It was still afternoon, and Jahdo was scrounging dead wood for an evening’s fire, when Gidro and Baki became restless, throwing up their heads, sniffing and snorting into the rising wind, finally whickering out a greeting. Distantly a horse answered, then another. Jahdo leapt to his feet and grabbed his grandfather’s knife, but Meer sat unmoving, hunkered down by their gear. Hoof-beats sounded, riding fast, riding hard, and straight for them out of the east.
“Meer, Meer! We’ve got to run.”
Slowly the bard raised his head and turned toward the sound.
“You run, Jahdo. Head west and hope you find those horsemen who aided your people once before. I might as well die a slave, so long as I die soon. A man is nothing without a clan, and my future holds no kin to serve the gods in my old age.”
“Stop that! It’s needful you come, too.”
The hoofbeats came louder, tack jingled and rang, men yelled, a wordless high shriek of triumph. Meer rose to his feet, grabbing his staff, but he only leaned upon it as he waited, turned toward the noise.
“Run, Jahdo! Grab that bag of food and run to the forest.”
Jahdo hesitated, and in that moment it was too late. With a whoop and a yell, like men driving cattle, the horsemen swept around the camp and surrounded them….
