LXXII
Sura's hooves thudded softly against the frozen earth, her breath steaming in the morning air. Rolan rode ahead on Stone‑Wind, his silhouette steady and familiar, the stallion's mane whipping like a banner. The rope between our horses swayed gently, a lifeline in case one bolted.
The hat‑man's cat slept on Sura's haunches, curled into a perfect loaf, tail flicking only when the wind grew too cold. He looked bored, but I knew better. The hat‑man drained his host bodies. The cat needed to conserve every scrap of energy.
We rode for hours before we saw the first sign of other people. They lived along a narrow river that cut the plains like a silver thread. Their homes were low, round structures made of woven reeds and mud, reinforced with mammoth bone. Children ran barefoot along the banks, their laughter echoing across the water.
Rolan raised his identity token, letting it catch the sunlight. The clan's hunters relaxed immediately. They approached us with cautious curiosity, speaking a dialect I barely understood. But the token did the work. It said we were safe, we were travelers, we were owed hospitality.
They fed us river fish roasted over coals, seasoned with wild herbs I recognized from Ruba's garden. I showed them how to smoke the fish for later, and they watched with interest, murmuring approval.
One of their elders touched Sura's flank, surprised by her calmness. Horses were rare here. Wild ones passed through sometimes, but trained ones were almost unheard of.
Rolan explained, slow and haltingly, with gestures, that we were traveling north.
The elder's expression changed. He pointed toward the horizon, where the sky looked bruised and heavy.
"Ice‑Wall."
One of the few words I understood.
We slept by their fire that night, wrapped in furs, listening to the river whisper against the stones. We stayed with the River‑Split Clan for two nights, long enough for them to grow curious about our horses. They had seen wild herds before but never trained ones. Never ridden ones. Never anything like Stone‑Wind and Sura, who stood calmly among the reed huts as if they had lived there their whole lives.
On the morning of our departure, the clan's elder approached us with a woven basket full of goods, dried river fish, jerky and smoked eel, a carved bone charm shaped like a river wave, a pouch of powdered herb that smelled sharp and minty, a carved river otter made of driftwood.
He set the basket at Rolan's feet and tapped the stallion's flank. The chief made a request using clipped language and gestures.
A trade. Knowledge for goods. Rolan understood immediately, blue eyes glinting as he saw the little wooden otter.
He nodded once, then stepped into the center of the village clearing. Hunters gathered. Children perched on reed fences. Women paused their work, hands still wet from washing hides. Even the clan's dogs sat down, ears forward.
Rolan touched Stone‑Wind's neck, murmuring something low and steady. The stallion snorted, pawed the ground, then stilled. Rolan motioned for the hunters to watch closely.
Rolan began with approach and retreat, showing how to walk toward a wild horse without threatening it, how to angle the body sideways, how to keep the eyes soft. He demonstrated how to let the horse smell your hand, how to step back if it pinned its ears, how to wait for the moment when curiosity overcame fear.
Then he showed pressure and release. He placed his hand on Stone‑Wind's shoulder.
The stallion tensed. Rolan waited. The moment the horse relaxed, he removed his hand. The hunters murmured approval.
He showed how to guide the horse's head with a rope looped gently around the jaw, how to teach it to follow the pressure instead of fighting it. He demonstrated how to calm a rearing horse by lowering his own posture, grounding the energy instead of matching it.
Then came the part that made the clan gasp.
Rolan mounted Stone‑Wind bareback, using nothing but the stallion's mane and the leather pelt tied across his spine. The horse shifted once, testing him, then accepted the weight. Rolan guided him in a slow circle, then a trot, then a full run across the clearing.
Stone‑Wind thundered past the reed huts, mane whipping, hooves pounding. Rolan rode like he was part of the horse, not a burden on its back.
When he returned, he slid off smoothly and bowed his head to the elder.
The elder bowed back. Trade accepted.
The Clan Learned as Rolan spent the rest of the morning teaching the hunters how to braid stronger ropes and approach wild horses without spooking them. He explained how to calm a frightened animal, that they could read ear positions and tail flicks, to guide a horse without force, and to mount without a saddle.
I helped where I could, showing how to reinforce knots, how to soften leather with oil, how to shape simple padding from pelts.
The hunters practiced with a pair of half‑tame steppe ponies they had captured months earlier. By midday, one of the ponies allowed a hunter to sit on its back for the first time. The entire clan cheered.
Even the hat‑man's cat form lifted his head, blinked once, and looked mildly impressed before curling back into sleep. When we finally prepared to leave, the elder pressed the basket of goods into my hands. He added one more item, the small stone carving of a river spirit, shaped like a river otter riding a curling wave.
A blessing for travelers. Rolan tied it to my pack.
We mounted our horses, the ropes between them swaying gently. The clan gathered to watch us go, their faces warm, their river glittering behind them like a silver path.
Sura stepped forward. The cat yawned once and settled deeper into the furs. We were once more on our way.
We rode north, leaving the River‑Split Clan behind, carrying their trade, their blessing, and the first hint of the long journey still ahead.
We rode north, leaving the River‑Split Clan behind, carrying their trade, their blessing, and the first hint of the long journey still ahead.
We met the Stone‑Wind Tribe on the third day after leaving the River‑Split Clan.
They didn't approach quietly.
Their arrival was a rumble, a low thunder rolling across the plains. Dozens of hunters and traders crested a ridge, their bodies shaggy and strong, their cloaks snapping in the wind. Their faces were painted with ash and ochre, their hair braided with bone beads.
Rolan recognized them immediately.
He raised his identity token high, letting the sun catch the carved spiral wave. The riders slowed, then broke formation, circling us in a loose ring. Their leader, a bronzed broad‑shouldered man with a wolf‑tooth necklace stomped forward with muscular legs, and large flat feet.
He spoke to Rolan in a dialect I barely understood, but the tone was friendly. Curious. Interested. Rolan gestured toward our horses, explaining our journey north.
The leader's eyes lit with recognition.
He pointed to the horses, at Stone‑Wind, then at Sura, the packs, then at the horizon.
A trade route. They were heading to market. They would escort us.
The Stone‑Wind Tribe traded routes the way other people traded pelts or grain. Their paths were valuable, safe, known, protected by alliances. Travelers who used them without permission risked ambush or exile.
But we had tokens, and we had horses.
The leader offered us passage to the next tribe in exchange for a demonstration of horse‑breaking, something Rolan had already done for the River‑Split Clan.
Rolan agreed.
He showed them how to approach a wild horse, how to read its ears, how to calm its fear. He demonstrated pressure and release, guiding one of their half‑tame ponies until it accepted a rider for the first time. The deal was sealed. They would escort us until the market.