It was Rhoyd who noticed that Moonface was limping. The little grey gelding seemed to favor one foot as the afternoon sunlight stretched fingers across the road.

"Conor?" the lad called. "I think something's wrong with Moonface."

Conor Manahan drew back on Battlebrute's reins. The huge dun pranced sideways, while Eithne's mare Maudie stayed quiet as a forest pool. The Keltoran mercenary Rhoyd now called father thumped his unruly mount. "What is it, lad?" he asked.

"He's limping," Rhoyd said. "At least, it feels like he's limping..."

Conor eyed the small gelding, then dismounted, glancing around. "Which leg does he favor, lad?" he said, leading his own mount back to where the boy and his horse stood.

"Right fore," Rhoyd said.

Conor nodded. He handed his own reins over to Eithne who had dismounted as well, then leaned over to lift Moonface's leg. The grey shifted to accommodate the motion, and Rhoyd felt the saddle hitch just enough to make him gasp.

"Aye, well, he's got reason enough," Conor said. "The nails are broken off one side of his shoe. Easy enough to fix for now." Conor drew out a dagger, carefully working the sheathed blade under the shoe. He rocked it back and forth, popping the shoe free then checked the hoof.

"Lucky lad," Conor said. "No splits. He'll walk fine now. Here, keep it for luck. We should reach the next village by nightfall. We'll get him shod again."

The Keltoran straightened up, releasing Moonface's leg and offering the shoe into Rhoyd's hand. The lad saw Eithne roll her eyes. "Why is it lucky?" Rhoyd insisted.

"I'll tell ye later," Conor said with a wink, and Rhoyd knew there must have been a story in it that Eithne was not so eager to hear. It wasn't that she didn't like all Conor's stories, but she said she had heard them all many times. "Walk him on a bit and let me see how he fares," Conor insisted.

Rhoyd pressed heels into the little grey's flanks. Moonface started on at a far more even pace.

"Looks all right," Conor said. He took Battlebrute's reins and lurched into the saddle. Eithne did so as well, and they started on at a walk.

The next village was indeed in their path by twilight. They claimed a room in an inn called the Grey Forge, and learned their host also owned the smithy, which was managed by his elder son. He promised to have the horse shod in the morning, which suited Conor. Eithne looked worn from the ride, and Rhoyd feared there would be no tale tonight, especially when she insisted they would take their meal in the room, and Conor did nothing to dissuade her.

It was a nice room, though, a single affair with one large bed and a trundle that pulled out from under it, as well as a fireplace, a table and two chairs. The innkeeper brought a third with their meals, serving them at the table, and then leaving them in peace. Eithne did not order baths, which relieved Rhoyd. He was far too eager to have that promised tale.

"Conor, why are horse shoes lucky?" Rhoyd asked when the question burned so he was no longer able to contain it.

The mercenary grinned, and Eithne made a face, finishing the last of her meal. "So there's to be a story tonight," she said. "Well, if you two don't mind, I shall go on to bed and leave you at it. Just don't stay up too late," she added with a look at Conor.

"Won't take long," Conor said. He had shifted his chair around towards the fire, bracing one foot on the raised hearth. Rhoyd was quick to claim his favorite place in the mercenary's lap. He settled down rapidly, knowing Conor would not abide too much wriggling with any patience at this hour.

"So why are they lucky?" Rhoyd asked.

Conor shrugged. "I've no idea, lad," he said with a chuckle when Rhoyd turned such a look of disappointment around at the mercenary. "Though it might have something to with the fact that bogies cannot abide cold iron."

"What kind of a story is that?" Rhoyd said with a sigh.

"Well, now, I didn't say I didn't have a story for you," Conor insisted. "And it does have something to do with horseshoes."

Rhoyd settled back, frowning at the fire.

"When I left my father's home in Keltora, I took naught but my horse and my gear. The horse was a great grey brute by the name of Argent, and he'd once belonged to a militia commander who had perished in the early years of the Last War. My father got him for me a few years before I took off, and I rather fancied the animal because he was battle trained.

"I saw my first battle within half a year, and we were in the thick of it. Argent was a good as any soldier. He took down two Barbarians for every one I slew. We were moving forward on the field much easier than I imagined we would. What I didn't realize was that it was all a trap. They would separate a militiaman and take after him from all sides, and I was young enough and fool enough to think I was doing well.

"I never saw the spear coming, but apparently poor Argent heard the man rushing up on my flank. I never really figured it out, you know, how the horse knew. He suddenly wheeled and reared under me, and I felt him quiver and heard him scream, and saw the shaft of a spear protruding from his chest."

Rhoyd shivered, and warm arms drew about him.

"It didn't stop him, though," Conor went on. "With a scream of rage, he tore at the Barbarian who wounded him, striking the man down, then he bolted across the battlefield, me clinging to the saddle for what I was worth, trying to get him under rein. Might as well have tried to pull down the wind. He ran until we were clear of the horde, and only when we were behind our own lines did he drop and send me spilling to the ground.

Well, naturally, I was upset, for a militiaman needs his horse. I went over and tried to pull the spear free, but I was too late. He'd given his life to take me to safety."

Rhoyd heard a moment of silence, filtered through a deep breath. "What does that have to do with horseshoes?" he ventured carefully.

"Persistent, aren't ye," Conor said, his arms tightening a strong hug about the lad. "When I realized Argent would never rise again, I pulled off one of his shoes and carried it with me for luck for many a year, determined never to find myself a fool in battle again. And it was a lucky shoe, I can assure ye. It got me through the Last War alive, brought Eithne into my life... I used it once to drive back an Unseelie, and then there was the time when Eithne and I were on the road and Taran was just a wee bairn, and we were accosted by a couple of rogues who thought we had coin to spare them. I pulled off my beltpouch and clouted one of them with it so hard, it raised a knot. The other thought it meant I had enough coin to make him a king and snatched it from me, and he was a bit surprised when he tried to reach into it and found naught but a few coppers and the shoe. And I took advantage of his distraction to give him a boot heel in the face."

"Do you still have it?" Rhoyd asked. "The horseshoe?"

Conor shook his head. "Buried it with Taran," he said in a breathy voice that ruffled the fringes of Rhoyd's long black hair. "Cos when Taran died, I thought all my luck had gone with him."

"Did it?" Rhoyd asked apprehensively.

"I thought it did," Conor said, "but then, I got you, and I've felt like a lucky man again ever since." The grizzle of his chin where he needed to shave brushed against Rhoyd's cheek. "And that's a luck I wouldn't trade for all the horseshoes in the world."

Rhoyd felt a lump in his own throat. He drew forth the shoe taken from Moonface, fingering the worn iron. Some of its edges had become pocked by knocking against stones in the roads. The miles that this shoe had seen had been the best time of Rhoyd's life. His past had been washed away. Here and now was all he needed, and it that wasn't luck...

He took a deep breath, fighting tears. A large hand gently stroked his hair, pushing it back to reveal his face. Rhoyd glanced up and blinked at the reassuring smile that greeted him.

"I didn't mean to make ye all maudlin, lad," Conor said.

Rhoyd shook his head as arms surrounded him and drew him close. He was glad to have the strength and the warmth. "It's all right," he said.

"Is that enough of a story for ye for tonight?" Conor asked. "I'm rather tired myself."

Rhoyd nodded. "You can tell me how you used it against an Unseelie another time," the boy said.

"Oh, I can, can I?" Conor said, rising from the chair and hoisting Rhoyd with him. "If ye get all maudlin from that one, yer just as apt to muddle your trews over the other."

"I will not!" Rhoyd protested.

"Will too," Conor said.

"Will not!" Rhoyd retorted once more.

"Ah, now, don't be arguing with yer betters, lad," Conor said.

"Who says your better?" Rhoyd quipped as he was hauled towards the trundle and dumped on its thick mattress.

"Auld trail, lad," Conor said, and chucked Rhoyd's chin. "Bedtime."

Rhoyd merely grinned. Old trail or not, he would gladly go down it over and over for this life. He sat up and started removing his clothes for the night. Conor waited patiently until Rhoyd slid under the covers, and then Conor pushed the blankets in around him.

The candlelight went out and the creak of the bed told Rhoyd that Conor had crawled in.

For a brief moment, Rhoyd lie still, holding the horseshoe up so the firelight gleamed across the surface. Then with a sigh, he tucked it into his satchel lying beside the trundle, slipping it into a space beside the books. And closed his eyes to sleep.