Seeker of the Four Winds: A Galatia Novel by C. D. Verhoff

the path, she realized
the Bulwark was slumped against his horse’s neck, barely able to
stay in the saddle. If he could go down the mountain in such a
state, perhaps she was being selfish. Taking a deep breath, she
steeled her nerves.
    “The key is to stay balanced in the saddle,”
Rolf called up from below. “Don’t let your nose go beyond the
saddle horn. Try to keep your body vertically aligned with the
trees. Let Buckwheat pick the path,”
    Lars was closest to her, about twenty
degrees to her left, thirty feet further down the slope. He glanced
up at her with an encouraging smile. Buckwheat carried her down,
laborious step by laborious step, but it wasn’t nearly as
terrifying as it had looked from the top.
    “You guys were right,” she called down to the
others. “It’s not as bad as…”
    The sound of snapping stone cut through the
air.
    The world seemed to tilt.
    A slab the size of a kitchen table had
broken loose beneath Buckwheat’s hooves. As it crumbled forward, he
struggled for footing to no avail. Her hip slammed into the ground.
Buckwheat slid toward Lars headfirst, with Josie’s foot trapped in
a stirrup.
    “Watch out!” she tried to warn Lars, but
there was nothing he could do. She felt Buckwheat slam into Bolt.
Imagining Lars being crushed between them filled her with horror.
Oh, god, please let him survive!
    The rocks slid mercilessly beneath her back
as Buckwheat’s weight pulled her down the mountainside, shredding
her army jacket to the chainmail beneath. Horse and rider gathered
speed as they headed straight for the rapids. Josie’s screams mixed
with the roar of the water. Momentum carried them over the edge of
the cliffs the river had cut in the mountain rift like a kid off
the end of a slide. She and Buckwheat hovered high above the water
for a split second, just before they plummeted.
    It felt like smacking pavement.
    The current gripped her body and zipped her
down the river. Not knowing how to swim, staying with the horse was
her only chance—that was if he didn’t kick her to death first.
    She pawed at the water in a frantic effort
to keep her head above the surface. Call upon the charisma! But she
had never been able to call upon its strength except by accident,
during some kind of crisis.
    “Don’t fail me now, charisma!” she
glubbed.
    Using the saddle horn to pull her head and
shoulders out of the water, she struggled to get her tangled foot
out of the stirrup. The saddle was slipping under Buckwheat’s
belly, pulling her beneath the surface again.
    I can do this, she told herself, fighting the panic.
O pen the Excito Fortitudo.
    Picturing a valve next to her heart opening,
and energy pouring into it, spreading through her veins, she
realized that power had been building behind it like water against
a dam, brought on by the threat to her life. Warmth flowed through
her chest into her limbs. As the gateway within opened wider, not
only did she feel oddly empowered, her mind had never been so
clear.
    With a single kick, she
ripped the stirrup from the leather. Clinging to the horse’s mane,
she managed to fling an arm out of the water, grab onto a wad of
Buckwheat’s mane, and pull her head above the surface. Her
belongings, including Riddle of
Steel in its watertight freezer bag, were
floating away down the river. The horse shook his head, snorting
water out of his nose. Her grip loosened. She clawed at him, her
only lifeline, but he slipped away. Never had she felt more
defeated than the moment she watched Buckwheat pull himself onto a
muddy bank without her.
    Her eyes caught a glimpse of a black ball
bobbing along in the distance. An arm came up out of the water.
Wait, it was someone’s head.
    “L-Lars!”
    She tried to yell out his name again, but all
she managed was a glub, glup, blup as river water splashed into her
mouth. Where they would end up, was anybody’s guess.

 
     
     
     
     

Chapter Twelve
     
    (Michael Penn)
     
    Most council meetings centered