Shadow's Son by Shirley Meier, S.M. Stirling and Karen Wehrstein ...

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set up under his tent-flap, at the edge of the ground. The misty early-morning light had started the grass
steaming dry; sun struggled through thinning clouds. He was wearing a black satin shirt, bordered with
white, the collar square with a "v" cut into it, just under his throat. The effect was dashingly official,
making the scar on his cheek, clearer in sunlight, seem out-of-place. She dismounted with a graceful leap,
Hotblood frisking and blowing.
"Very good," Chevenga said, grinning. She put a hand to Hotblood's mouth; he lipped her fingers,
making her glad she was wearing gloves. "Tell me, how far apart can the two of you be, and still… think
to each other?"
"About two… kylickz… kilometers, you say. Fades out to general feelings beyond that, then thins to
nothing. We can tell each other's direction from much further away; say a hundred, two hundred
kilometers. And whether the other is getting closer or farther."
"That could be useful… hesmells like a meat-eater. Does he eat anything else?"
"Milk, cheese, grain, grass and leaves, if he can't get struggling meat. It makes him moody, though."
"Arkans?"
"Two-legs are his favorite after horses; and though he's not normally picky about nationalities, I've told
him to be, in this case. Ri are like weasels: kill-crazy. I can keep him under control unless he's attacked.
And I've told him that if I bite it, the yellow-haired red-armored ones are to blame, and he should rip up
only them." That had been difficult; Hotblood didn't think in words, what-if a concept at the bare limit of
his comprehension. On top of that he'd greeted the thought of her death with a monumental sulk.
Without warning, the Ri padded up to the desk, stretched his neck to lean his wedge-shaped face within
a handspan of Chevenga's.Scareyouhehehehe. Oh, shit… HERDSTALLION , Shkai'ra thought
frantically. Now, Hotblood chose to blithely ignore her, baring his fangs instead.
You're in trouble, Gold-bottom, if there's any fear in you now, whether you show it or not… The
Ri could smell it. Whether thesemanakraseye sensed this or not, she couldn't tell; but he didn't move, his
dark gaze, not so much hard as open, like a cat's hunting-stare, faintly smiling, if anything, back into the
Ri's. They stared at each other frozen for a time.The only two around here who aren't a little tense ,
Shkai'ra thought. Some Yeolis had their hands on their sword-hilts, or knuckles white on spears.
Chevenga raised a hand, signing them to do nothing. With a snrug of his mane, Hotblood turned away.
Noscare boring .
"I'm telling him that you're herd stallion around here," said Shkai'ra, sending the thought as she spoke.
"And a greater killer than I am, even. He believes me."
Chevenga shrugged and smiled. "Maybe it isn't true." He gave out some order, stripped off his shirt and
took up a shield and a pair of wooden practice-swords that had been leaning on his desk. "Come."
Oh, good, Shkai'ra thought.How good is he, his own self ? He offered and she chose, picking out the
sword of white oak, and swung it to get the balance while they brought up a horse for him.Not bad : a
big black Lakan gelding, about seventeen hands, definitely a destrier, not too showy but looking very
strong and reasonably fast. Brave too; it just rolled the white of its eye at Hotblood, though they were
upwind. The crowd around the ground suddenly thickened, munching on pieces of cold roast pork from
last night; war-camps were as bad as cities for people with nothing to do but watch.