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Avril Flower was a teacher for 40 years of her married life.

In her early married life, she spent the first seven years in

Assam, north-west India, as the wife of her late tea planter

husband Oliver. Since retirement, she has written a bevy of

books in fiction and fantasy, some of which are based in

Assam.

It was when she began thinking about this story and had

commenced writing that her daughter saw a documentary

about a ‘horse lady’ whose withered skin was tattooed. She

had been discovered surrounded by buried horses in a grave

in the steppes. She felt she had to finish the story after that.

Flower lives in Auckland, New Zealand with her youngest

son and his wife, and three bossy cats.

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Dedication

To Oliver, my friend, husband, and lover. You are still alive in

my heart and soul.

All my writing is thanks to Rod and Shelley, Leonie and John –

adamant stalwarts – and to good friends Claire and Nina who keep

me to the grind. Latterly, I have had strong help from Marion and

Miles. Technology is not my forte, so thanks to Mark, Haydn and

mainly Rod for their support in this area. Also, gratitude to Dirk

and Gari for their moral support.

My thanks also go out to Vinh Tran and his team who were always

there with their constant support and help.

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Copyright © Avril Flower (2015)

The right of Avril Flower to be identified as author of this work

has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any

means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or

otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this

publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims

for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British

Library.

ISBN 978 1 78455 308 1 (Paperback)

ISBN 978 1 78455 310 4 (Hardback)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2015)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd.

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LB

Printed and bound in Great Britain

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In the twenty-first century of recorded history on Earth, space ships left the planet to seed other galaxies.

One such was founded on the planet Erm in the solar system known as Mut. The continent of Dakana was where the settlers landed.

As time passed and the old world technology could not be sustained, the inhabitants were inclined to revert to their racial types, using the skills inherent by generations on Earth, for their

farming and animal husbandry. To provide a feeling of home the spacers brought wild

animals with them, as well as herds for food. This meant that all the folk stories could be continued, as well as mystical myth and legend.

Eventually, like called to like, and the climatic conditions had influence on where groups decided to dwell.

As the hottest conditions existed in the north, this land was

taken over by people of Middle-Eastern descent, and so Jaddanna came into being.

To the west the land was settled by people of the Far- Eastern races. Their fishing skills were paramount and the bays to the west were to their liking. The oriental city of Keshia was

thus established. The centre of the land was occupied by the mystical Celts,

who herded horses there. They lived lives influenced by magic.

Their chieftains were ritually tattooed, and were always female. A matriarchal society developed with the ‘Horse Lady’ as chief.

Other groups left Dakana and made their way to the land

over the sea to the east called Ghast. There was plenty here – an idyllic climate with fishing in

abundance. The people who settled there, lived a life which

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would have suited medieval royalty. They were of European descent from Viking extraction.

All people spoke a version of English, rarely reverting to

native speech apart from the Kordovans, who were of Welsh extraction. Kordova was an island kingdom to the south of

Ghast.

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Sunlight splintered through gloomy grey clouds, massing on

the mountain peaks. Fingers of brightness stretched through Strevia, shooting across the far-reaching lands, the domain of the ‘Horse Lords’. Fragile blooms, scattered through the

grasses, uncurled, raising their faces to greet the light. The land became covered with a blanket of mauve, interspersed with

indigo and dusky pink. At the first signs of light, small creatures ventured out of

nests and burrows, whiskers twitching, ready to find the

pleasures or dismays held in the new day. A morning breeze, carrying sweet smells of wild mint and clover, set the grasses in motion, shifting them into green waves, tossing and rolling

across the undulating land. Westward, the deep green forest, could not be seen from

the Horse Lord’s camp, as such a vast expanse of hip high

grasses stretched away from the main ytwurt, then disappeared in the mist between land and sky.

Inside the main yurt, Merthaylis woke to the usual sounds and smells of morning. Her sleeping quarters were partitioned from the others by a heavy blanket, which separated herself and

her sisters from prying eyes. She heard the fire being readied for the morning meal, and

listened to friends and family getting ready to meet the day. The

leather sides of the yurt had not yet been raised. The living quarters felt safe and secure. Motes of dust danced in the

sunlight, entering the interior through the smoke hole. She watched the smoke from the newly-made fire drift in

erratic wisps towards freedom. Snuggling down in her

coverings of wool, her fingers followed the raised whorls of embroidery on the blanket’s outer leather covering. The design echoed the patterns the smoke was making.

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Her mind wandered to the events of the previous day. Instantly, her instinct was to jump and flee. As she pushed herself out of the enclosing blankets, the sudden cold in the air

made her light skin frisson with bumps. Merthaylis was a young, rounded girl. Her almost knee-

length brown hair had been plaited in small thin plaits, and decorated with various beads and feathers.

These plaits swung around her face as she reached for her

clothes. Impatiently, she pushed her hair out of the way. Gazing out at the world from under chiselled straight brows, her slightly-slanted brown eyes could be vivacious, but now they

held the expression of a frightened child. Thickly-lashed, her eyes were magnetic, and conveyed

authority, though she was unaware yet of their ability to instill her leadership. As quickly as she could, she crawled out of her sleeping skins.

She donned her brown, baggy trousers, and topped them with a blue, beaded vest. Over all she slung her sheepskin jacket for protection from the chill of the morning. Lastly, she tugged

on her leather boots. The boots were new, made from the best hide, beaten, and

softened. They were a deep brown colour, decorated with diamond designs. How she loved the look and feel of them.

Glancing back at her sleeping sisters, she pushed past the

blanket cover. On tiptoe, she stole across the yurt, willing nobody to call her for some task or other. The strong light outside, and the chilly breeze accompanying it, made her eyes

water. Once outside, it was only a few moments before her black

pony, Storm, noticed her. He was nearby, snuffling the frost-

covered coarse grass, yet to be thawed by morning sun. Storm trotted over to her and pushed his nose in her hand, wheedling

for titbits. Merthaylis had no need of saddle or bridle; she had been

raised to ride bareback from childhood. Storm raised his front

left hoof to give her a stepping purchase as she vaulted on to his back. With one hand wrapped in his floating mane, and her knees talking to the pony, she was away.

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She rode towards the light, now making swift encroachments on the shadows of the night. The distant hills to the east were dark blue blurs – their glistening peaks showed

they were topped with snow. When gleams of sunlight traced across their crags, so the spires turned a deep rose colour,

quickly changing to orange. Watching the changing hues of the landscape, Merthaylis urged Storm to canter.

As her pony’s hooves thrummed across the plain, they

startled many a small creature, just waking to face the morning. A flight of geese rose into the air, honking and complaining, their long legs trailing behind them, as if loathe to leave the

ground. Merthaylis gave Storm his head and they settled down into

a steady gallop, putting a long distance between herself and the sleeping clan. It was good to be on her own, and out in the crisp morning air.

She leant down close to Storm’s neck murmuring endearments in his ear. He had been her pony since she was a small child, barely able to walk. Over the years they had

developed a rapport, which conveyed feelings without any words or movements needed.

With a toss of his head, Storm broke his gait, slowing their flight to a more peaceable momentum. Straightening up, Merthaylis snuffed the scents of crushed grass and the swelter

of her pony. Her thoughts strayed back to the news, her father, the headman, gave her last night, while they were sitting around the fire.

Always imposing, her father’s large, lean body, with its hidden strength, was frightening enough, without his deep, reverberating voice. In her mind’s eye, she revisited last night’s

scene. There was her father, sprawled out upon his sheepskin seat,

on a higher ledge than hers, or his subjects. The firelight, and the sparks from a falling log, reflected her father’s precious red goblet as he sipped at his after-dinner wine. What he said

resonated in her head, pounding in her brain, like Storm’s thundering hooves.

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‘You are now 13 child, and already a young woman. No more are you to play with the children, while flaunting your youth to the young men.

‘You bear the blood of the chieftains in your veins, and as of today this will be proclaimed for all to see who dare. I have

designed your heritage. The priestesses have been summoned.’ Merthaylis had known this would happen, sooner or later, but day-by-day had hoped to postpone the moment.

With hesitant fingers, she took the piece of leather her father held out. Despairingly, she inspected the markings, burned in the leather, then blackened in with charcoal. The

number of marks had filled her with horror. Each arm was to bear a coiled snake with its tail etched in

her armpit, its body curling around her arm, and the head resting on the back of her hand. Her breasts would be circled with spiralling concentric circles ending in darkened nipples.

Rising from her groin, stretching over her stomach was a wolf with a snarling face, its jaws snapping below her breasts. As if those riffs were not enough, covering her whole back

would be a phoenix, rising from flames; the totem of the clan. Her father must love her very much to inflict so much pain

on her, he must think her brave and worthy, to be able to withstand so much suffering. She remembered how he had looked, sitting above her in the firelight.

He had smiled at her, while his eyes, full of love and expectation, were unwaveringly fixed upon her face. His red woollen cloak had been thrust back, showing what a fine man

he still was. Grieving for her deceased mother had not impaired his good looks.

Why did he not find another wife to bear the riffs? In her

heart she knew it was her duty, but could she bear the outcome? Once the riffs were done, she would wear nothing on her upper

body except a sleeveless bolero when she was inside the yurt. No man would touch her on fear of death; all eyes would

be lowered in deference. In future, her noble blood would be

proclaimed, by the riffs on her body. Storm was starting to slow, so Merthaylis calmed him to a

walk, then allowed him to crop some special grass they often

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found in a certain spot beside a stream of icy purling water. She slid down and wandered aimlessly towards the water, pushing through crackling bushes.

The little stream was surrounded with small trees and furzy bush. It was in a place she liked to hide. There were few places

on the open plain where one could escape the searching icy fingers of the wind.

She lay on the bank, looking for fish, but the sounds of her

boots must have disturbed them, for there were no shadows in the water. She rolled over and looked at the clouds swirling across the sky, and let her fingers dangle in the snowmelt.

Her future stretched before her like a patterned tapestry. Commencing today, when the priestesses began their work. If

they were skilful and caused no infection, she might live. She had known this to be her fate from early childhood.

The ruling family had to prove their women were strong,

and also brave enough to bear the next ruling chief. Depending on the outcome and if her riffs were clean, she would be married. If she had daughters, their riffs would include the

Phoenix as well as their father’s totem. Sons had their totems tattooed on their inner wrists. Only the husbands of a Horse

Lady, like her father, had the full tattoo on their backs. She remembered the huge wolf on her mother’s back. Her

mother had been a brave and gentle woman, with protective

hands and loving eyes. In her mind Merthaylis sent her mother greetings, as the

vision of her lovely face drifted into her consciousness. Her

mother, Thaylis, had farewelled her on the day the main beam of the yurt fell across her breast, while she lay sleeping. She was the only person inside at that time in spring, everyone else

was out rounding up the herds. Thaylis had been a strong chieftain, much loved by all the

clans ruled by the major Horse Lord. Her judgements had been fair. She always listened patiently to all those wanting her advice. The clans had flourished under her leadership. Her

children were bereft by her untimely death, and now Merthaylis was to lead the clans.