The Tower of Ravens by Kate Forsyth Read Free Book Online Page B

rise had shown Lewen two more, very strange things. The horse had wings, magnificent black feathered wings, each as long as he himself was tall. And the body slumped so heavily over the horse’s back had been tied on with rope.
    Lewen went forward slowly, holding out one hand, whickering softly under his breath. The horse’s ears twitched and it rolled an eye towards him.
    “Gently now,” he said. “Gently.”
    Slowly, step by step, Lewen came closer. Again the horse tried to rise and shy away but Lewen reached forward and caught it by the bridle, steadying it. He smoothed one hot, damp shoulder, distressed to see the slobber round the horse’s mouth was stained with blood. Gently he eased the bit out of the horse’s torn mouth, keeping a firm hand on the bridle as the horse tried to drag its head away, whinnying in distress.
    Once he had calmed the horse again, Lewen turned his attention to the unconscious soldier. There was a nasty gash on one temple, with blood drying thick on one pale cheek, and the leather reins had cut deeply into the flesh at the wrists. Although Lewen had his witch’s knife sheathed at his belt, he was reluctant to cut the bonds here in the gloom of the spray-misted basin, so far from home. He did not think he could carry the wounded soldier all the way home as well as lead the weary horse, and he knew his parents were the best people to tend both man and horse.
    Gently Lewen urged the black mare to rise. He knew it was dangerous to let the horse lie still after such exertion. So he dragged on the cheek-band and pushed at the horse’s flank until at last she summoned the energy to stand. He encouraged her to walk the few steps down the slope to the pool. Then, without letting go of the bridle, he reached down to the pool and cupped water in his hand, letting the horse drink from his palm. The poor beast drank thirstily, and would have drunk more if Lewen had not restrained her, knowing too much water could be dangerous in her overheated and weakened state.
    Keeping all his movements slow and steady, he rubbed the mare down with a handful of grass, then covered the horse and its unconscious rider as well as he could with the warm woollen cloak tied before the pommel. Then, regretting his jar of ale growing nicely cold in the pool, he began the long, wearisome walk home.
    It was fully dark by the time he and the exhausted horse plodded out of the forest and into the orchard by the lake. Both the moons were half-full, and their mingled radiance cast a cool, colourless light across the garden. The trees were all very black, the loch was a strange glimmery silver, and warm orange light streamed from Kingarth across the dark lawn. Lewen lifted his gaze to the light, finding new energy in the closeness of home. He was bone-weary himself. Many times it had only been the strength of his hand on the bridle and his shoulder against the horse’s flank that had prevented the mare from foundering. The forest at night was a frightening place, besides, for it rustled and whimpered with mysterious sounds, and occasionally was rent by the howl of the hunter and the death-wail of the hunted. He was glad to have left the nerve-wracking darkness of the forest behind.
    Suddenly a huge shape loomed up out of the darkness beside him and he smelt the strong stench of bear. The horse did too, and reared and whinnied in terror, almost wrenching his arm out of its socket.
    “Ursa! Back!” he cried.
    “Ursa, down,” his father said gently. “Go back.”
    The bear gave a sad-sounding snuffle and lumbered away towards the house.
    “What is it, laddie?” Niall said in his deep, soft voice. “Ye’re home so late, your mam was worried.” He came up out of the shadows, moving quietly for so tall a man. He saw at once the stumbling horse with its heavy burden and his son, trudging wearily at its bridle. “What is this ye’ve found? A horse?”
    “A winged horse,” Lewen said.
    “Winged? With a thigearn