The Magehound by Elaine Cunningham

his stallion. He set a brisk pace, eager to find his horse and his friend Themo and take both back to the comparative safety of House Jordain.
    Safety.
    The word echoed in the great hollow that was his heart. Andris had found no haven there.
    Matteo was unprepared for the grief that struck him like a tidal surge. Never had he experienced anything like this flood of emotion. He felt overwhelmed, as if he was being torn away from his moorings.
    Several moments passed before he realized that Tzigone was studying him with interest. He caught her eye and braced himself for her questions.
    To his surprise, she merely nodded. There was little sympathy in the gesture, but much understanding. Whatever she saw in his eyes was something she knew well.
    For some reason, Matteo found this simple acknowledgment more comforting than any of the jordaini’s beautifully honed and reasoned phrases.
    He searched his benumbed mind for something profound to say and came up empty. “I have to get my horse,” he said lamely.
    “Well, good for you,” she said approvingly. “I was afraid you’d want to look for Mbatu or some such foolishness.”
    “The wemic will likely find me. If he loses our trail, it would be logical for him to return to the place where we met. I left Cyric tied to a rail near the tavern.”
    She hoisted one eyebrow and sent him a sidelong look. “Cyric?”
    “Yes. The stallion is named after-“
    “I know who Cyric is, although frankly I’m surprised that you do. What did the horse do to earn a name like that?”
    “Well, he is somewhat volatile.”
    “I’ll bet.” Her lips twitched. “You know, I thought all jordaini would be boring, seeing how you aren’t allowed to add any color to your facts. It’s nice to know that understatement isn’t against your creed.”
    Her dry comment surprised a chuckle from Matteo. They fell into a comfortable pace as Tzigone wove a path through the streets.
    Their shadows stretched out before them as they rounded a corner into yet another narrow street. The city was beginning to stir as the sunsleep hours passed. Though the sun was less direct, the heat did not noticeably lessen. Matteo noted that the day was in fact unseasonably warm. Heat rose in visible waves from the paved roads, distorting the scene ahead. A four-man patrol passed, their faces damp and eyes made surly by heat.
    Matteo noticed the Tzigone was suddenly very interested in a shop window that offered fishing lures, small hammers, spools of wire, and other small metal devices. “You have reason to avoid the city guard?” he asked.
    “They usually seem to think so,” she replied cheerfully. “It seems only polite to oblige them.”
    The jordain was about to challenge that dubious logic when suddenly the shadows at the far side of the street blurred, commingled into an ominous haze by the oddly shaped bulk closing in rapidly.
    Matteo thrust Tzigone aside and turned, sword in hand, instinctively placing himself between the girl and the wemic.
    The lion-man reached over his massive shoulder. Steel hissed like a striking snake as Mbatu drew his massive blade. The wemic crouched and then leaped, bringing his sword around for a high, smashing attack.
    Matteo lifted his borrowed sword to meet the brutal assault. The weapons met with a high metallic shriek. The jordain didn’t attempt to absorb the mighty blow, but shifted his weight to his right foot and let the force of the attack carry the enjoined swords to the ground. Deftly he twisted aside and danced back, sliding his sword out from under the wemic’s blade. He darted in again, thrusting low, a point far lower than he would choose for attacking a human.
    The wemic parried and retreated, trying to work his sword back into position for a high attack. Matteo would have none of that. He pressed in, stabbing and thrusting again and again, forcing the wemic to keep the battle low.
    Never had Matteo fought a wemic, but he discerned what the creature’s best