Tales of the Zodiac - The Goat's Tale by PJ Hetherhouse

groups make it quite clear, with their snorts and jolts, that they don’t want me anywhere near them. As such, riding a horse is, for me, more akin to being bullied than it is any sort of pleasure.
    This is clearly not the case for my new companion, Morrigan. If I needed any more evidence of his highborn heritage, it is evident in the smooth and controlled manner with which he rides. Every person we pass as we move through the countryside seems to know him and he stops several times to bid people farewell and soak up their adulation. I, meanwhile, trot awkwardly behind him, unknown, and never quite able to catch up.
    His horse is a massive black stallion and suits him perfectly. There is nothing especially impatient about the way he rides ahead, instead it just seems that his natural pace is quicker than mine. I’ve got no problem with this, it certainly reduces the need for conversation. Instead, I move forward in forlorn silence. With every reluctant step my horse makes, I am further away from my father. It takes us almost a full day’s riding to reach our overnight resting place, Gors castle.
     

Twelve
     
    “So you’ve never been to the Gors before?” asks Morrigan, slouched in his chair. Around him, there is only dull firelight and dampness, all that you might expect from the castle at the edge of the kingdom.
    “I’ve never left the island before. Doesn’t look like I’ve been missing much,” I spit. The Gors, a low-lying salt marsh, stretching from the northern coast to the mountains, has proved to be about as interesting as it sounds – a vast wasteland of brown grass and puddles.
    “You might think that this would be the most vulnerable point of the kingdom,” he begins, as though he is about to tell me something I don’t know.
    “But it’s not. The treachery of the swamp and clear line of sight for defensive archers make it impossible for a force of any size to cross.” I complete his lecture myself. It is yet another fact I have been forced to learn by rote.
    “I’m beginning to see why you got sent out here,” Morrigan chuckles. He appears to accept my temper, along with everything else, in frustratingly good humour.
    “Why?”
    “Because you always have to be right. It makes you seem a bit of a cock,” he grins, slapping me on the back as he does so. The drink is clearly getting to him.
    “Thanks?”
    “Ah, it’s fine. I’m probably out here for the same reason,” he snorts, sinking the last of his beer. As he does so, he thuds it down three times on the table as a signal to the serving girl. As someone of status, this is a gesture so natural that it doesn’t even seem to register to him that he’s done it. Meanwhile I, unused to being served by anyone, instinctively look round to watch her emerge obediently from the shadows.
    “It’s not the most exciting of places but the lord, Ser Geraint, is a good friend of mine. It’s a shame he’s not here actually. I do like good company,” he smirks, seemingly proud at the subtlety of his insult.
    The dull flames from the hearth behind and the wall torches fill the room with shadows. Three long oak tables dominate the room and I wonder how long it has been since they were full. A stuffed crocodile’s head is mounted above the fireplace, adding the only bit of character to an otherwise uninspiring room. Morrigan only turns to look at the serving girl as she walks away, a cheeky glint in his eye.
    “So, what did you do?” I continue.
    “I think a more accurate question would be ‘Who did I do?’… And, of course, I’m not going to answer that question.” His smirk drops off his face, becoming something more rueful.
    Ser Morrigan, The Crow, is probably subject to more rumour than any other individual in the kingdom – a renowned drinker, brawler and womaniser known to cause as many problems as he solves and a constant source of embarrassment for the chivalric order to which he belongs. There are some who might use this