Book of herd, p.1
Book of Herd, page 1
Also by Iago Jones
Legends of Ceffyl
Night Mare: A Legends of Ceffyl Story
The Whisper of Roane: A Legends of Ceffyl Story
The Centaur Chronicles
Book of Herd: An Epic Tale of Magic, Myth and Adventure
The Centaur Chronicles Stories
Herd Lore: A Centaur Chronicles Story
Herd Guard: A Centaur Chronicles Story
Herd Spell: A Centaur Chronicles Story
Herd Tale: A Centaur Chronicles Story
Contents
Book of Herd
Ceffyl: The Herd Lands
Author's Note
Welcome to Ceffyl
Part I
1
2
3
4
5
6
As told by Eirwen of Scethrog
The Lord and Lady of Gadael
7
8
9
10
Part II
11
12
13
As told by Eirwen of Scethrog
Of Bala and The Broken Plains
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
As told by Rhyfedd of Danheddog
Of the Coming of the Nymph
24
25
Part III
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
As read by Eirwen of Scethrog
The Bones of Bala
38
39
Epilogue
...
Welsh Inspiration
About Iago Jones
Copyright Information
Book of Herd
Book 1 in The Centaur Chronicles
by Iago Jones
Copyright © 2023 Iago Jones.
Author’s Note
Book of Herd is the first novel in The Centaur Chronicles. I started writing short stories about the centaurs of Ceffyl when I discovered there is very little centaur literature out there, and what there is tends to be of a graphic and erotic nature. That’s fine, nothing wrong with that, but I wanted to read a centaur epic fantasy story, without the graphic sex, and when I couldn’t find one, I decided to write one.
Book of Herd features characters I created in the short stories. Each short story is connected to Book of Herd, and may enhance the reader’s enjoyment of the novel and future works set in Ceffyl. However, it is not necessary to read those stories before reading this novel.
I hope you have as much fun exploring Ceffyl as I did, but one word of warning – I’m just getting started, and the events in Book of Herd combine to set the scene for the next book in the series: Book of Roan. The end of this book is not intended to be a cliffhanger, but, as you will discover, the story will continue as there are many threads to explore.
Iago Jones
October 2022
Welcome to Ceffyl
Ceffyl is predominantly a plains country with small farms ringed around villages and hamlets under the protection of large cities including Ilfragellen in the east, Danheddog in the mountainous south, the cultural city of Cerdd to the west, and the capital city of Dinas, west of the great lake Dwfn Ilyn. Each city is overseen by a regent, to which the chief stallions of each village pay tribute.
Ceffyl is populated by centaurs with a strict hierarchy of stallions at the top, mares in the middle, and geldings at the very bottom working the fields, or as scholars and scribes for the stallions. There are other beasts and beings in Ceffyl, including rogue herds of centaurs in the Feudal Lands to the north, the human Horsemen of Marchog to the east, and the mythical Nymph who might or might not live in the treetops in Ceffyl’s woods and forests.
The Haid is the business arm of the regents, ensuring a steady supply of tributes and wares to the cities. Each city has a Royal Guard protecting the city and the villages under its protection. The Royal Guard is answerable to the regent, and the regent alone. The Hingst are the legendary warriors of Ceffyl, made up of worthy stallions and mares who pass the rigorous trials at the Hingst stronghold of Helynt.
Centaurs believe in the horse god Roan, and Ceffyl’s history is written in the Runes of Roan, often translated into the common tongue of cyffredin. Roan is a powerful figure depicted as a stallion, while Roane is his female counterpart. The worship of Roane is discouraged and often prohibited.
But while the worship of Roane is considered to be an unhealthy and rebellious distraction, followers of Bala, the violent black mare from before the herd, are never mentioned, never seen, and thought not to exist. For what centaur in their right mind would ever follow Bala?
Welcome to Ceffyl, where the Herd is Law.
Long live the Herd.
Book of Herd
Part I
1
A feral wind coated the flanks of the lone centaur with grey dust as he walked the broken path to Cilmeri. His face, hidden in the shadows of a worn and ragged hood, revealed little to the centaurs of the Hingst, lightly armoured with stiff leather jerkins, as they watched him from the walls of the outpost fort, a league inside Ceffyl’s borders. The master of the watch, a grizzled, grey-flanked centaur called Haearn, reminded his sentries to be wary of travellers approaching the fort, and this one in particular.
“He’s one of us,” Haearn said. “Although you’d be hard-pressed to believe it.”
The Hingst stationed at Cilmeri had seen plenty of strange things on the path crossing the border into the feudal lands. The rogue centaurs of the lost herds harried the Hingst border camps wearing white masks and painted chests, hurling the odd spear, daring the Hingst to leave the camp and chase them into the wilds. But the Hingst were disciplined, something Haearn also reminded them in the face of the painted rogues with their death masks.
“They’ll never be a threat so long as we hold the line,” he said. “Don’t give chase. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Not unless you’re in a column of heavy armour. Remember that, even on the coldest of nights when your bones ache for a good charge and the hot splash of an enemy’s blood on your chest.”
Most of the Hingst were young, too young for Cilmeri, in Haearn’s opinion. Just like Cilmeri’s commander, an ambitious young centaur Haearn had struggled with since his arrival at the fort half a year earlier. Beirniad of Dinas gave his orders, and the Hingst obeyed, but not before casting a quick look at Haearn, something Beirniad grew increasingly tired of as his posting dragged through the long midyear until the first snowy fringes of latteryear could be seen on the tops of the distant hills across the border.
“Is that him?” Beirniad asked as he joined the sentries on the walls.
“Difficult to say until he comes closer,” Haearn said. “But my guess is yes, it is him.”
“He’s a pathetic creature.” Beirniad rested his powerful forearms on the ramparts as he watched the lone centaur pick his way through the first line of timber defences, cutting the zigzag path with splintered points. “Just look at his flanks. I can’t imagine he’s bathed in months.”
“Probably not, Commander,” Haearn said.
“And his fetlocks,” Beirniad said. “They’re bleeding.”
“His hooves, too,” said one of the younger Hingst on watch.
“He’s probably come a long way.”
“From Ysbail, then? Do you think so, Haearn?”
Haearn spat to one side at the mention of the feudal town of Ysbail before shaking his head. “Deeper,” he said. “Beyond Ysbail.” He spat again.
“Well, we’ll find out soon enough,” Beirniad said. He ordered two guards to meet the centaur outside the gates. “But close enough for an arrow to the chest, if he’s not who he’s supposed to be.” Beirniad lowered his voice as the guards passed, beckoning Haearn closer with a wave. “If he is with the Dirgel…”
“Yes, Commander?” Haearn said.
“How will we know?”
Haearn shook a twist of surprise from his brows as the commander lowered his guard. It wasn’t like Beirniad to show any signs of weakness, and never in front of his watch master. Haearn afforded the young commander a morsel of respect and lowered his voice to match Beirniad’s.
“We can’t know, Commander,” he said. “But I’ve met a few of Urien’s centaurs over the years.”
“And?” Beirniad said.
Haearn waited until the fort gates opened and the Hingst sent to meet the centaur gave the first of two challenges. The Hingst on the walls nocked arrows to their bows and took aim, sighting on the centaur’s chest, knowing the second challenge would be the last and they would loose their arrows if the stranger showed even the slightest hesitation.
“He will be hesitant, and he will trust us even less than we do him.”
“But this is a Hingst fort,” Beirniad said. “If he’s one of Urien’s centaurs, then he’s one of us.”
“No, Commander. He’s not. Once a centaur joins the Dirgel, he will never trust another, not completely.”
“Then how do we handle him?”
“We don’t, Commander,” Haearn said. “We feed him, offer him a place to rest for the night. If he has news, he will share it in the morning.”
“And what abo
“And we have it,” Haearn said. “I’m sure. But we don’t have his trust. Very few do.”
“Commander?” said the young Hingst guard. “They’re bringing him in.”
Beirniad nodded to the centaurs to lower their bows and then waved to Haearn to join him as he walked down the wooden ramp to the courtyard below.
The Cilmeri fort was similar to most of the round stone keeps of Ceffyl, but the stables were larger, the kitchens busier, and there were three blacksmiths posted at Cilmeri instead of one. Beirniad nodded at the blacksmith working the forge closest to the gate, and again when the blacksmith patted the longsword sheathed along his right flank. Haearn waved the shorter of the two Hingst from the gate over to the middle of the courtyard.
“Report,” Beirniad said as soon as the Hingst joined them.
“He won’t give his name, but he knows this season’s passes, although some of them are a little old,” the Hingst said as he caught Haearn’s eye.
“He’s been gone a long time,” Haearn said.
“But no name?”
“No, Commander. He won’t give it,” the Hingst said, narrowing his eyes as he cast another look at the stranger. “It almost cost him his life.”
“I don’t know,” Beirniad said. “I don’t like this. He looks like a rogue.” Beirniad sniffed the evening air. “I can smell him from here.” He sighed, and said, “What do you think, Haearn?”
But Haearn had stopped listening. He studied the centaur, looking for something that might reveal his true identity, only to gasp when the centaur pulled his hood down to reveal long dark, almost red, hair knotted with the dust and grease of travel, and a strong square jaw.
“By Roan…” Haearn said. “That’s Idris of Fferm.”
Idris looked up at the sound of his name. He looked at the master of the watch and nodded.
“Let him in, Commander,” Haearn said. “Let him in and make him welcome.”
“You’re sure?”
“Without a doubt.” Haearn said. “I know him. He’s one of Urien’s lost centaurs, returned to the Herd.”
Idris dipped his head at Haearn in thanks as the Hingst walked back to him. He took a long breath, and then his powerful shoulders sagged a little as the trials of his journey caught up with him. Beirniad and Haearn watched as Idris followed the Hingst to the stables, saying nothing as Idris accepted water, bread, and a rich, sticky pastry the Hingst called gludiog. They watched him take the first few bites of bread.
“He eats like it’s his first meal in a year,” Beirniad said.
“It probably is,” Haearn said. “His first good meal.” Haearn touched his commander’s elbow and nodded at the wall. “We’ll talk to him in the morning,” he said. “I’ll be on the wall if you need me, Commander.”
Beirniad nodded, but stayed in the courtyard, at once fascinated and appalled at the sight of the centaur Haearn described as lost.
“Returned to the Herd,” he said, before finally, reluctantly, leaving the courtyard to write up the day’s report in the commander’s quarters.
Idris of Fferm finished his meal and three more pitchers of water before slumping onto a bed of deep straw in the darkest corner of the stables.
He had yet to speak a single word, leaving the Hingst to wonder if he even could.
2
The last of the evening sun lit the glass spires of Ilfragellen, turning the roof of the grand library of Dinas into a shining orb that sparkled across the entire city. Taller than the palace itself, and named after the great city of the same name on the shores of Dwfn Ilyn, the library boasted the greatest collection of works written in the Runes of Roan of all Ceffyl. More, in fact, than Diwylliant, the modest library of sandstone and wood in the heart of the city of Cerdd to the south. But Eirwen, Leolin the Scholar’s youngest Reader of Roan, and the only mare with unrestricted access to every room and collection in Ilfragellen, didn’t care about shining lights or splendour. Words were her passion, and the runes they were written in. She ignored Leolin’s heavy-hoofed approach as he entered the central reading chamber and concentrated on a tightly scrawled passage of runes she was halfway through translating into cyffredin, the plainer and simpler speech of Ceffyl.
“Eirwen?” Leolin said as he approached. “They’re waiting for you.”
Eirwen pressed her nose closer to the book, tucked her hair behind her ears and then touched her knuckles to her temples as she leaned on the round wooden table that dominated the centre of the reading room.
“Eirwen? Did you hear me?”
“You said they were waiting for me,” she said. “I heard you.”
“And yet, you chose to ignore me.”
“I did.” Eirwen picked up the thin brush she preferred for writing and made a note on the parchment beside the book. “Did you know the Lord and Lady of Gadael pressed a gemstone into the bark of the dialedd tree in the people’s courtyard every tenth day?”
“You’re talking about the grey city?” Leolin joined Eirwen at the table and she pointed at the section about the tree. “The sap of the dialedd tree is poisonous, Eirwen.”
“Yes,” she said. “But there are more gems in that tree than in Gorfodi’s treasure chest. The Lord and Lady of Gadael ruled for sixty-three years.” Eirwen turned to look at the old scholar. “That’s a lot of gems, Leolin.”
The runes on Leolin’s wrinkled skin twitched as he smiled. “Best not mention it to Gorfodi,” he said.
“And why would I say anything to him?”
“Because he’s the one asking for you.”
Eirwen shook her head and turned back to the book. “Ever since I came of age, he’s been harassing me.”
“And he will continue, as long as you keep rejecting him.”
“Until some other young mare catches his eye.”
“No,” Leolin said with a touch of sadness in his voice. “I’m afraid he is quite set on you, Eirwen.”
He could have said more, recalling any number of occasions he had heard the Lord of Dinas talk of Leolin’s young reader, challenging the old gelding, accusing him of keeping the pretty snow-mane mare in Ilfragellen just to spite him. Eirwen’s pure white hair had captured the attention and imagination of more than one stallion in Dinas since Leolin brought her with him to the city to be his apprentice and to read the Book of Roan. Just as many mares had noticed her too, the most influential of whom secretly applauded Leolin for locking Eirwen away in Ilfragellen, lest she be allowed the run of the city causing all manner of trouble. But it was Leolin, and only Leolin, who saw Eirwen for who she really was – a true and dedicated Reader of Roan.
“She has a gift, Regent,” he once told Gorfodi, when he asked him to grant Eirwen access to the entire library, and not just the sections for apprentice readers. “She has a way with the runes, shaping them, interacting with them. She is not reading the runes, she is conversing with them. She lives the stories the runes tell and has a way of telling them that brings colour to even the dullest and greyest of stories.”
“Then she should read for me,” Gorfodi said. “A private reading, once a week.”
Leolin had reluctantly agreed and suggested to Eirwen that it was a necessary evil to be endured for a short period each week. “And in return,” he had said, “Ilfragellen is yours.”
“All of it?”
“Every book, nook, parchment, and pantry,” Leolin had said. “You have the run of the library, Eirwen. No mare, and very few scholars can say the same.”
Eirwen snapped Leolin out of his thoughts with a clip of a hoof on the stone floor. He looked up to see her watching him, head tilted to one side, the fringes of her snow-white hair – short, as she liked it – hanging to one side.
“What?” he said, as she studied his face.
“Shh.” Eirwen reached out to turn his head gently to one side. “I’m reading your runes.”
It was her custom to read the runes etched into Leolin’s skin once in a while, and he let her, suffering her scrutiny with a smile which became a laugh as she complained that the runes moved when he smiled, making it more difficult to read them.
