Free The Black Beast by Nancy Springer Page B

to the beast and cradled its head in his arms, holding it with his hands below its eyes, so that its dark, pointed horn passed scarcely an inch from his head. I could hardly bear to look. They gazed at each other for a minute or more, and I could feel an understanding grow between them; risk was part of it. Finally Tirell let go his grasp and turned back to us.
    â€œThe beast will lead us,” he said.
    It started off at once, veering away from the river. Tirell and I scrambled to gather our gear and get our horses. Grandfather rose stiffly to his feet. “I had better be getting on,” he remarked. “Farewell, you two.”
    â€œHas the King tried to harm you?” I asked worriedly.
    â€œHarm me!” He snorted. “I’d like to see him try! Harm me!” He extended a hand, and our little fire winked out as if it had never been. In the dim interstices of the forest I could hear him chuckling. “Do you want me to put it back again?” he called to Tirell.
    But Tirell mounted his horse and rode off without word or notice. I faced my grandfather a moment longer, and suddenly there were tears on my cheeks, childish tears of hurt and despair.
    â€œGrandfather, come with us,” I whispered. “We need you. He is a very son of Abas. To him I am only the burr that clings to his horse’s tail. He is as mad as any Sacred King since the line began.”
    â€œFrain, you know I am too old to ride,” Daymon replied gently. “Do your best for him, as you always have. He needs you far worse than he knows. Someday you will be able to measure the love beneath his anger. But for now, will you take my word that quite surely love is there?”
    I could not speak or touch him, or I would have sobbed. “Thank you, Grandfather,” I murmured at last, and mounted my white mare and hastened after Tirell.

Chapter Six
    The beast was leading back the way we had come. Tirell followed it willingly. I tore through the brambles to catch them, too tired and confused to realize what we would meet when we came to the edge of the forest.
    It was the Boda, of course, with their scarlet tunics and their bronze helms and their curved, slicing swords. They were camped at the river bend, and they sighted us as soon as we cleared the trees. A dozen of them vaulted onto their horses and clattered toward us with a shout.
    Tirell sat still on his horse, watching, with sword and shield at the ready. I galloped up beside him and came to a disorderly halt, hurriedly arming myself. The beast was nosing about, looking for a passageway into the intertwining wall of the forest. For a moment it stopped its searching and snorted at the approaching riders. Tirell glared, and it went back to its prodding, snorted again, and disappeared into the forest.
    Before we could follow, the Boda were upon us. We set our horses’ haunches between the trees and met them. I was exhausted, utterly spent, but I had not yet realized it. Because my heart was thumping and my head felt light, I believed I was a coward. The attackers swam in front of my eyes and nothing seemed real; I had never fought for blood before. My training saved me. My sword moved in the ways it had been taught as I watched it, bemused. The Boda came at us three or four on one, but a long straight sword was enough to hold them off. Their scimitars are ugly things, good for lopping heads off peasants and footmen, but they have no reach.
    â€œWhoreson cowards!” Tirell shouted.
    I killed one man while I parried another with my shield. Then somebody cut me on the head. I swung my sword in a wide arc, and the Boda moved back. They were fighting cautiously, methodically, from which I guessed that they had been told to bring us back alive. But Tirell was raging.
    He had never fought well or correctly. He did not have discipline for that. But his reckless rage struck fear even into me, and his long iron sword bit through bronze armor as if it were so