Magic Horses
D arys wheeled the barrow into the stables, counting in his head how many more stalls he’d left to clean. With so many of the horses out, it made his work a little easier.
Ham the barn cat reclined in his usual spot atop a bale of hay, oblivious to the world.
“In my next life,” Darys muttered, “I want to be a barn cat at Rider stables.”
Ham flicked his tail but otherwise showed no interest in Darys’ next life.
To Darys’ dismay, it appeared one of the horses had gotten back inside and was standing in the aisle.
As Darys approached the horse, he realized it was no messenger horse, but the silver dappled stallion who had stolen his red cap and turned himself invisible.
Currently he was looking in Condor’s stall.
Rider G’ladheon had told him the stallion’s name.
Where she’d gotten it from or how she knew the stallion, she never did say.
“Valstarian,” he said.
The horse looked at him. Gone was the impish youngster. In his place stood a mature stallion tall and filled out with sleek muscle. Darys was struck by the intelligence in his eyes and his monumental presence.
“Uh, Condor is out in the pasture,” Darys told him, “if you’re looking for him.”
Valstarian flickered his ears, capturing all Darys said, and perhaps more.
He huffed and stood unmoving, his head slightly bowed.
To Darys, he looked for all the world like he was turning something over in his mind.
When he seemed to have come to a decision, he tossed his mane, then stretched around to touch his side with his nose.
Darys slowly approached, and when Valstarian repeated the gesture, he asked, “You got an itch?”
Valstarian blew through his nose and stomped.
Darys reached out to scratch Valstarian’s neck for him, but the stallion laid his ears back.
Darys backed a step. “Guess not.”
Valstarian swung his head back and touched his side again.
“You don’t have an itch. You hurt?”
Valstarian stared at him as if he were simple, then without warning, snapped a mouthful of Darys’ coat sleeve and dragged him down the aisle.
“Hey! Lemme go!” Darys flailed as his boots slid on the floor. Where was Uncle Hep? He thumped on the stallion’s neck, but Valstarian ignored his protests.
“Lemme—”
Valstarian halted and released him.
“What the hells, horse?” Darys immediately backed away and straightened his coat, which now had horse slobber on it. He glared at the stallion.
Valstarian indicated his side again.
This was the strangest horse Darys had ever met, and even though he thought the horse needed to learn some manners, he felt compelled, perhaps by curiosity or something about the horse’s intelligence, to puzzle out what he needed.
“I know you want me to do something, but what?”
It took a moment for Darys to realize Valstarian had dragged him to the tack room door.
The stallion turned in a tight circle, then scraped the tack room door with his hoof.
“You want something in the tack room?”
Valstarian touched his side.
“Grooming kit,” Darys said. “You want me to groom you.” To be honest, the horse looked immaculate, but maybe he liked to be groomed. Some horses did.
The stallion heaved a sigh and cast him a look of utter disgust.
“Well, then, what?”
Quicker than Darys could see it coming, Valstarian snatched his sleeve again and thrust him at the tack room door.
Heart racing, Darys took a deep breath. Untrained stallions could be dangerous, but as lacking in manners as this one was, Darys sensed he would not cause intentional harm. What could happen unintentionally, he didn’t like to think about.
“I get that you want something from the tack room, but not a grooming kit. Bridle?”
Valstarian flicked his tail impatiently.
“A saddle?” Darys asked.
Valstarian whinnied and nudged Darys at the door.
“I guess that’s an ‘aye,’” What a magic horse wanted with a saddle he could not guess. He threw the door open and entered the dark room. “I’m not sure any are big enough for you.”
Valstarian stuck his head through the doorway and sneezed very unmagically.
“Aye,” Darys admitted, “the place could use a good cleaning.”
Messenger horses were not typically big-barreled warhorses. Their specialty was in being swift and able to endure long distances, no matter the conditions. They wore small, lightweight saddles that definitely would not fit Valstarian.
The stallion stomped impatiently.
“Keep your britches on,” Darys told him.
In a dark corner buried beneath saddle pads were some old discarded saddles—saddles with broken trees, missing patches of leather, or just plain worn out.
The previous stable master had been something of a packrat, or so he’d heard, and Uncle Hep kept mentioning that the tack room needed a thorough cleaning.
Beneath the lighter saddles was a large one.
It was in the style of the others, so it must have been intended for a larger than usual messenger horse in the past. The leather was dry and cracked, dirty, and pocked with several arrowhead punctures.
One arrowhead was still deeply embedded in the cantle.
He was not sure it would fit Valstarian. Saddle fitting was tricky business and he was no expert, but he’d see. He grabbed a large, dusty saddle blanket on his way out of the tack room.
Valstarian stepped aside, giving Darys room to slip through the doorway and back into the aisle. He pointed at his side again.
“I know, I know,” Darys said.
He placed the saddle blanket on Valstarian’s back. Valstarian’s hide twitched like he was trying to dislodge a fly. Darys then swung the saddle on his back. It seemed to sit reasonably well, if not perfect. He attempted to tighten the girth, but Valstarian filled his belly with air.
“If you don’t want the saddle to slide off,” Darys told him, “you’ve got to let me tighten the girth.”
Valstarian gave him an apologetic look and let the air go.
When Darys finished, he patted the strange horse on the neck. His hide was soft and the muscle hard beneath. Pretty ordinary, all considered.
“What you need with a saddle I sure don’t know, but if you expect anyone to ride you, you’ll need stirrups and a bridle.”
Valstarian snorted and turned on his haunches, and snatched Darys’ cap between his teeth as he did so.
“Hey!” Darys ran after him as Valstarian trotted back down the aisle and out the big doors, playfully flinging the cap about as he went. He was halfway across the pasture by the time Darys reached the doors. Darys could only watch as the horse vanished into the night.
A fluttering high up on an oak tree caught the corner of his eye. Barely visible in the lantern light emanating from the stable, it was his cap dangling from a branch of a big oak. He’d have to wait for the wind to knock it down sometime.
“Bloody magic horse,” he muttered.
Ham the barn cat stretched and yawned and sat up on his hay bale as Darys returned to his wheelbarrow.
“What you looking at?” he demanded.
Ham simply circled in place and settled back down for another nap.
It all seemed very normal in Rider stables with Valstarian gone, or as normal as it ever got.
Messenger horses weren’t magical as far as he could tell, but they weren’t your typical horse-brained horses, either.
Gull peered over his stall door with straw stuck in his mane and forelock.
He tossed a mouthful into the air and watched it float to the floor before repeating.
Maybe, Darys thought, with a shake of his head, “normal” wasn’t quite the right word.