#rigganmore

 By Michele Kiser

  Prologue

 Silverwinds blew down the plains and across the grand steppes of the native lands. Fall was in full swing and the harvest was done with winter close at hand. Short golden stalks gathered and bundled within the fields drying and waiting for the field hands to come and retrieve them tomorrow to store for the long cold days ahead. The estate of Baron Tirfal R’tchlan was well prepared for this season. Many hands to care for and many acres have been harvested so far and more to come in. Night slowly enshrouded the two story stone manor. White stone reflecting the dim light of the plain looking sunset and no clouds meant it would be a very cold night tonight but the stars would be a sight to behold.

The humble equine watched the hands come in from the fields in the distance laughing and talking among them selves. Smiling softly, he turned to look to his animal stable, making sure things where locked tight for the night. With recent odd raids on the outlying farms along the boarder, he wanted to make sure his investment in prized beasts where well taken care of. The slight itching feeling between his shoulder blades would not cease though. Unknown feelings crept into his gut, long forgotten from his days as a soldier under the service of his grandfather. Shrugging off the feeling he headed into the house to see what awaited him from his family, and to sit before a warm fire and finish off his favorite book. Hopefully tonight there would be no midnight visits from the farmers down the road again.

 Eyes looked out of the upper window down upon the estate of her father. Chill in the evening air made the workers in the courtyards breath visible in the darkening light. Children still out at play rampaged around playing their games with glee and abandon, their voices of gay laughter making her smile softly. Reaching up with her hand, she brushes the long strands of her mane out of her long face. Long lines of evolution had given her the fine figure of that of the Rigganmorean race. Descended from a wild form of plains animal that closely resembled a beast of burden, she contemplated the fact of how it was possible. Why did they have intelligence, speech and a complex society?

Her long fine equines face mixed with the elegant curves of a now extinct humanistic form lent for a good and fine figure. Turning with a swish of her soft cotton skirts she preferred over the more extravagant silks and satins that her suitors have given her this year, she headed to the section for old wood bound books. She tipped her head to the side slightly to get a better view of the titles along the dark wood wall. She reached up to carefully take down the book that theorized her pattern of thoughts and carried it to the corner seat by the large fireplace. Settling herself down by its warmth, the young lady browsed the book again, as she had since she was old enough to reach it. She remembered her father telling her she couldn’t read it until she was old enough to touch it, and by that time she should be old enough to understand it. A soft smile came again to her elegantly crafted muzzle.

No one really knew how they had come to be. The holy men had said long ago they where divine creations, one of a kind and unique to the world, each one in their own way. She wasn’t so sure. Pictures in the beginning of the pages showed the hearty beast that closely resembled most of the population of their now humanoid design.

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Chapter 1

  Wind kicked up at the feet of the cloaked form sitting on the hard rock on the mountainside overlooking the emerald valley caught deep in its hues of dark greens and indigo blues. The full moon cast down its silvery rays of reflected light from the dawn soon to come with a chill that the region has yet to see for some years. It was a long night tonight unlike nights past. Invaders had been seen coming in from the pass 3 days away and still nothing had been said or done to counteract this movement. Softy the figure sighed and blew out warm breath in the chilling night air though soft nostrils. He really didn’t want to be here tonight, doing babysitting duty for some green-necked recruits that sought the glory that the guardsmen were rumored to get.

‘They didn’t know any better,’ he thought to himself as the moonlight glimmered off his armor as he shifted silently. If ever there were wealth he had yet to see any of it after years of loyal service to country and king. He looked about himself, admiring the view below him on such a night. The chill in the air didn’t seem to bother him; years of training had made him a lean hard soldier. Leaning on his spear a bit more as the soft snoring of the young lads behind him pierced the calm night air he relaxed, mind wandering where it may on stray thoughts. The figures ears laid lazily to the side in a soft drooping motion, chin rested on hard hands meant to hold his sword that now entwined around the cool soft well-worn wood of his spear-blade. His thoughts turned inward at the days in his youth barely a lad of 13 with a glimmer in his eyes at the thought of adventure. His mind then was turned in those years to the though of bloodlust. Hacking down the enemy with a deft swing of a sword and a charge down the Hills of Onswer. Softly he smiled and chuckled to himself while the horror skimmed the surface of his emotions. Too many all rolled together in the melancholy feelings of a honed fighter. Those were the good old days of yore when he was ignorant of battle and the ways of war. Now after so many fights and charges, blood-laden fields of gore and death his heart was heavy with the lives of others slew with his hand and blade. ‘It didn’t have to be like this... Not in a million seasons.’

“Here, take this. You look like you could use a warm draught to keep your attention where it needs to be tonight Nihrain,” said the whispering voice behind him. The figure recognized it but even after years of experience made his body come alert and alive with tension. Without looking he reached out a hand and took the old crafted mug big enough for his hoofed fingertips. The smell of sweet spices and late spring fruits assaulted his senses; soft steam whipped away in the fluttering breeze this high above the town in the distance and ocean beyond. He took a large draught savoring the taste of such a fine brew, much finer than the average soldier got on the lines during long sieges. The warm mead coursed through his body waking it up from its cold long stance watching nothing. If anything was going to come down through the valley tonight he needed to stay alert.

“Merry thanks Roman,” he spoke back softy in a deep baritone voice so as not to wake the recruits from their deep sleep. His dark near black eyes looked over at his shield-man with a soft friendly remark of compassion and brotherly love. Roman was a good looking older lad soon to be into his young stallion years. His ears were long and straight with a slight inward curving that bespoke of his high breeding. Graced with a long sweeping muzzle with a wide forehead, keen eyes that never seemed to miss the eyes of the mares they now shown dimly in the moonlight. Wearing the armor handed down to him from his sire’s sire showed the wear of long lineage of service to the Kings and Queens of this realm. His mane was cut short, unlike many on the front lines that wore them back and out of the way with a crampettes of varying designs. It stuck up much like the hair of their wild southern cousins who wore little to nothing for garments and often bore stripes of white and black or spots like the cats of the planes that were their rivals.

He had known Roman for a year and despite his lineage liked the lad for his whit and his quick thinking under the rigors of war. Here was a truly good lad with a good head, unlike most of the boys behind him who didn’t know when not to question orders or even how to make efficient use of tools or other soldiers on the field. ‘Spoiled, the lot of them.’ He snorted again as his eyes cast about him to the huddling mounds around the dying embers of the fire. They had made it too large last night and Roman had chastised them for it for what little good it would do. Instead some of them had snapped back, throwing names of sires and dams down on the table before all was said and done. Roman being good natured and tempered had come close to loosing it that night, all over the ignorance of lads little younger than him. Nihrain had to step into the thick of things and raise his voice in order to be heard. With the way things that echoed around these mountain faces he hated doing it, but nothing less would work.

“Quiet tonight I take it?” Roman asked softly as those keen eyes looked out on the valley below.

“Yea. It irks me to no end that we get stuck up here with lads little more then suckling colts and pulled away from where we can do real good in the thick of battle if we were needed,” he snorted deeply once in contempt. The sound echoed off the rock face below and instantly Nihrain regretted his action.

“We go where ordered and you know that Nihrain. Besides someone has to look out for the next generation and who better than the glory of Rigganmore. A lot of these colts have high breeding and even a few are sons of noblemen who only want their heirs to come back with glory and decorations without spoiling their soft hands or enlarged egos with the realities of the real world around them. Blood and gore of a battlefield might make some of these lads loose it after just once skirmish. Besides they are in your hands, the best in the kingdom as far as their sires are concerned,” Roman said softly, adding a little snicker to the end of his statement to give it added contempt.

Nihrain snorted with a chuckle, tossing his head to the side to sweep his hair out of his deep near black eyes. His new armor crafted for him by the King's men shown with a soft blue-black brilliance and elegant curves of fine hands at hammer and anvil. Like the carapace of some long forgotten insect it added bulk to his otherwise wiry frame, making him look larger and more intimidating than he already was. Wicked spurs jutted out from knee and elbow with overly long points. Nihrain would have had trouble wielding a sword in battle. Roman saw this and wondered if Nihrain would cast aside the gaudy parts for function in the thick of battle. Some had rumored it to be cast with spells to help him turn invisible on the battlefield so he could assassinate at King Ormand command. Roman though knew better having watched Nihrain track through dense brush and field grass with the skill of a hunting ridge-cat. Nihrain was the current pride of his Majesties army having helped to rally the footmen of a loosing battle and make a last charge across rugged hoof shattering terrain to make and end to the invading armies Redour. The memory flitted through Nihrain’s mind, eyes slightly glazing over with remembrance that Roman only knew so well, and he only smiled at this letting his mentor have his moment of peace and quiet while he kept a watch on the ridge around them.

Roman had been at his side then, swept away in this stallion’s presence and deep commanding voice that kept the wits of soldiers together. He himself was a commanding officer of a small squad that where not suppose to be in the middle of the fighting. But things were unpredictable in war and the tide turned in a blink of an eye. He had followed Nihrain without question that day, even taking an arrow meant for him in the shoulder. After he had recuperated he was surprised that Nihrain had made a tour of the battlefield even with the injuries he had sustained. That is when Roman had fallen in love with him, not as lovers might be, but as a son admiring his sire. He was lucky that his transfer had been approved so quickly to Nihrain’s unit since competition was fierce for slots to be among his new soldiers. Noblemen won out more often by using tiles and bribes to make sure that their sons would be placed high up in the ranks, but it was Roman that was hand picked by Nihrain himself. Courage and wits under fire he had called it and that was the proudest day of Romans life.

Now, they had been together for little over a year and the two had become confidants in one another. Stronger than the bonds of friendship or love that nothing under the goddesses' sun could rip asunder. Roman knew Nihrain's heart while Nihrain had total faith and trust in Roman. It was a matching born in the gore of war and now only strengthened by prosperity and peacetime. Now though, they had been called on once more to defend their lands and their beliefs against the invading armies of the lands beyond the mountains. Long had this valley stood without invasion in any living memory in the elder’s minds; others wanted it now for themselves for the access to the seaports over the deep cold oceans and the fertility of the farmlands down below. Roman had grown up here, played in these hills as a suckling colt without a care in the world. He had some fond memories of this place and knew that Nihrain would help him defend it at any cost to the grave and beyond if it was required of him.

His heart sank a little, thinking of loosing one so dear to him and had stood behind him for a turn of the season and handful of days. Dread took hold of his spine and sent a cold chill as he looked on his commanding officer, his best friend, his soul mate. A soft smile upturned the lips of his muzzle as he rested his arms across his armor and folded the toes of a foot under to rest it. His tail swished from side to side a few times to get it to lie right under his crimson cape. He let his mind wander away with him to the summers of his youth. Grasses so tall at the rivers edge that he could hide in them for hours and not be disturbed. He remembered the way that his sire walked him by the still waters some summer nights telling him of great battles in distant lands and exotic places only a boys imagination did justice. He too was ignorant like many before him of glory and honor, This kingdom made on the sweat and blood of his ancestors will and determination to keep it for the future.

The day had come now where that was being challenged and his smile slipped to a soft frown, his eyes scanning the rocks below him for any trace of invaders. Nihrain tapped him lightly on the shoulder and used the hand language only known to those who have served time as trackers. Quickly those hoofed fingers flashed out a quick signal to be wary and he shed his cloak. He watched as his guess was correct that Nihrain would shed the more gaudy parts of the armor for function and he knew then that something was not right tonight. Skilled hard fingers deftly removed the gaudy elbow and knee spikes then handed them to Roman quietly; Sure to take every precaution to keep them from glinting in the light of the night. Roman Quickly stashed them behind the rock and used the last of the night’s mead to douse the fire slowly as to keep down the rising steam that would be able to be seen for miles off.

Nihrain’s ears flicked back and forth as he softly raised his muzzle to scent the air around him. Soft nostrils flared in the night trying to catch any trace scent of his quarry. Roman turned around to glance at the lads behind him still sleeping and when he looked back Nihrain was gone much like the shadow he was named for. His heart went out with him in hopes that Lord and Lady would watch over him as he did his patrol. Roman had been through this many times before and silently he went around from cover mound crouching softly and rousting the lads around him. Finger to lips he quietly donned armor and gather arms just in case they were needed to do their duty tonight. Some of the lads did not seem to understand what was going on but quickly and not as stealthily followed Romans lead.

  Toed hooves sought purchase on the uneven ground under his feet seeking to be silent as wind. He has caught a sent on the air that was not one he recognized and wanted to know that his post was not going to be the one to let invaders into the valley tonight. Nihrain’s mind worked instinctually as he moved from tree to tree tracking scuffmarks made by padded boots on the dirt and gravel. Shadows enveloped around his position as if by nature. What made these marks he surmised to him self must be a scouting party into the valley. Too close for his liking in the heart of his home. Quiet rage welled up in his chest, mind abuzz with the thought of what would happen if this group got through his line. ‘Curse them,’ He thought to himself. ‘The bastards should have given me a real unit with real men. Not these unseasoned lads. There is going to be hell to pay when we get back into town.” Even at this distance from the encampment as he got farther away from his unit, he could hear them on the wind, and cursed silently. Mouthed words cut short as a shadow crossed the moonlight in front of his position.

He stopped dead still, hidden in a dense thicket of trees and scrub brush. A swish of a long tail attached to the shadow swished from side to side in agitation. Redourans on the move in a small group of three wearing light armor and padded boots helped them to move silently along the ground before him. ‘They’re almost as good as I am… But not good enough.’ When they where passed him some feet, he crouched down careful to avoid brushing his body against any more branches and disturbing the area around him.

A plan formulated in his mind. Three against one where not good odds by any means and he had to find a way to even them out some so he could get back to his men and prepare them for the coming wave. With a silent prayer to the Lord and Lady, he became as tight as a spring. Every muscle in his body taught and waiting to spring at one time as his hand moved silently down to his sword hilt. Grasping the handle firmly, he gave it a slight twist in it’s sheath, un-sticking the metal as some swords where prone to do in the frosty night air.

A Redour scout turned around, ears swiveled around to catch a trace of noise coming from the encampment. It’s tail flicking in mild amusement. “It sounds like that group of boys back there are just waking up.” He spoke softly to his partners in a throaty growl. “If they keep up that racket, they just may call up other units of the Rigg’ns.” His partners nodded and turned to start padding back the way they had come not caring to conceal themselves as before. But still they moved silently as the night that cloaked them in the darkness.

Nihrain only gave it only a moments thought before unleashing all of his speed and power against the three before him. His sword was out in a moment’s notice, the blade gleaming with a hint of dark fire hardening along the blades length. Every muscle moved with the precession honed and schooled in the ways of war and killing. Eyes glazed over with the calm assurance that tonight, people where going to die, one of whom could possibly be himself.

Shock and surprise was the expression Nihrain looked upon as the tip of his sword plunged straight into the cat’s throat. Blood poured down over the blade and onto his hand. A gargled bubbling hiss sounded from the throat of his first victim, the look of death already glazing over into its startled look. The others where faster on the reaction, now realizing they where under attack themselves by only one man.

He yanked out the sword with a sideways twist of his wrist. The finely crafted blade slid easily from the flesh and left the cat with a half severed head. With a soft sound, the body fell to the ground, steam rising from the gaping hole in it’s neck. He was already moving, bringing his sword across in a downwards slash, aiming for the chest of the one that spoke. The leader he had hoped of this little excursion was quick on the draw and the resounding ring of metal meeting metal rang through the night like a bells toll.

The last cat brought across a wickedly spiked club much favored by his race and took a swing at Nihrain’s midsection. A deft twist to the side allowed him to avoid the spike by a few inches.{ } Mind working quickly to calculate now what he saw and a quick glance down at his footing showed him he was getting closer to a downhill incline. Rigganmorean not known for their steady footing on the sloped hills, he cursed himself silently for not brining more experienced men with him. Roman would have been good at his side right about now.

He didn’t have much time to finish his thought as the swordsman bore down on him full tilt. Feral growl laying deep in his throat and murder intent in his eyes he fully intended to kill this meddling horse in front of him. Nihrain valued his skin, and as the attack came, simply stepped aside from the precipice slashing at the feline and catching him squarely in the thigh. A yowl rose from the consuming shadow and the sound of a tumbling body winding its way down the steep incline. One more down, one more to go.

The last attacker looking to the stallion and how easily he had dispatched his compatriots turned to run back in the direction it had come. The sound of steel ringing in the night grabbed Nihrain's attention; ears swiveled quickly in the direction of the encampment as his men where under attack. Fury burned in his black eyes, wide with the rage that had built up from the adrenaline surge in his blood. Tracking the movements of the cat, he ran in it’s direction and wanting nothing more than to cut it down for putting his men in danger.

His scream went up in the darkness, as loud as he could bellow while on the move. He had to alert the other troops in the valley of what was going on here. Had to let them know that his position was the one being breached and that the Redours where so close to his home. Legs pumped hard against the ground, silence all but thrown aside for the sake of speed. Hard hooves suited for this kind of rugged terrain clicked against the stone of the ridge top in a cadence of power and determination. He shifted his grip on his sword to turn it around in his grip so it would not snag on trees that lashed at his face and body. He hated running, hated to chase down men and stab them in the back.

Slowly catching the man, he crossed deep into a thick overhang of branches and brambles. Thorns ripped across Nihrain’s flesh, sending burning waves through the pain centers of his body. Ignored in the head of pursuit his breath frosting in the night air, nostrils flared to suck in more of the frigid cold he lost sight of his prey.

The world went spinning for him, the ground rushing up to meet his face. Sword cast aside, hands coming out to try and catch his falling body; he didn’t have time to think of what had happen. Growling above him with his back exposed he felt the impact of the club against the right side of his head. A burst of white and red sprang to his vision, blocking out the last visions of a running cats feet fleeing into a cluster of pines, and the feet of his attacker beside his shoulder. ‘Barefoot…’ He mused to himself. ‘Not the same one. Trap’ Another blow to the body and the grunt of his air leaving his lungs as the club came in contact with his armors cuirass. The indentation constricted his breathing as he tried to draw breath. ‘Stupid mistake.’ His last musing before the world went entirely dark the club contacting the other side of his skull, knocking his world completely black. The horn of his shield-mans horn, his friend and ally ringing deep into the night fell on his limp ears.