8 #3
This way, she could get to the southernmost gate without running into the army, at least she hoped.
The streets were so empty, she decided to mount the horse.
She spoke to it in a low voice, calling it ‘girl’ even though she was not sure if the horse were male or female and did not feel like contorting to look between its legs just then.
There were people who could tell a mare from a stallion just by looking at them, but she was not one of them.
Maybe if it had been a plow horse, she didn’t know.
These elvish beasts, they were so fine and tall, with long flowing manes.
They were bred for speed and racing and jumping. They were bred for play.
That was what Dathor had said, though, wasn’t it?
The southern elves, they lived charmed and easy lives. They sought pleasure and ease, and they knew no hardship.
This was why it seemed appropriate to punish them perhaps, to give them a taste of all the pain they had been missing.
But she wondered, was the world that way? Was suffering ever doled out fairly?
Was anything fair?
The world worked according to natural laws, it was true. But fairness was not a natural law. It was an invention of people.
Why had people invented it? she mused, as she carefully swung up into the saddle of the horse, who allowed her there, and who obligingly took off.
Then, she and the horse were trotting down the white-stone streets of the capital city in the bright light of the morning, and it was so lovely it nearly made her heart ache.
She felt as if she and the horse had somehow merged into one being.
She could feel that she and the horse were communicating in a way that went far beyond words, that was skin on skin, bone to bone, sweat and breath and all the things that made natural beings understand each other.
Was this fair?
Was it fair to ride a horse?
Perhaps not to the horse, she didn’t think, but they seemed to have been made so perfectly for riding, did they not?
Still, this, the synergy between herself and the animal, she knew the horse felt it. What was that like for the horse?
She chided herself.
She was riding through a conquered city, trying to escape an army that would punish her if they found her. It was no time to contemplate these sorts of musings, no time at all.
When she got to the southernmost gate, it was guarded by elves in uniform. They were from the palace, but they weren’t kingsguard, because all the kingsguard were high-ranked elf nobility. However, the uniform was quite similar.
She stayed out of sight, trying to think of what she might do.
They weren’t allowing people to leave through the gate, which seemed madness to her.
There was a crowd of maybe thirty people, and men were crying out to let their wives and children through, please, that they must not be cooped up here to die inside these gates.
The guards had their swords drawn, and she could see that there were bodies at their feet. The guards were slaughtering their own!
This was very bad.
How had this happened so quickly? How had everything gone mad?
She could go and attempt to fight her way through the guards, but then they would see she was an orc.
She could try to go find some other place to climb the wall.
Then she must leave the horse behind, and she had grown rather fond of the horse, she had to admit.
Also, the drop on the other side? Well, she might hurt herself.
It was asking for a sprained ankle at least, but possibly a broken bone.
Haem help her, was she trapped in this city?
Perhaps she must simply go for the western gate. The streets seemed empty, and she could make her way with the horse. It was galling to be so close to the gate and not to get out, she supposed, but there was no way out here, and—
Oh, Haem smite her! Was that Iahir?
It was.
He was on horseback, riding towards the gate, brandishing his sword. “Open the gate on command of the palace,” he cried. “Open the gate now.”
The guards looked up and saw him.
One pointed. “You. Kingkiller.”
Iahir’s expression tightened. He had not been expecting that.
“Dismount and face us, coward,” cried the other guard. “You must answer for your crimes against the High King!”
“Iahir nae Cirlahir, Oathbreaker, Traitor!” yelled the first guard.
Then, all four of the guards on the gate rushed towards him. They swarmed his horse, tugging on his ankles, pulling him this way and that.
Iahir stabbed downward with his sword, but the guards didn’t stop.
Meanwhile, the crowd swarmed the now unguarded gate and the large wooden doors swung outward. The elves rushed out, leaving the city.
Thanks for the distraction, my lord, thought Gathren. She led her horse forward.
Then she saw Iahir pulled off his own horse, down to the ground, where the guards descended on him.
He could be killed or trampled by hooves or any such thing.
She stopped her forward motion, holding her horse’s reins. She stared as the guards brought their swords down on Iahir.