The Heir of King Meldh, Chapter III, Reading 6

She reined the horse around and headed out of the clearing.  She turned in the saddle so she could wave as she went.

"I love you," Flindra whispered when the gelding carried her from the view of the cottage.  She wept in loss and grief and merely allowed the horse to travel down the familiar trail to the lake while she sank into her sorrow.

"Stop it," she scolded herself when she got to the lake.  "Use your head, Flindra.  Enough of these tears."  She pulled Deru to a halt and bowed her head.  "Beloved Spirit, be with me and guide my steps.  Help me to keep from feeling sorry for myself and drowning in my own tears."  She took a deep breath.  "Let it be so."

Deru was anxious to get moving so he turned around and nibbled at her boot.  He commonly did that as a way of saying it was time to move.  Flindra actually smiled as she let him walk on.  She rode quietly through the towering pines of the forest bordering the lake.  She could smell the pungent odor of the thick mat of fallen needles on the forest floor.  With every muffled step of her horse's hooves, she drew farther away from her home.  Every step beat out a steady rhythm of a mournful song that spoke the sorrow of her heart.

The loss of her home and her family opened a vast vault of loneliness and despair within her heart.  Never had Flindra experienced such intensity of emotion.  She used this intensity, this pain, to keep her mind focused on her task.  It was a knife blade that cut through the numbness of grief.

If an enemy knew her whereabouts, it would be probable that they would attack close to her home.  She remained vigilant and wary.  Her tension was translated through her body to the horse and he also scanned the countryside with alert ears.

By mid-afternoon, Flindra began to focus on her task of finding Kewero.  Leudh had given her some basic instructions on how to find the Northern Reaches.  She needed to travel along the western flanks of the Greyfell Mountains to a great boulder field and then make her way over an unnamed pass and thus through the mountains.  To the east of the great range was the barren area known as the Northern Reaches.

Flindra was well equipped for her journey.  She wore a dark green tunic that was lined with soft woolen fleece.  Her brown trousers were made of thick wool cloth that had been boiled before the garment was made.  Stout leather boots protected her feet and lower legs.  A fur-lined cloak in the same dark green as her tunic added more warmth.  In addition, the dark green blended well with the background of the forest.

Leudh had given her a fine yew bow and a quiver of arrows as a parting gift.  Both her father and Leudh had spent a great deal of time instructing her in the art of archery.  Over the years, she had developed an unerring accuracy with the weapon and was quite capable of defending herself with it.

They had taught her to use a knife effectively as well, both in a fight and as a throwing weapon.  Flindra had several daggers hidden in her clothing - one in her boot, another in a sheath suspended by a cord and hanging between her shoulder blades, and a third tucked into her belt.

Flindra stopped her gelding for a brief rest.  She still had about an hour of daylight left and she needed to find a place to camp.  Dismounting, she stroked the horse's neck as they both rested.

"Well old friend, I'm afraid you won't see any more warm and dry barns for a while.  Your rations might be a little short, too.  I'm sorry to bring you with me, but I need you."

The horse turned his ears toward her as she talked.  He was a mountain horse, somewhat small as horses go but incredibly sure-footed.  He used to be all black, but now there was a sprinkling of gray in his coat.

Eghero had given him to her as a girl.  Flindra still remembered the day when he gave the gelding to her.  His familiar tones echoed in her mind as she recalled his words.

"Take care of this horse and he will always serve you well.  He is not the swiftest but he will never tire and his feet will always be sure."

She had named him Deru, which in the Old Tongue meant steadfast.

Deru enjoyed being patted beneath his forelock and she started to massage this favorite spot.  His head started to lower as he relaxed under her familiar touch.  Once she had discovered how much he loved being rubbed here, she had always tried to indulge him.  Deru liked being patted under his forelock almost as much as he liked carrots.  Almost.