Free The Scar by Marina Dyachenko, Sergey Dyachenko Page A

intoxication, the reveler had neither family nor name: it was impossible to determine whether he was an aristocrat or a commoner. Jauntily whooping, Karver rode his horse toward the drunk. Cantering at nearly full tilt, he raised his steed onto its hind legs right in front of the stupefied drunkard, not touching the poor man, but letting the hot breath of his horse pour over him and thus terrifying him half to death. The guards laughed. Emitting a strange, distressed cry, the drunk sank down onto the pavement, but Karver was satisfied, and he returned to his companions, all the while peering over at Egert. Egert had once taught his friend that particular jest.
    They moved on. The town lay in darkness. Only the torches in the hands of the patrol and the rare stars that shone weakly through the openings in the clouds illuminated the black façades of the sleeping houses. They rode silently. The pavement rang out under the hooves of their horses, and Egert, who found it unpleasant to watch the shadows that danced along the street, focused on the worn stones passing by under his horse.
    The pavement below him suddenly seemed like a river undergoing the first thaw of the year: the cobblestones thronged without order; they cracked and jutted over one another, raising their jagged edges as if waiting for victims. Egert felt a chill, and he suddenly understood something he had never realized before; he understood and was astounded by his former blindness: the stones of the pavement were hostile, deadly, and dangerous, and a man who fell on them from a height, even if from the back of a horse, would most certainly be doomed.
    The cavalcade continued on its way, and Egert’s stallion clip-clopped his hooves along with all the others, but his rider could no longer see anything around him. Squeezing the reins with sweaty palms, Egert Soll, a natural-born horseman, nearly died from the fear of falling off his horse.
    The crunch of a broken neck kept repeating in his ears. The stones of the pavement thrust upward lasciviously, as if anticipating the moment when the head of the brave lieutenant would burst like a ripe melon on their burnished edges. An avalanche of sweat rolled down Egert’s back even though the night was brisk, almost cold. In the space of two blocks, he managed to die a thousand times until, finally, his horse began to sense that something was wrong, as if the perturbation of his rider had been transferred to him as well.
    The cavalcade whirled around suddenly. The agitated stallion jerked, and this unexpected movement was enough to unseat the celebrated equestrian Egert.
    Egert did not understand how it happened. He had long ago forgotten how to fall from a horse; the last time it had happened to him, he was only ten years old. He felt only a momentary horror; then the black sky with its smattering of stars flashed before his eyes and was followed by a painful but, to Egert’s astonishment, nonfatal blow.
    He was lying on his side. All he could see in front of him were his horse’s hooves and the torch that had flown from his hand as he fell. It now sputtered in a puddle to his left. He heard astounded questions somewhere in the distance, which caused him to comprehend suddenly what had happened. Egert was thankful for the blessing of being able to pretend he had lost consciousness.
    What could possibly cause a lieutenant of the guards, especially Egert Soll, to fall from a horse that was going no faster than a walk? Only death, thought Egert as he lay there, and he wished to die.
    “Egert! Hey, help me, Lagan! It’s like he’s dead! What happened?”
    He felt someone’s hands grasp him by the shoulders and turn him over so he was facing upward, but he did not give any signs of life.
    “The canteen, Bonifor, the canteen, quickly!”
    A small stream of water spilled over his face. After waiting a bit longer, he groaned and opened his eyes.
    In the light of the torches, he could see Karver, Lagan, Ol, and Bonifor