Page 63 of The Neverfear

Anya looked the man up and down. ‘You’re wearing gold rings worth five thousand gold bullions, so you don’t strike me as someone urgently in need.’

The man grunted. ‘Mount then, lad. Her name’s Cervusia.’

‘Wait, I haven’t even seen the course,’ said Christopher.

‘It’s a loop around the city: you can’t miss it. Around the square, out to the cathedral – they’ve put up jumps – along the city walls, ford the river – it’s deep, mind – and then a straight sprint along the far bank to the Ceryneian Bridge for the finish. Look out for the karkadann, and the lad on the kludde. He likes to win and he’s not afraid to attack.’

‘OK,’ said Christopher. ‘I understand. You can leave now.’

‘Leave? It’s my hind, kid.’

‘She’s not. She’s her own. And if you don’t leave, I’m not riding and what you’ll have is a very angry deer that I’m about to untie.’

Anya moved closer to Christopher, and together they stared him down: a former princess, a guardian of the Archipelago. The man spat on the ground and left.

‘We can create a real atmosphere of menace when we want to,’ said Anya.

Jacques huffed. ‘I congratulate you.’ And he sounded like he meant it.

A Snake For A Starting Line

‘Hurry, Christopher,’ said Anya. She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘They start in three minutes!’

Christopher laid his head against the hind’s. He felt her warm animal breath on his face, and he felt his way down into the deepest reaches of his imagination, and grasped the green-gold thread. He imagined himself pulling it to lie in both hands, like reins. The dizziness gripped at his skull, but he ignored it. If he was sick, so what?

The golden hind huffed, and tossed her antlers. Pictures flashed before his mind – her capture, her training, the whips. The whips had had steel tips to bite into her flesh.

He tried to show her a picture in return – freedom. He tried to conjure behind his eyes the forest she had shown him, and through it the hind running free. ‘We have to win,’ he said. ‘So that I can let you go.’ Her eyes went wide and she gave a strange barking cry, and he knew she had understood.

‘I’m going to climb up,’ he said to her – but before he could look around for a step, the hind knelt. She was pure muscle; there seemed to be no fat beneath her skin. There was no saddle either, so he gripped with his knees, one hand on her leather reins, the other on her shoulder.

A voice bellowed from outside. ‘Come on, lad!’

‘Let’s go, Cervusia,’ he murmured, and Anya ran ahead of them, Ratwin on one shoulder and Jacques on the other, clearing the way. The contestants were ranged at the starting line: he was the last to arrive. A man in a chequered uniform addressed the riders.

‘When the rope drops, you go. If you go before the rope, the rope eats you.’ The rope turned to look at Christopher; it was, he saw, a long, sandy-coloured snake. He nodded at the other contestants, keeping his face impassive. To Christopher’s left, the karkadann. To his right, the kludde. The qianlima was second across, the twrch tryth and the horned mare beyond.

‘Good luck, behemoth boy,’ said Anya. ‘I know you can do it.’ She grinned at him, and he saw the effort it took her. ‘Don’t die!’

‘Contestants!’ A voice boomed out over the stands. Christopher twisted and saw a woman holding a white fluted plant to her mouth: a foghorn flower.

‘This is a test of wits, nerve and speed. Murder is forbidden, as is the use of wings, fire or knives.’ The girl on the karkadann grinned. ‘Otherwise, everything goes. On three – two – one—’

The bullhorn blared over the spectators, and the snake-rope dropped.

‘Now!’ cried Christopher aloud. ‘Go!’

And the hind went. She put down her head and charged around the perimeter of the square, taking the first bend so fast that sparks flew from the cobbles. The qianlima outstripped them all and vanished into the dust. The crowd roared and Cervusia accelerated, pressing ahead neck and neck with the grey mare and the kludde. Christopher could barely hold on; he flattened himself against the beast’s gleaming body and wrapped his hands around her antlers.

They stampeded down streets which twisted and turned and suddenly opened up on to the cathedral, and Christopher saw the obstacles ahead: three jumps laid out across the square.

The first jump was a red stone wall, tall as a stable doorway. Christopher braced himself. The kludde ahead cleared it as easily as if he could fly, its flaming ears flickering in the wind. The horned grey mare reached the wall and halted, neighing, twisting her head away. Her rider whipped her, cursing, circled her around, and urged her on again, and this time they cleared it – but as they landed, the mare gave a scream of pain and rage. The growling told Christopher what had happened: the kludde and its rider had been waiting on the other side, crouched low, and the wolf-dog had taken a chunk out of the mare’s flank. The kludde turned and streaked on, leaving the mare to follow.

Christopher urged the hind towards the wall. Could she jump? He pressed himself low, and felt her front legs leave the ground in a great spring like a gazelle. They were over the wall.

The second jump was on fire. The flames flickered up as they approached it, and they cleared it with a singe of fur and shoe leather.

The third jump looked easier as they approached it. The horned mare’s rider was ignoring the bleeding, pressing his steed ruthlessly on, but her breathing was laboured.