07-07-2021, 11:24 PM
Sintra doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she must have, because she awakens in a nightmare of smoke and sound and the bright taste of metal in her mouth. The stink of fear is like grease in the air and fills her flaring black nostrils like the blood of those monsters that filled Beqanna’s long Night. To her right, rows of horses wrapped in metal and leather stretch almost too far to see, squealing and snorting and throwing thick froth from their mouths when they toss their heads, agitated. There is blood in their mouths and it turns their chests a rusty pink. To the left… Nothing. Darkness. She is even blind in her dreams
Her own chest is pink with blood and froth, though she cannot remember anything leading up to this moment, anything leading up to the man that holds the straps of her enslavement. Her tongue recoils from the weight of the spade bit but the high port only digs in deeper and Sintra, who never fights, gapes her mouth in protest as the other horses do, but the men say the gods have given her to him and she cannot think of any way to refute this. It is the only thing that explains what is happening; the gods are fickle, and she is certain they do not love her.
Under the press of his hand, she stills but for the trembling of her transparent skin.
Castor laughs at his brother’s bravado.
“Brother, she’s missing an eye and a twelve-year-old boy with his first spear couldn’t miss that heart,” he grins darkly and comes nearer, his own horse, a bright chestnut stallion, bares its teeth at her and her heart and her glowing bones, “I think the gods are playing a trick on you.”
“Perhaps.”
The chestnut stallion is covered in scars and she counts them and feels her stomach twist. A slash across his face, across his belly, a missing ear, pockmarks in his neck and haunches and anywhere not covered by the saddle. His tail has been docked, its ends neatly trimmed, and Castor makes the livid beast dance away from her in time to the drums beginning behind them. Pollux leaps up lightly, reins in one hand, bronze sword in the other. The drums beat louder, almost as loud as the heartbeats in her ears, and then suddenly there are spurs digging deep in her sides and she leaps forward with a cry that matches the growling yells that rise up all around. It’s war.
Suddenly, Sintra thinks that she doesn’t want to die, but every time she tries to stop, the spurs dig in again and send her forward. She isnt sure how she knows what to do, when the rein rests against her neck, when his weight shifts, but she’s moving with the man in a choreographed dance. And she doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to die, so Sintra, who never fights, bares her teeth when the men come too near and she squeals and strikes at them, and they howl when her hooves find the bones they hide like cowards.
“They’re breaking ranks!” Pollux cries above the din to whoever can hear him. Sintra thinks perhaps it is only to her, she cannot tell friend from foe and lunges indiscriminately except when her rider pulls up on the reins, but even then, she hears his laughter, and it’s a mad sort of laughter, reveling in the chaos.
”Go!” he shouts in her ear and Sintra, obedient, goes at a raging run with the music of his sword ringing in her ears above screams and splatter and the churning sound of the sea turning red with blood. Bodies float around them, drowned, beheaded, disemboweled, men and horses lie underfoot and her hooves crush them as they break the lines. These men are afraid of her, of the ghost-mare and her rider that laughs as his army destroys him, as the try to get away, but those who escape Pollux’s swinging sword find bloody teeth in their faces. She grabs a man by the jaw, her angry teeth ripping the tender flesh. The blood that spatters across the shanks of her bit and turns her shimmering chest scarlet is not hers alone anymore. It should bother her, she knows, but the taste of their blood is not much different from the taste of the bit, and she has learned to carry that weight in the hours – it feels like minutes - of the battle. The spurs again. She leaps over the body of a red stallion, his skull caved in by a pole-hammer's blow, and does not pause to recognize him.
“You’ve been unhorsed, Castor!” The other man barely takes time to grin up at his brother as he engages a foot soldier nearby. Pollux pushes her forward and the men fall away from them, from her, from the violet-eyed demon, the skeleton mare like walking death, and there are curses on the lips of these tired, frightened soldiers. Some throw their swords to the ground, but not the man who fights with Castor, they are locked together, old warriors too evenly matched.
Proud Pollux send her forward again, closer to his brother, his sword arm raised to aid him, but Castor’s premonition comes true then and Sintra rears, screaming, the spear sprouting from her chest like a green sapling, its bronze roots deep in the soil of her chest. Who could miss that heart, if they aimed, Castor had asked. Sintra lunges awkwardly, and her feet don’t respond. Are they there? Grunting, stumbling, she rears again, ignoring Pollux who leaps clear of her back. Her hind legs twist under her as the rest of her vision goes black and she falls, crushing Castor beneath her twitching bulk. She doesn’t feel his bones cracking or hear the wet crackle of his breathing. She only knows that she doesn’t want to die.
But wanting isn’t enough, because she does, in a terrible clatter of hooves.
Her own chest is pink with blood and froth, though she cannot remember anything leading up to this moment, anything leading up to the man that holds the straps of her enslavement. Her tongue recoils from the weight of the spade bit but the high port only digs in deeper and Sintra, who never fights, gapes her mouth in protest as the other horses do, but the men say the gods have given her to him and she cannot think of any way to refute this. It is the only thing that explains what is happening; the gods are fickle, and she is certain they do not love her.
Under the press of his hand, she stills but for the trembling of her transparent skin.
Castor laughs at his brother’s bravado.
“Brother, she’s missing an eye and a twelve-year-old boy with his first spear couldn’t miss that heart,” he grins darkly and comes nearer, his own horse, a bright chestnut stallion, bares its teeth at her and her heart and her glowing bones, “I think the gods are playing a trick on you.”
“Perhaps.”
The chestnut stallion is covered in scars and she counts them and feels her stomach twist. A slash across his face, across his belly, a missing ear, pockmarks in his neck and haunches and anywhere not covered by the saddle. His tail has been docked, its ends neatly trimmed, and Castor makes the livid beast dance away from her in time to the drums beginning behind them. Pollux leaps up lightly, reins in one hand, bronze sword in the other. The drums beat louder, almost as loud as the heartbeats in her ears, and then suddenly there are spurs digging deep in her sides and she leaps forward with a cry that matches the growling yells that rise up all around. It’s war.
Suddenly, Sintra thinks that she doesn’t want to die, but every time she tries to stop, the spurs dig in again and send her forward. She isnt sure how she knows what to do, when the rein rests against her neck, when his weight shifts, but she’s moving with the man in a choreographed dance. And she doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to die, so Sintra, who never fights, bares her teeth when the men come too near and she squeals and strikes at them, and they howl when her hooves find the bones they hide like cowards.
“They’re breaking ranks!” Pollux cries above the din to whoever can hear him. Sintra thinks perhaps it is only to her, she cannot tell friend from foe and lunges indiscriminately except when her rider pulls up on the reins, but even then, she hears his laughter, and it’s a mad sort of laughter, reveling in the chaos.
”Go!” he shouts in her ear and Sintra, obedient, goes at a raging run with the music of his sword ringing in her ears above screams and splatter and the churning sound of the sea turning red with blood. Bodies float around them, drowned, beheaded, disemboweled, men and horses lie underfoot and her hooves crush them as they break the lines. These men are afraid of her, of the ghost-mare and her rider that laughs as his army destroys him, as the try to get away, but those who escape Pollux’s swinging sword find bloody teeth in their faces. She grabs a man by the jaw, her angry teeth ripping the tender flesh. The blood that spatters across the shanks of her bit and turns her shimmering chest scarlet is not hers alone anymore. It should bother her, she knows, but the taste of their blood is not much different from the taste of the bit, and she has learned to carry that weight in the hours – it feels like minutes - of the battle. The spurs again. She leaps over the body of a red stallion, his skull caved in by a pole-hammer's blow, and does not pause to recognize him.
“You’ve been unhorsed, Castor!” The other man barely takes time to grin up at his brother as he engages a foot soldier nearby. Pollux pushes her forward and the men fall away from them, from her, from the violet-eyed demon, the skeleton mare like walking death, and there are curses on the lips of these tired, frightened soldiers. Some throw their swords to the ground, but not the man who fights with Castor, they are locked together, old warriors too evenly matched.
Proud Pollux send her forward again, closer to his brother, his sword arm raised to aid him, but Castor’s premonition comes true then and Sintra rears, screaming, the spear sprouting from her chest like a green sapling, its bronze roots deep in the soil of her chest. Who could miss that heart, if they aimed, Castor had asked. Sintra lunges awkwardly, and her feet don’t respond. Are they there? Grunting, stumbling, she rears again, ignoring Pollux who leaps clear of her back. Her hind legs twist under her as the rest of her vision goes black and she falls, crushing Castor beneath her twitching bulk. She doesn’t feel his bones cracking or hear the wet crackle of his breathing. She only knows that she doesn’t want to die.
But wanting isn’t enough, because she does, in a terrible clatter of hooves.
1003 words