Copyright © 2008 Zinnia Hope
All rights reserved, Freya's Bower.
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The thunder of hooves grew louder, and Loilati wished she could do more than blend with flora and fauna, wield a sword, or joust in holiday tournaments.
“Then we flee,” said Enroh. “Back to the Great Wood. If we can make it there, we might be able to lose them.”
“There’s too many,” said Beron.
“We have no other choice,” the dwarf shouted. “Now go. Run!”
Dikartha and the lady spun their horses about and kicked their flanks. With tails high, the steeds galloped full speed back the way they had come. Kaedric nudged his steed into action and raced off after them.
Hoggr raised his head high, his nostrils flaring. Prancing to one side, he shook his head up and down.
“What’s wrong with him?” Beron asked, his fingers digging into Loilati’s sides as he held on.
“He’s a warhorse,” answered Loilati. “He’s bred to fight.”
“Well, let me ride with someone else,” her brother cried. “I’m bred to flee.”
“Ach, get ye to the woods, Princess.” The dwarf turned his pony around and heeled his sides hard. The pony shrieked and pounded after the women and Kaedric as fast as his stout legs would allow.
“Flee!” Enroh bellowed as his horse charged past her.
“Hoggr run!” Loilati yanked on his reins. “Please!” She imbedded her boot heels into his flanks. The horse half reared, shook his head, and pulled against the bit. Behind her, Beron hissed his surprise and nearly cut off her air as he clamped his arms around her middle to hold on.
“Loilati, hurry!” someone called.
She glanced towards the others. Enroh had stopped his horse and turned it sideways. He motioned for her follow.
“Hoggr won’t move,” she shouted back. “He wants to fight.”
“You are his mistress. Convince him to flee.”
Loilati looked to the west. The riders rode enormous warhorses. Although not as large as Hoggr, they still presented a frightening image advancing towards her in a blot of black, brown, sorrel, and gray, their hoofbeats growing louder with each passing second. Horned helmets adorned each rider’s head; some of the marauders held swords in the air, others spears. One rider in the front carried a long pole with the Southlander’s banner atop it. A gust of wind pointed the flag due east. The South’s emblem, a red falcon with talons and wings outstretched, presented a bold image against a black background. The wind continued to bluster across the plains, as if heralding their arrival. The faint aroma of filthy, sweaty men and hot horseflesh offended Loilati’s nose.
She looked back at Enroh. Beyond him, the women and Kaedric kept riding, their capes whipping out behind them, forms growing smaller until they passed over the farthest rise. Between them and Enroh, the dwarf had somehow realized that she and the elf were not behind him. He whirled his pony around and charged back towards them.
“Beron, get off the horse,” said Loilati.
“Are you serious?”
“Get off of Hoggr!”
“Nay, Loilati. Father sent me to—”
With her elbow, Loilati jabbed backwards. Air rushed out of her brother’s lungs, stirring the hair on one side of her face. She turned in the saddle and shoved him off Hoggr’s back. Beron’s eyes widened an instant before he plummeted over the side and landed in a heap of long arms, legs, and tan cape in the tall grass.
“Freya went to Thor to get you,” Loilati addressed her steed. “I suppose you shall protect me...yes?”
Somehow, the horse understood her words. Hoggr danced to one side, his great hooves sounding hollow on the ground.
Scrambling away, Beron stared up at her, his eyes full of shock. “Have you taken leave of your senses, Sister?”
“I’m the reckless one, the favorite.”
“The insane!”
“Perhaps.”
Enroh and Sir Hestbone pounded towards her. “Princess, what are you doing?” the dwarf’s gruff voice reached her, but she ignored his query.
“Attack!” Loilati yelled.