Boar and Rabbit

by James L. Sutter

Chapter One: Catch the Wind

Two men knelt at the foot of the dais. One wore thick-plated lamellar armor, the other snug gray wrappings that hid all but his eyes. Similarly dressed pairs made a half-circle around the kneelers, each individual set connected by a short iron chain.

On the dais, two more men stepped forward. Though they were dressed no differently from anyone else in the great cathedral, no one could have mistaken them for the others. They stepped forward in perfect unison, as though each were a mismatched reflection of the other, stretched and warped by a carnival mirror. Between them, they carried a chain like the others, holding it reverently in all four hands.

"This chain does not bind." The leaders' voice—for there was only one voice, spoken with two mouths—was smooth and reverent, rising up to ring off the cathedral's high dome. "Today, you cease to be two men, and instead become szerik—shared mind, shared heart. This chain will be your symbol, announcing your bond to the world. Yet the Iridian Fold is not a guild, with a chain of office. It is no religion, with a chain for a holy symbol. It is greater than these. For with love, with discipline, the lines between you will blur and fade. You will be as one soul in two bodies. This is the great mystery of the Iridian Fold: to let the bond between you grow until the union eclipses the self. And in that moment, you will no longer need the reminder of the chain." Two sets of eyes crinkled into a smile. "You will be the chain."

"Be the chain!" the congregation chorused.

Fifty feet above, Roshad glanced over at Bors and squeezed his hand. The pair crouched on the narrow gallery running the circumference of the cathedral's dome, Bors's bulky lamellar forcing him to contort himself like a dying insect in order to stay hidden behind the low balustrade. Despite the obvious discomfort, the bigger man's stone-slab face broke into a smile as he met Roshad's eyes, and he tugged lightly on the stolen chain running from his chest to the collar around Roshad's neck.

Roshad prefers the direct approach.

Roshad smiled back, knowing that no veil could hide the expression from his partner. His szerik.

My Boar, Roshad thought, and the words came bittersweet. This is no place for him, lurking in the darkness like a beggar. If only we could be down there with the others. We—

The cathedral's doors banged open, replacing the soft glow of stained glass with the flare of noonday sun. As quickly as it appeared, the light was blocked by half a dozen figures, men and women in the furs and leathers of the horse tribes.

"Where are they?"

The leader of the troop, a bull-faced man with a long horsehair plume atop his conical helmet, shoved his way through the assembly until he stood at the foot of the dais, looking up at the congregation's leader. Around him, the gathered men of the Iridian Fold hissed at the affront, hands going to blades. The other invaders looked less comfortable, yet dutifully spread out behind their captain.

The men on the dais raised their hands in a calming gesture. "You do us a disservice, stranger."

The captain snorted. "I figure you get serviced plenty." Behind him, several of his own people frowned. "But what you Iridian Fold do is no business of mine. Now where are they?"

"Where are who?" the Iridian Fold men asked.

"I don't have time for games, holy man. One of the street kids saw them slip in here not half an hour ago." He looked back at one of his warriors. "Dosk?"

"They're not in the group, Captain. Unless they're disguised."

The captain grimaced, then looked around at the cathedral's many shadowed corners. "Fine. Aizha, light this place up."

A woman in a thick-furred hat stepped forward and raised her hands, grasping the air as if kneading dough. Four globes of golden light blazed into existence around them, each the size of a juggling ball. She gestured, and they shot outward, making a circuit of the vast chamber at head height, then rose higher to light the gallery.

Roshad searched frantically for somewhere else to hide as the globes floated closer, but without the shadows, the posts of the stone balustrade did little to obscure the two men. He met Bors's eyes.

"There!" Down below, one of the horse warriors pointed. The captain gave a command, and the company ran for the narrow spiral staircase leading up to Bors and Roshad's perch.

They were trapped. The stairway was the only way down to the cathedral floor—as usual, Roshad and Bors had crept up it shortly before the Iridian Fold men arrived for their ceremony.

A narrow ladder on the opposite side of the cathedral's dome caught his eye, its rungs disappearing up into the shaft of the cathedral's windcatcher.

Well, if they couldn't go down...

Roshad yanked Bors to his feet and jerked his chin toward the ladder. Bors nodded once and ran, his armored bulk threatening to overflow the narrow catwalk. If he tripped, the thigh-high balustrade would do little to save him, but the man moved with the grace of a desert wolf. Roshad's heart swelled as he followed, the chain swinging lightly between them. Below, the whole congregation now pointed and shouted, shocked to see two men dressed as their own racing around the inside of the dome.

They reached the ladder and began to climb. The shaft was blessedly wide, and broken at intervals by smaller horizontal tubes that led back to the dome, the better to let the rising hot air escape and draw up cooler air from the cathedral's catacombs. Roshad could feel the breeze as he hauled himself quickly upward.

The shaft ended abruptly in a covered ledge, barely wide enough for Roshad and Bors to stand together. Beyond a row of narrow pillars, the grand city of Ular Kel spread out before them, beckoning with a thousand places to hide, to lose themselves in the market crowds like loose stones on the steppes.

If only they could reach it. Roshad stuck his head out past the pillars and looked down. The drop was at least eighty feet, and the outer face of the windcatcher tower had no access ladder. Nothing but smooth stone until it met the blue-tiled plaza below. He grimaced and pulled back inside.

"Nothing?" Bors rumbled.

"Not that way." Roshad clasped Bors's armored forearm. "Hold tight."

"When haven't I?"

"Yeah, well..." Taking a deep breath, Roshad planted one foot firmly on the edge of the ledge, then swung out into space. He let the momentum pivot him around, doing his best to ignore the dizzying expanse of air below him as he reached out and caught the outer edge of the tower's wall. He hugged the corner as if it were Bors himself, pressing into it, and looked around.

Damn. He'd hoped for some sort of access ledge on this side, but instead the tower was one long fin of stone extending back to the dome's apex. Even if they could get on top of it, there'd still be no good way down.

"Rabbit." Bors's voice was calm but urgent. "Time to go."

Roshad swung back onto the safety of the ledge. Below them, the horse warriors were in the shaft now, their curses rising up ahead of them. "Just had to check." He let go of Bors's arm and unclipped the chain from his collar, then stepped close to the larger man, his back against Bors's armored chest. He quickly looped the chain around both of them, under their arms, then handed the loose end to Bors. "Ready?"

Bors wrapped huge arms tight around Roshad's shoulders. "Always."

Roshad kissed the man's bracered wrist, then fixed the image of a small brown house spider in his mind, his hands twisting in the motions that had come to feel so natural. He knelt, Bors wrapped around him like a shell, and whispered the words.

Then he rolled off the ledge.

There was a moment of disorientation, his stomach rebelling at the shifting horizon. Then his hands found the sheer stone of the tower wall, and suddenly it was as if the world had turned ninety degrees, and he was crawling along a flat plane leading to the vertical blue wall of the plaza. His hands and feet moved effortlessly, sticking and releasing at will as he crawled, hindered only by Bors, who did his best to lock his legs around Roshad's middle. The warrior's weight on Roshad's back pulled steadily forward, urging them on.

And then they were down. The world twisted again as the two men untangled themselves and stood. Bors's expression was as stoic as any war mask, but his breathing was quick and his tan skin paler than normal. Roshad smiled up at him and refastened his chain.

A shout from the tower drew their attention. High above, the soldiers were peering down at them from between the pillars.

Bors tugged at Roshad's arm, leading him away across the plaza, but Roshad couldn't resist shooting their pursuers a rude gesture. "Better luck next time, geldings!"

Except that there wouldn't be a next time. At long last, he and Bors were finally leaving the city, heading out to—

The woman in the furry hat appeared between the pillars. She shouted something, then began shoving warriors off the ledge. One by one, they fell, unable to keep from pinwheeling their arms, faces contorted with fear—and yet moving nowhere near as quickly as they should have. In a heartbeat, the first had touched down, as lightly as a falling leaf. He smiled at and drew his sword.

"Right. Wizard." Roshad turned back to Bors. "Okay, now we go."

They ran, cutting across the plaza and through the crowd of onlookers that had gathered. Beyond it, the street was packed with merchants, travelers, and locals out for a walk in the city's picturesque temple district. Barrow runners pushed their one-wheeled carts to and fro, working on commission to spread caravan goods from the city's central market out to the rest of the populace.

Roshad grabbed the edge of one such barrow and pulled, dumping a load of ornamented baskets into the street. The runner screeched in protest and dove to recover her goods before they got trampled or stolen by the swarming street kids who knew an opportunity when they saw one. The pursuing horse warriors cursed, bogged down in the morass, and Bors and Roshad turned a corner and kept running, staying close together to keep their chain from clotheslining bystanders.

Someone shouted, and Roshad looked back to see that several horse warriors had broken through and were still on their trail. This part of the street was less densely packed, and the pursuers were gaining.

"The hell with this!" Roshad careened around the edge of a coffeehouse and ducked into an alley, pulling Bors along with him. He pressed the big man back into the shadows against the wall, then held his hands out toward the alley's mouth, fingers spread.

A gauntleted hand grabbed his shoulder. "Rabbit, no!"

Roshad grimaced and shot Bors a look. "They're not going to stop, Bors."

Bors simply stared at him, mouth set in a disapproving line.

"Piss and hell!" Roshad grabbed Bors's shoulder and shoved him back into a run. "If they catch us, it's your fault!"

They sprinted through a maze of alleys and access ways, past middens and watering troughs, their footfalls echoing off the mud-brick walls. Their pursuers weren't even bothering to yell anymore, just focusing all their efforts on closing the gap between them and their quarry. Roshad yanked Bors around another corner—

And stopped. The alley dead-ended in a small courtyard, kept shaded and cool by the many-storied buildings on three sides. Every door was shut tight.

Roshad grabbed the latch on the nearest door, but to no avail. Bors gave it a tentative slam with his shoulder, but the ironbound wood didn't even groan. They spun around just in time to see the first of the horse warriors appear.

"Now?" Roshad asked Bors, raising a hand.

Bors only shook his head. His fingers were tight on the hilt of the huge sword slung across his back, but Roshad knew it was a bluff. Bors would never hurt these people.

Fine—there were other spells. The climbing again. Roshad began the incantation—

"I wouldn't." The voice was the captain's, albeit strained. The man emerged from between his troops, sweating but exultant. To either side of him, warriors stood with bows drawn, arrows pointed straight at Roshad's chest. The captain grinned and moved forward.

"Now, thief," he said, "you'll give us back our prince."

Coming Next Week: An audience with the lord of the Horse Throne in Chapter Two of James L. Sutter's "Boar and Rabbit"!

James L. Sutter is the Managing Editor for Paizo Publishing and a co-creator of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. He is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Death's Heretic and The Redemption Engine, the former of which was #3 on Barnes & Noble's list of the Best Fantasy Releases of 2011 and a finalist for the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel. He's written short stories for such publications as Escape Pod, Apex Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and the #1 Amazon best-seller Machine of Death. His anthology Before They Were Giants pairs the first published short stories of science fiction luminaries with new interviews and writing advice from the authors themselves. In addition, he's published a wealth of gaming material for both Dungeons & Dragons and the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, including such fan-favorite Pathfinder Campaign Setting books as Distant Worlds and City of Strangers. For more information, check out jameslsutter.com or follow him on Twitter at @jameslsutter.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Boar and Rabbit

by James L. Sutter

Chapter Two: Child of the Horse King

Bors stepped between Roshad and the warriors. "This man is no thief, Erzhan. I go with him of my own free will."

The captain—Erzhan, presumably—chuckled without humor. "This sorcerer has cast a spell on you, my prince. Your father warned us of as much."

Bors glared. "Do I look enchanted to you?"

"Running off with some street thief? Abandoning your tribe?" Erzhan snorted. Roshad got the feeling the man did that a lot. "But it doesn't matter what I think. Your father tasked us with bringing you back, and that's what we're doing."

"Not while I live!" Roshad stepped out from behind Bors's armored bulk.

Erzhan shrugged. "That was always an option." He turned to his archers.

Metal sang as Bors's sword flew free from its sheath. In three steps he was across the intervening distance, the long, straight blade hovering still and horizontal an inch from Erzhan's throat. The captain blanched.

Bors's voice was the rumble of a distant storm. "You overreach yourself, Captain." He lifted his gaze to the other warriors. "If any of you touch this man behind me, you die. Either here, by my blade, or dragged by your heels across the stones of the steppes until your own mothers won't recognize you. I will not repeat myself."

There was a tense pause, and then bows lowered and hands moved from hilts. Heads bowed.

"Good." Bors looked down at the captain. "And you, Erzhan?"

Erzhan was sweating from more than just heat now, but he managed to keep his voice from cracking. "All respect, my prince, but you're not hakan yet. Your father still holds the Horse Throne. And it's from his lips that this order came. We must bring you back or die in the attempt."

"I know which option I prefer," Roshad suggested.

Bors didn't answer, just stared expressionlessly down at the soldier. At last he stepped back and sheathed his sword.

"Then you'll bring us back," he said. "Both of us."

∗ ∗ ∗

They rode north from the Gate of Winds, the red sandstone walls of Karazh's capital shrinking rapidly behind them. Ahead, the steppe rolled off into eternity, the bunching hills like waves, giving the Grass Sea its name. It was still early summer, and everywhere was a carpet of green.

They road in silence, Bors and Roshad riding double on a mare commandeered from one of the warriors. Beneath his veils, Roshad did his best to match Bors's calm, to give nothing away to their captors, but inside his emotions roiled. All he'd ever wanted was to ride away from the city with Bors's arms locked tight around him, but not like this. Never like this.

The road curved around a low hill, and the camp came into view. Hundreds of tents and round-walled gers spread back through the shallow valley, their white felt walls gleaming. Long streams of colorful pennants flapped from every roof's apex like helmet plumes.

Between them moved horses—whole herds of them, of every color and description. Many were in use by the tribespeople, being groomed or trained or used to haul goods, but still more wandered seemingly unattended. Several came to investigate the new arrivals, and Roshad watched in fascination as the soldiers nodded to the animals as if they were sentries.

No one dismounted as they rode through the settlement. Several curious onlookers—humans, this time—stopped what they were doing to watch the procession, and Roshad felt their eyes on him. Bors's armor was similar enough to the soldiers' that he likely wouldn't have attracted attention even if these hadn't been his people, but Roshad's face-veil and wrappings were unmistakable. Even backwater nomads knew about the Iridian Fold. He searched the watching eyes for judgment, but found only that expressionless regard that so infuriated him on Bors.

In the center of the encampment, a small stone curtain wall six feet high marked the edge of the smaller tents and the beginning of a large ring of open space, bare save for the ubiquitous wandering horses. In its center stood a structure that Roshad couldn't properly call a tent, or even a pavilion. Walls of stone twenty feet high were capped by conical felt roofs, and smaller fabric outbuildings clustered around its sides in an amorphous explosion of canvas.

Erzhan must have caught his widened eyes, because he snickered. "Like that, city man? A gift from your Water Lords, who know how to pay proper respect to the horse tribes." He dismounted.

Bors and Roshad followed suit. Several of the soldiers looked like they might take hold of the prisoners, but Bors's glare drove them back, and they settled for spreading out ahead of and behind them. Erzhan took the lead, speaking to the two guards at the front door, who saluted with fists to chests and stood aside.

Inside, Roshad couldn't help but rubberneck. The hall they walked through might have been in any conventional castle or fortress, yet while some arches led off to similar corridors, others led into canvas tent-rooms, or simply out onto open grass, without so much as an awning.

"The Trade Palace is shared by all the horse tribes," Bors murmured. "The stone foundation came from the city, but your lords knew better than to presume what the tribes desire, or to build to any single han's specifications—even my father's. Whichever tribe resides here completes it as it sees fit, then breaks it down when they move on."

Roshad only nodded.

The corridor ended in a set of bronze doors, each embossed with a rearing stallion. Two more guards stood at attention there, but before Erzhan could speak, they caught sight of Bors and swung the doors wide.

Roshad expected a great hall, tall and dourly majestic, or perhaps a cushioned seraglio. Instead, he found himself in a tent—a stone-floored one, to be sure, but still little more than a larger version of the gers they'd passed on the way in. One wall was open, its canvas drawn back like curtains to reveal the sunlit grass of a parade ground where several people were at work training horses.

A wooden throne stood on a raised platform against the far wall, its arms and back carved into the shapes of horses. A man sat on that chair, facing out at the training yard. As the warriors entered, he turned.

Roshad froze, and might have taken a step back if not for Bors's hand on his arm.

The man on the chair was tall, his armor like Bors's but richer, the lacquered scales a deep burgundy. Stylized horseheads adorned the steel bracers on his forearms and the clasp that held the long fur mantle over his shoulders. Twin axes lay crossed in his lap, yet none of these were what took Roshad aback.

The face he turned to them was steel, molded into the long moustaches and beard of a patriarch. It extended from his conical helm down to his chin, where it met the chain coif around his neck. It was polished mirror-bright, turning the holes for his eyes into darkened pits.

A litchina. Gods above. Bors had shown Roshad his own war mask once, the smooth lines modeled on his own expressionless face. He carried it everywhere, but Roshad had never seen him wear it, as a Horse King wearing his litchina meant one thing, and one thing only.

He was ready to kill.

Hakan Temir Kaskyrbai stood, taking an axe in each hand. The steel-encased head nodded minutely, and the soldiers who had surrounded Bors and Roshad stepped back.

The hakan knows the price of the throne.

"So," the hakan said. "This is the man who would steal my kingdom."

Roshad groped frantically for a response, but Bors squeezed his arm warningly and spoke instead. "He steals nothing, Father."

"Doesn't he?" One axe rose to point at them. "I see a thief who would break my line, who would see the greatest of the tribes fall to internal bickering, and let some lesser han take the Horse Throne. And you, my only son," the axe head drew a line between them, "you chain yourself to him like a dog on a leash."

"Watch your words." Bors's tone was suddenly as hard as the hakan's, his face a mask of its own. "You are my lord and father, and I honor you with every breath, but you will not insult me again, nor the man that I've chosen."

A laugh, ringing behind steel. "Or what? You'll draw your sword and strike me down, here in the heart of the Trade Palace?" The hakan laughed again, but this time it sounded to Roshad like the mockery was turned inward. "Split hooves, boy, isn't that all I've ever asked?"

The hakan seated himself once more on the wooden throne. He waved one of the axes dismissively. "Leave us. And send in Ulzhan." Roshad started to turn, and the axe shot forward. "Not you."

A moment later, the three of them were alone, save for the trainers continuing unperturbed on the far grass. The metal face regarded Bors and Roshad silently for a long moment, and Roshad suddenly understood at a visceral level why the Horse Kings wore the litchinas. That blank, expressionless stare was more terrifying than any grimace or battle cry.

"The Iridian Fold," the hakan said at last.

"It's a noble calling," Bors said. "You've said so yourself, when Koshkin left to join them."

The hakan nodded. "So it is. And you think that matters?"

The question caught Bors short. "But—"

"How many great tribes are there, Bors?"

"Thirteen."

"And which is the greatest?"

"Kaskyrbai. The wolves of the steppe."

The hakan nodded. "You've known that all your life, haven't you?"

"Of course."

"And that's the problem." The hakan took both axes and set them down on the arm of the throne. "You're young, Bors. You've been raised as heir to the greatest of the tribes, but you didn't watch what your grandfather—my father—had to do to take the Horse Throne. I grew up in the middle of it, the blood and shit that coated the steppes. The hans of the other great tribe are as proud as us, boy. They cede us respect because they have to. Because I've kept us strong. But if we show any weakness, they'll slaughter us. And then they'll slaughter each other, until the last one to fall from his saddle and land on this wooden chair can call himself hakan."

Someone pounded once on the bronze doors, and the hakan looked up. "Enter."

The doors opened, and a woman stepped through. She was big—only a few inches shorter than Bors himself—and wore armor of brown and gray, topped by a fur-lined helm. A huge sheath on her back held a recurve bow, and a longsword swung at her waist. She spared Bors and Roshad only the briefest of glances as she stalked past and knelt at the foot of the platform. "Hakan."

"Rise, Ulzhan." The hakan gestured for her to ascend and take up a position next to the throne, and now Roshad felt the frank appraisal in her gaze. He was momentarily glad for his veil—he could never have matched the expressionlessness of these damned nomads.

The hakan spoke. "What's your name, city-man?"

"Roshad, lord."

"Roshad what?"

"Just Roshad."

The steel face bobbed agreeably.

"And are you perhaps the son of a Water Lord, Roshad? Or maybe a prince of the East with a thousand camels in your caravan? No, wait—you're the sixth reincarnation of Sogys Taramai, here to lead us all off the steppe and into the Land of No Winters."

Roshad felt his face burn, and only Bors's grip on his arm and the knowledge of a thousand horse warriors in the surrounding camp kept him from spreading his fingers and letting the fire flow, torching the old man with the metal face and the stupid, flammable throne.

Bors's voice was quiet. "I love him, Father. And he loves me."

"And I love you, boy." The hakan shook his head. "Which is why I'm giving you the chance to save his life."

"What?" Roshad and Bors spoke in unison. Even as the shock coursed through him, some small part of Roshad smiled to see how quickly he and his szerik were growing together.

The hakan waved at the warrior next to him. "You've known Ulzhan since you were a child, Bors. Her father was the greatest captain I ever had, and already she's nearly matched him—with the horses, with the bow, and as a combat leader."

The woman inclined her head slightly at the praise.

No wonder she's good with horses, Roshad thought, she's got the face of one. But of course that was just his anger speaking. In truth, the woman was unremarkable, save for her size and the way she stood like a crouching lion, ready to pounce.

"Tomorrow at dawn, you will slit palms and marry Ulzhan, binding your blood with hers. Then you'll take up the Succession Sword and strike me down. Together, with me to advise you, you and she will lead our tribe to greatness."

"And if I refuse?"

The hakan picked up one of his axes and pounded twice on the platform with its haft. Suddenly the doors were open, and the room was full of dark-eyed steppe warriors.

"Then your city-man dies, and you marry her anyway."

"Bors!" Roshad grabbed tight to the man's arm, but his szerik paid him no attention. The bigger man's gaze was fixed on the hakan.

"I was born to be hakan," Bors said. "And you would make me a slave."

"All kings are slaves." The hakan sighed, then reached up and pulled off his litchina. The man beneath it was surprisingly young—no more than twenty years older than Bors, with plenty of black still in his long mustaches. He had the face of a hard man, yet the gaze that met Bors's was strangely soft.

"We both knew this was coming, Bors. I'm glad you found love, and I let you play as long as I could. But it's time to grow up."

Bors said nothing. The silence carried.

Roshad ran frantically through escape scenarios. Fire, that was good—fire scared people, called out to the animal instincts in them. He'd flame the old bastard—or better yet, the tent canopy above them, set the whole palace on fire. While the soldiers scrambled to put it out, he and Bors would race out the open side-wall, leap onto the horses that were being trained, then gallop through the camp and back to the city before anyone could stop them. Once there, they could hole up until a suitably large caravan was leaving the city, then—

Bors reached up to his chest and disconnected the chain, handing the end back to Roshad.

Roshad did his best not to grin beneath his veil. He and Bors only removed their chain when they were about to pull a particularly tricky stunt. He readied the spell.

"It's over, Roshad."

Roshad looked up at Bors. The man wasn't reaching for his sword. He wasn't tensing to move. Just looking down at him, mouth drawn tight. "What?"

"He's right. This time that we've had... I would have loved to be your szerik. But I have to do this."

"Right. Of course." Roshad searched Bors's face, looking for something—anything. This had to be a diversion, to catch the soldiers off guard. Later, Bors would kiss his brow and apologize for having said such a thing, even as a front.

But Bors was shaking his head. "No tricks, Roshad. Not this time. The city is your world, and I love you for showing it to me. But this is mine."

Gods, could he actually mean it? Roshad's stomach lurched. "I won't leave you." Smoke began to rise from his clenched fists. "I'm not scared of them."

"This isn't about fear." Bors's face was the same mask as the others, but now his eyes, always so full of emotion and expression for Roshad, held something indecipherable. "If you ever loved me, you won't make anyone hurt you." He took Roshad's head in his hands, and leaned down, pulling their foreheads together.

"Go now, Rabbit. Please. For me."

Then he let go and stepped backward, becoming one with the mass of soldiers. A sea of blank faces stared back at Roshad.

"If he's still here in three breaths," the hakan said to his soldiers, "shoot him."

Then tears blurred the scene, and Roshad turned and fled.

Coming Next Week: Desperate measures in Chapter Three of James L. Sutter's "Boar and Rabbit"!

James L. Sutter is the Managing Editor for Paizo Publishing and a co-creator of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. He is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Death's Heretic and The Redemption Engine, the former of which was #3 on Barnes & Noble's list of the Best Fantasy Releases of 2011 and a finalist for the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel. He's written short stories for such publications as Escape Pod, Apex Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and the #1 Amazon best-seller Machine of Death. His anthology Before They Were Giants pairs the first published short stories of science fiction luminaries with new interviews and writing advice from the authors themselves. In addition, he's published a wealth of gaming material for both Dungeons & Dragons and the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, including such fan-favorite Pathfinder Campaign Setting books as Distant Worlds and City of Strangers. For more information, check out jameslsutter.com or follow him on Twitter at @jameslsutter.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Boar and Rabbit

by James L. Sutter

Chapter Three: The Freedom of the Dead

A contingent of horse warriors escorted Roshad back to the city, following at a respectful distance but doing nothing to disguise their presence. At the Gate of Winds, they finally closed and encircled him, not moving until he dismounted and handed back the reins of the horse he'd stolen in his flight. Then they turned and rode back north without saying a word.

Which was just fine with Roshad. He had the feeling that if they'd said anything, he would have burned them all where they sat, and promises to Bors be damned.

But then, did a promise to Bors mean anything anymore? It certainly didn't seem that the horse prince had much regard for the words they'd whispered in beds and barrooms, on rooftops under the moon.

And should I be surprised? After all, who was Roshad to lay claim to the heir to the Horse Throne?

Roshad passed through the city gates without incident, though without Bors at his side the gray wrappings and loose chain around his waist drew stares. After a moment he removed the chain from his collar and coiled it over his shoulder.

Before him, Ular Kel, greatest city of Karazh, rolled out its majesty. The slope from north to south lent him a god's-eye view of the sea of rooftops. From here, he could see the grand crossroads that gave the Caravan City its life, each of the four great gates birthing roads that would take him places he knew only from stories: Avistan. Garund. The great Castrovin Sea. All his life, he had longed to set foot on those roads, to follow them to the mysteries at their ends. Yet the knowledge of what he was—a citified street-rat with an inconveniently sharp tongue and only half a knack for magic—had always kept him here.

Until Bors. Bors, who hadn't laughed at his dreams but shared them. Who had followed him into his filthy haunts and hidey-holes, stolen with him, learned the language of the streets. And who had told him all about life on the steppe, the sunsets over fields of grass stretching on without end, where a man could ride for days and never see another soul. Bors, who had dreamed them a life beyond Ular Kel.

And now he was gone.

Bors isn't one to mince words.

Roshad screamed, startling a procession of shaven-headed priests. He ignored them and sprinted flat-out at a cart filled with dawn melons. One foot caught the wheel, the other the cart's side, and then he was airborne and pulling himself up onto a stone-carver's awning. He made a short jump to a window, startling the woman cooking flatbread inside, then swung up onto the roof.

He ran, not caring where he went, just needing to move. He hurtled over gaps that would normally have given him pause, sometimes dropping half a story to lower roofs, tucking into a roll to distribute the impact. He didn't bother with magic, free climbing up the mud-brick walls with only his hands and feet.

He was nearing the center of the city, the grand market where the caravan routes met. Above him rose the city's great landmarks, guiding him in. There were the Water Houses, the fortress-cisterns of the Water Lords who owned the city, their life-giving aqueducts stretching out like spiderwebs. And there was the Spire of Azi, a thin needle of gold stabbing into the sky, where mystics blinded themselves staring at the sun in an effort to understand Sarenrae's divine will.

And then he saw where his path had led him. Roshad didn't fight it, just let the momentum carry him across the ledge and down through the window.

Into stillness. Silence. Sunbeams caught motes of dust, yet nothing else moved in the little apartment.

Apartment, hell—it was nothing but a squat, and Roshad knew he shouldn't kid himself. A pallet on the floor. A lantern. A few buckets and a screen for privacy. Most importantly, a door that had been boarded up by its landlord after the Ghost Plague and never unsealed.

And just like that, the frantic energy left him. Roshad ripped the veil from his face—what was the point, now?—and collapsed onto the pallet. He pulled the ragged blanket into a puddle and buried his face in it, shutting out the light.

No relief there. The cloth was heady with the smell of Bors, the sweet stink of man and horse. It invaded Roshad's silence, until finally he cast it away and rolled onto his back, staring at the cracked ceiling.

Why? How, after all this time—after so many stolen afternoons, the constant game of excuses and evasions—how could Bors look at him and say it was over?

Roshad understood, of course. It was to protect Roshad. Bors wasn't one for idle threats, and Roshad doubted very much that the hakan of the horse tribes was any better. No, Bors knew that if he didn't accede to his father's demands, the hakan would simply have Roshad killed.

If that was it, they could have worked with that—played along until the hakan let his guard down, then made one last escape. But that wasn't what Roshad had seen in Bors's eyes. In that canvas-topped throne room, Bors had understood that they had never really fooled his father, and that any attempt at subterfuge would just result in Roshad's death. If he wanted to save Roshad's life, he had to say goodbye.

And he had to mean it.

Roshad reached up to wipe the tears from his eyes, and the coiled chain dug painfully into his shoulder. He pulled it off and let it run through his fingers, clicking off links like prayer beads.

Tomorrow at dawn, Bors would be married. Roshad could close his eyes and picture it: The open tent, the slit palms mingling blood. The tying of the cloth. And as soon as it was done, Bors's father would push him into the challenge, making him draw the wooden Succession Sword and fight for leadership of the tribe. The older man was eager to pass his burden and secure the tribe's future, and that meant Bors.

The future. Did Roshad even have a future, without Bors? He could ride out with the next caravan, but what was the point? In his heart, he'd still be here. Chain links bit into his palm as his fists clenched.

Be the chain. That's what they'd sworn, watching the Iridian Fold men in the darkness. To be one mind, one spirit. Without Bors, Roshad might as well be dead.

Slowly, damp cheeks twisted into a smile.

If he was already dead, then what did he have to lose?

∗ ∗ ∗

The sun was still below the horizon, but already the grasses of the steppe were lightening, waving in the breeze. Ahead, the nomad camp was just beginning to stir, the silence of sleep broken by the snort of horses, the flap of canvas, and the small sounds of cookfires being kindled.

There was little cover out here, save for the long grass. Roshad crouched low and moved as quickly as he could. Once in the shadows of the first few tents, he straightened and began walking normally. A half-repaired saddle sitting unattended near one of the tents caught his eye, and he hoisted it onto his shoulder. Better and better.

He felt naked, walking with his face exposed like this, but the veil and grays would have been an instant giveaway. Instead, he wore one of the long caftans the nomads called deels, a patchy fur jacket, and a small satchel—all dull, threadbare, and purchased for three times their value from an ex-nomad back in the city. Roshad's blue eyes might still give him away if anyone looked closely—such things were rare among the horse tribes—but he hoped the predawn shadows would hide them for now.

Long before Roshad had begun to discover sorcery, life on the streets had taught him an even more fundamental magic trick: walk with purpose—preferably with a uniform or artisan's tools—and you can go anywhere. A tradesman at work is invisible, beneath the notice of all but children.

So he walked, carrying his broken saddle, past old women boiling water and the tent-muffled sounds of waking. In moments, he was standing before the curtain wall ringing the Trade Palace.

Here the easy part ended. At the break in the wall stood an armed guard. Beyond him, the grounds were busier than the rest of the camp, with workers passing to and fro. On the right side of the palace, Roshad could see people constructing a large tent over a raised platform and altar.

The wedding pavilion. Roshad ground his teeth, but there was no time to think about that now. He could haul himself up and over the wall in an eyeblink—no doubt the horse tribes considered any wall tall enough to stop cavalry sufficient defense—but that would attract too much attention. Instead, he approached the guard. "You! Can you return this saddle for me?"

The guard eyed him suspiciously. "What?"

"This saddle." Roshad tossed the thing on the ground at the man's feet. As the guard's gaze followed it, Roshad quickly twisted his hand into the correct gesture and coughed to cover the final words of the incantation.

The man's face changed. Suspicion drained away like water, replaced by a round-cheeked smile. "I know you, don't I?"

Roshad smiled back. "Of course you do. We rode down those horse thieves two years back." He took in the bags under the man's eyes, the flushed skin. "Don't tell me you drank so much at the celebration that you forgot me?"

"Me? Drink too much? You sound like my wife!" The man laughed, then looked down at the saddle. His smile turned to a look of genuine apology. "I'm sorry, though—I can't leave my post."

"Still as lazy as ever, I see. Fair enough—just let me past, then, hey?"

The guard looked uncertain. "I don't know if—"

"Damn it, man!" Roshad jabbed a finger at the saddle. "If I don't return this to the prince before the wedding, who knows when he'll find time to pay me? I'll be eating grass with the horses."

"Well..."

"Besides, we're all going to be in here once the sun rises anyway. The only difference is that other people will have had time to dress properly, while I'll look like a half-plucked chicken."

The guard made up his mind. "Fine, but be quick about it. And you owe me a drink."

"Done." Roshad picked up the saddle and slapped the man on the back. "Where are the prince's quarters?"

The guard pointed to the side of the palace opposite the wedding construction. "Around the back there. Second story, I think."

Roshad grunted appreciatively and took up the saddle again, then walked quickly through the bustle.

No point trying for the main doors—inside the fortress there'd be too many people for a simple charm spell to be effective, and the servants in charge of the wedding preparations would be too likely to know who was supposed to be where. That left the direct approach.

Roshad reached the indicated spot. Here on the western side of the palace, the shadows were still long.

Perfect. Roshad dropped the saddle, glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then cast the spell. There was no outward effect, but as he touched the stone he felt the effortless security of his hold. Reaching up, he began to climb.

This part of the palace was fully stone, with no canvas anywhere. At the first set of windows, arched and glassless, Roshad paused and peeked through, moving his head slowly so as not to attract attention. Below him, men and women bustled about kneading dough and using paddles to move pastries in and out of a great stone oven. Roshad's spirits rose—royal quarters would of course be near the kitchen chimneys for easy heating on cold nights.

He kept climbing. The second set of windows was almost at the top of the wall. Once more, he peeked through.

Bors stood in an opulent bedchamber, its stone hung with tapestries depicting herds of horses and branching royal lineages. He was dressed in his usual armor, but it had been polished to a mirror shine and augmented with a bright red sash. A brilliant yellow armband embroidered with a horse sigil wrapped around his right bicep, and his huge two-handed sword stood scabbarded against the wall, a smaller but intricately carved wooden practice sword thrust through his sash instead. His helmet was off, and he was leaning on a table with both hands, staring into a large oval mirror.

Roshad slipped silently through the window, then stopped, uncertain. Up until this moment, he'd been filled with purpose, but now, seeing Bors...

Bors turned slowly, casually, and gave Roshad a sad smile.

"What took you so long?"

Want more Bors and Roshad?

Read the first two chapters of "Boar and Rabbit" here and here, or check out their further adventures in the new novel The Redemption Engine!

Coming Next Week: A wedding in blood in Chapter Four of James L. Sutter's "Boar and Rabbit"!

James L. Sutter is the Managing Editor for Paizo Publishing and a co-creator of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. He is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Death's Heretic and The Redemption Engine, the former of which was #3 on Barnes & Noble's list of the Best Fantasy Releases of 2011 and a finalist for the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel. He's written short stories for such publications as Escape Pod, Apex Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and the #1 Amazon best-seller Machine of Death. His anthology Before They Were Giants pairs the first published short stories of science fiction luminaries with new interviews and writing advice from the authors themselves. In addition, he's published a wealth of gaming material for both Dungeons & Dragons and the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, including such fan-favorite Pathfinder Campaign Setting books as Distant Worlds and City of Strangers. For more information, check out jameslsutter.com or follow him on Twitter at @jameslsutter.

Illustration by Eric Belisle

Boar and Rabbit

by James L. Sutter

Chapter Four: The Succession Sword

Roshad stood speechless, unable to parse the words, and even less able to handle the melancholy smile.

"You're not wearing your veil," Bors noted.

The wound Roshad had been salving with action tore open anew. He wanted to slap Bors, to scream at him, to fall into the big man's arms and be comforted.

Stick to the plan. Roshad reached back into the satchel on his back and pulled out the chain.

"Remember this?" He held it out, letting its links hang down. "This is the promise we made, Bors. Shared mind, shared heart. Always." He dropped the chain between them, letting it clatter to the floor. "Have you forgotten that?"

Bors was no longer smiling. "They were going to kill you, Roshad."

"So you did it for them?" Roshad felt the heat building in his face, the tears starting their slow treks down his cheeks. "Because that's what this is, Bors. If you cut a man in half, both halves die. Together, we're szerik. Apart, we're nothing. Did you think I would let you kill us both?"

"No."

"Well, too bad, you bastard, because I'm not—" Roshad paused. "What did you say?"

"No, I never thought you would stay away. That was the point."

Roshad grimaced. "But when you said it was over—I saw it in your eyes. You meant it."

"Of course I meant it! Anything less would have gotten you killed. If I wanted my father to believe it, I needed you to believe it, too. I had to believe it."

"Then how did you know I'd come back?"

Bors smiled, and now there was nothing sad in it. "Because I know you, Roshad. You're as stubborn as a half-trained camel. You'd never be able to let me go—not without at least getting the last word."

Then he opened his arms, and Roshad was in them, face pressed against the warm lacquered scales guarding the big man's chest. "I thought..." he whispered, and then his voice caught. "So why did you look so gods-damned sad when you saw me at the window?"

Bors's stubbled cheek pressed down against the top of Roshad's head. "Because I had to hurt you, Rabbit. That should never be easy."

"Damn straight."

They stood together then for a long moment, neither saying anything. At last Bors unwrapped his arms and pushed Roshad away. He reached for his true sword. "Come on. It'll be dawn soon."

Roshad felt hope bloom inside his chest. "We're leaving?"

"Of course we're leaving. Isn't that what I said? Now that my father's convinced I've given up, we can make our escape. You have your climbing spell?"

"Already cast."

Bors grinned. "That'll make it easier."

"But not easy enough."

Both men spun at the voice. Ulzhan stood in the room's doorway, bow drawn and arrow nocked. She wore her armor as well, along with a blue sash to complement Bors's red. With her heel, she kicked the door closed. "I thought this might happen, so I had a servant listen at your door."

Ulzhan does what's best for the tribe. Always.

Roshad started to raise his hands, ready to burn the woman to cinders, but Bors slapped them down. "No!"

"He's right," Ulzhan said. "We have many things to discuss, but if you try to cast a spell, I'll shut your mouth with an arrow and render this conversation moot."

Roshad let his hands drop. "What conversation?"

Seemingly satisfied that Roshad was pacified, Ulzhan dismissed him, turning her attention to Bors. "My prince, I'm going to go ahead and assume you're less than thrilled about our marriage."

Bors's face was back to its normal, stone-hewn blankness. "It's nothing personal."

"I believe you. Maybe if you were differently inclined, I'd be offended, but no matter. The point is, I'm not your father. I can see your love and respect it. But this marriage has to happen, for the good of the tribe. So I'll make you this offer: marry me, and I'll turn a blind eye to your man." Her head tilted to indicate Roshad. "The tribe can never know—I won't let you undermine our authority or give other tribes a lever to use against us—but you can arrange whatever rendezvous you desire. You don't need to take my bed except to give us an heir."

"How generous," Roshad spat, but Bors touched his arm. The prince nodded his head to Ulzhan, almost a bow.

"You honor me, Ulzhan. Under other circumstances, I would have been honored to stand at your side. But I can't lead the tribe."

Ulzhan's gaze hardened. "I thought better of you, Bors. You're the heir. There's no alternative."

"Actually, I think there is." Bors gestured to the dagger in Roshad's belt. "May I?"

Ulzhan drew the fletching back to her cheek, the arrow's steel point in line with Roshad's eye. "No tricks." But the arrow bobbed a gesture for him to continue.

Bors reached down and drew the dagger. In one smooth move, he slit his palm, then held it out to Ulzhan.

Roshad gaped. "What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Bors held the dagger out to Ulzhan, hilt-first. "I'm marrying her."

Ulzhan stared at him, and then a smile spread across her face. Roshad wouldn't have said it transformed her features, but as with Bors, a face that rarely smiled was all the brighter when it did. She lowered the bow. "I see."

"I don't!" Roshad moved between them. "After all this, you're going to marry her now, an hour before the damned wedding?"

"She's right, Roshad. Only the hakan's blood can challenge him for the throne. But as soon as I marry Ulzhan, my blood becomes hers. She can challenge him. And from what I've heard, she'd lead the tribe better than I would."

"A wise assessment, my prince." Ulzhan let the bowstring go slack, and with a final mistrustful glance at Roshad set it down against the wall. She took the proffered dagger and slit her own palm, then reached forward to clasp Bors's hand.

"Gods," Roshad whispered. "I can't believe you're marrying her."

"What's a marriage, Rabbit?" Bors squeezed Ulzhan's hand, then pulled it back and showed Roshad the wound in his palm. "In the lands beyond the sea, this is just another scar."

"The lands beyond the sea..." Roshad grinned. "I guess you're right."

Bors reached up and tugged loose the yellow armband, then carefully wiped both his blood and Ulzhan's on it. She let him tie it around her wrist, the embroidered horse showing through the orange-red stain.

"It's done, then." Roshad said.

"Not quite." Bors reached down and drew the wooden sword from his sash. He held it out on flat palms, offering it to Ulzhan. "The Succession Sword. Lead the tribe well for me, Ulzhan."

Ulzhan stared unbelieving at the sword, then slowly took it, holding it upright before her face. "No," she said. "Not for you. The Horse Throne won't survive an absentee hakan. Once I challenge your father, I'll rule in my own name."

"Of course." Bors smiled. "You're the son he always wanted. Once he gets over the shock, I hope he sees the gift I've given him. And the tribe."

Ulzhan's eyes gleamed. She lowered the sword. "You're a strange man, Bors Kaskyrbai. But you would have made a fine husband." Swiftly, she stepped forward and kissed him on the lips, then pulled back a few inches to meet his gaze. "Don't come back."

Bors laughed. "Don't worry."

And then Ulzhan was through the door and gone.

Bors turned to Roshad. "Shall we?"

A laugh exploded from Roshad. "I can't believe you're married!"

"I believe I already was." Bors stooped and picked up the chain, then held it out to Roshad. "Are we leaving or not?"

"Oh, we're leaving all right." Roshad shoved the chain into his satchel, then turned around and braced his hands on his legs. "Your steed, my prince."

"Not prince." Bors secured his helm and sword and settled his bulk piggyback on Roshad. "Not anymore."

Then they were out the window, moving quickly down the stone wall. At the ground, they broke apart and moved swiftly over to the curtain wall, keeping the palace between them and the wedding pavilion. Figuring the time for subterfuge was past, Roshad grabbed the top and levered himself up and over, Bors just behind him.

"My horse is hidden on the south side of the camp," he said.

"And are you sentimentally attached to her?" Bors asked.

"What? No, why—"

But Bors was already whistling. In response, a herd of a dozen horses appeared from behind a screen of tents, the stallion at its head leading them right up to Bors. He scratched the beast's nose.

"That's amazing," Roshad said.

"What did you think it meant to be a horse prince?" Bors pulled himself up onto the stallion's back. He held out a hand for Roshad, and the sorcerer let himself be pulled up, seating himself in front. Bors dug in his heels, and they began to ride quickly through the tents. In moments, they were through the last of them and out onto the open steppe. Behind them, the sun rose above the hills in earnest, casting their shadow long in front of them.

"We'll never outrun them riding double," Roshad noted.

"We won't have to," Bors said. "I don't think they'll be coming after us again."

"You think your father will allow it?"

Bors laughed. "Honestly, it's a better arrangement than he could have hoped. But even he can't step away from a challenge. Ulzhan has the Succession Sword, and by the time he realizes I'm gone, she'll have issued the challenge. If she's half as good as everyone says, she'll take him apart. By the time he can see straight again, she'll be firmly on the Horse Throne, and we'll be over the horizon."

Roshad leaned back against Bors's chest. "And then?"

Bors wrapped one armored arm around him, holding him close.

"And then we'll see what there is to see."

Want more Bors and Roshad?

Read the first three chapters of "Boar and Rabbit" here, here, and here, or check out their further adventures in the new novel The Redemption Engine!

Coming Next Week: The return of Darvin and Fife in Lucien Soulban's "The Tide of Blood"!

James L. Sutter is the Managing Editor for Paizo Publishing and a co-creator of the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game. He is the author of the Pathfinder Tales novels Death's Heretic and The Redemption Engine, the former of which was #3 on Barnes & Noble's list of the Best Fantasy Releases of 2011 and a finalist for the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel. He's written short stories for such publications as Escape Pod, Apex Magazine, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, and the #1 Amazon best-seller Machine of Death. His anthology Before They Were Giants pairs the first published short stories of science fiction luminaries with new interviews and writing advice from the authors themselves. In addition, he's published a wealth of gaming material for both Dungeons & Dragons and the Pathfinder Roleplaying Game, including such fan-favorite Pathfinder Campaign Setting books as Distant Worlds and City of Strangers. For more information, check out jameslsutter.com or follow him on Twitter at @jameslsutter.

Illustration by Eric Belisle