had here? You are wasting away in a desert, never caring that you have isolated yourself from the world and life itself.”
“I am happy here,” the old man, almost in confusion that not all could enjoy the secluded lifestyle he had built for himself.
“Life is more than breath in one’s lungs,” Tyran said, his voice quieter now. “This desert offers nothing but misery and a long, slow death. If you can find happiness here, enjoy it. But that is a very shallow happiness.”
Tyran turned coldly from the table and left the house, leaving Colton and the old man in silence. The days that followed passed in sharp tension. Tyran spoke little, his mind ever-detached from the present world. The old man began to ignore his guests, and Colton was left to his own thoughts. He lay upon the floor in what had become his bed several nights later, staring at the dying fire in the fireplace.
In his mind was the same picture as always, Fianna’s face as she had stood beside the muddy stream they used to pretend was a sparkling river, smiling so sweetly as he promised her freedom and jewels and, above all, his love. He had been just as ignorant, almost as innocent, as she. Never guessing that there was more to the life he had been taught to long for and dream of, never seeing further than what was right before him, never caring for anything but his own interests. What care was given to him, now? He was gone from the city of Vellatha, and the world had continued just as before. Men were perhaps dying because Alastor’s deception was still carefully hidden—they certainly would be, come the Games again—and he was living isolated in the desert with no way to undo that.
Into Colton’s thoughts came the sudden thundering of hooves, distant at first, but growing rapidly louder. Colton jerked upright, listening intently for just a moment, and then leapt to his feet. On the edge of the room, he threw open the lid of a chest and fumbled for a rope in the dark. Then he was outside as the horses approached the house, tying a knot as quickly as his fingers could. The horses were huge, beastly in their ferocity. The desert itself was wild, unquestionably powerful, but beneath the horses’ hooves its danger faded and the wildness of the herd was the only thing left to wonder at.
For a long moment Colton stood still, caught up in his awe at the creatures, but then as the herd was nearly passed he flung his lasso. The noose sailed over the heads of the horses, and for a moment he was sure his aim had failed him, but then the rope fell over the head of one of the horses taking up the rear and slid taut. The next moment a whinny split the night, fierce and angry. Colton stood pitted against the horse as it pounded the ground and threw its head in the air, slowly pulling the horse closer to him to gain control of its head. The horse was infuriated now, as its herd galloping away, its horrific screeching neighs sounding again and again across the desert.
Tyran appeared at the doorway, sword in hand, but he dropped the weapon as he took in the scene and rushed to Colton’s side. For a moment they battled the horse together, and yet as the rope was pulled and strained upon it began to grow thin in its center, threads snapping and fraying.
“Get another rope,” Colton shouted above the horse’s racket.
Tyran released the rope and disappeared in an instant, and the rope began to slip through Colton’s hands.
“Hurry!” he cried, though he knew that Tyran could not hear him. Finally Tyran reappeared, casting a second noose around the horse’s head.
They could not have been fighting the horse for more than a couple minutes, less, even, but to Colton it may as well have been two long hours. Every second the horse pulled further away from them was an eternity, until all three were sweating heavily and the sand clung to their tired muscles. The horse’s will held out longer than anything, but at last its movements stilled to little more than the jerking of its head against the rope.
Above the stars shone brightly down on the three, exhausted and coated in dust. Colton stood by the horse’s head, talking calmly and stroking its neck till a little of the wildness in its eyes began to fade. By the house stood the old man, arms crossed, too angry to humble himself to the use of his cane.
“Get that creature out of here,” he said.
Tyran met his gaze evenly, his eyes at last bright and strong with something other than anger.
“We’ll be out of your sight soon,” he said.
“That horse will destroy this place,” the man said. “It may be calm now, but wait for it to get its strength back and it’ll be as crazed as ever.”
“No she won’t,” Colton said. “That’s not how horses are. They’re not like men. Once they have your trust they never turn back. Now calm down and go back inside, or you’ll spook her.”
The old man looked from Colton to the horse, grunted, and turned back inside.
“How soon will she be ready?” Tyran asked, handing his end of the rope to Colton.
“Give her time. A few weeks, at the very least.”
“I’ll be counting the days.”
Love this quote:
“Life is more than breath in one’s lungs,” Tyran said, his voice quieter now. “This desert offers nothing but misery and a long, slow death. If you can find happiness here, enjoy it. But that is a very shallow happiness.”