Chapter
11
Prince Zatao pushed August hard. He needed to reach
Gormrun, find the prophet and get home before dark. The stallion’s hooves
pounded the forest track as he galloped flat out. Up ahead Zatao spotted a
sign post and smiled; they’d reached the crossroads the half-way point of their
journey.
Pulling on the reins he
eased the stallion to a steady canter, and patted the animal’s neck. “Easy boy,
we’ve managed to cover a lot of ground.” They reached the crossroads and pulled
up in a cloud of dust. Zatao studied the sign post. To the left and fifty miles
away was the village of Wedon. The wider path to Gormrun was to the right. Zatao
sighed with relief when he saw they only had five more miles to travel.
Pulling August round he
urged the stallion into a gentle walk. They had galloped nonstop for the first
fifteen miles, and he could feel the horse blowing from the exertion. Zatao sat
back in the saddle and let the reins hang lose. August snorted and dropped his
head, grateful for a chance to catch his breath.
The forest path widened
the further they went. On either side he could see an occasional cottage tucked
in among the trees. The sound of children’s voices drifted on the air, accompanied
by the barking of a dog. As they drew closer to the village, Zatao raised the
hood of his cloak and tucked his sword into the folds of the garment. Concealed
by his cloak, Zatao hoped to be unrecognisable. But it occurred to him that
riding August into the village nullified his attempt at concealment. The big
white stallion stood out like a sore them.
Tightening his reins,
Zatao guided August off the path and in among the trees. He dismounted and looped
the reins over a branch. He patted the horses’ neck. “I won’t be long,” he
whispered.
August snorted and
nudged him, pushing him back a pace
Zatao grinned and
stroked the horses head. “Stay quiet now.” As he left the trees and stepped
onto the road, an old farm cart laden with straw bales lumbered towards him. Zatao
planted his feet and held up a hand.
The driver pulled the
old horse to a stop and peered at him. “Yes,” he said in a voice like gravel.
“What do you want?” He frowned and rubbed the sleeve of his grubby jerkin
across his forehead.
Zatao moved closer and
lifted the front of his hood. “I’m looking for the Prophet. I hear he lives in
these parts.”
The driver rested his arms
on his knees and stared at him. “Who wants to know?”
Zatao’s eyes darkened as
he lowered his hood and stepped closer.
The horse shied
and threw his head up. The driver tightened his hold on the reins and pulled
back. “Whoa, steady there you old brute! What are doing to my horse?” He shouted.
Zatao gripped a rein
and leaned closer. “I’ll ask you again. Where can I find the prophet?” The edge
in Zatao’s voice unnerved the man.
He swallowed hard
and twisted the reins tight around his hands. “There’s a narrow path back
there,” he said indicating with a nod of his head. “Follow it for about two
miles and you’ll find a cave. He lives there.”
Zatao stepped away and
gave the horse a slap on the rump.
The animal snorted and
shot forward. “Hey!” The driver yelled as he grappled with the horse. He got it
under control and stared back down the road. His bushy black eyebrows met in a frown.
“Where’d he go?” He scratched his head and stared into the trees on either side
of the road. “Who was he, and why did he want to see the prophet?” He turned round
on his seat and flicked the reins over the horses back. “Get up there,” he
growled. He rested his back against a straw bale and let the horse plod towards
the village.
Anyone who wants to traipse through the forest to see that prophet must
be mad, or desperate! “Not my problem,” he muttered as he pulled a
piece of straw from a bale and chewed on it.
