Dark Horse

13

Late in the night, when the air was chilled and the stars blazed across the sky, the Khulinin, the Jehanan, and the Bahedin gathered their caravans together and struck out southwest, following the Goldrine to the mountains. It was impossible to keep their leave taking a secret, for the caravans were too massive and the animals were restless in the cool hours before dawn. Still, Savaric hoped to gain an element of surprise by slipping out without warning. A sleepy crowd gathered on the banks of the river to watch the clans leave. By sunrise, the caravans were miles away.

Medb anticipated their flight and immediately sent trackers to follow the clans’ trail. It would be several days before his reinforcements arrived and, by the time he marched, it would be too late to catch the fleeing clans on the plains. But eventually they would go to ground, and when they did, Medb knew that he could crush them all.

For three days the clans followed the Goldrine River west toward Khulinin Treld. They traveled quickly, making few stops during the day and walking late into the night. The chiefs knew their time was limited and pushed their people hard. It could have been a difficult trip with three chiefs commanding the huge train, but the leadership seemed to fall naturally on Savaric. Lord Ryne was inexperienced in his new position as chieftain and leaned heavily on Savaric’s advice. Sha Umar also bowed to the Khulinin’s authority-he was smart enough to know Savaric was the better leader in a drastic situation like this.

So Savaric, almost instinctively, was leading them toward the safety of Khulinin Treld. Yet, as the miles stretched out behind the caravans, he began to have second thoughts. Khulinin Treld was the natural place for them to go; Medb would expect it and plan for battle in that terrain. However, the treld promised no real defense for a large group that contained many women and children. They could be starved out of the hall in a matter of days, and there was no good place for defensive stands. The treld was also close to Wylfling Treld. Too close for comfort.

However, Savaric knew of no other alternatives. They did not dare fight Medb on open ground: the three clans would be massacred in the first rush. There were no natural defensive positions near any of their holdings and no other clan that would give them aid. The Dangari had been Savaric’s last hope, but Koshyn was still vacillating when the clans left. The Khulinin, the Bahedin, and the Jehanan were alone, with no hope for more aid, no hope for mercy, and no place to make a stand before Medb’s larger, more formidable army. Savaric racked his brains for a solution. The responsibility of the clans weighed heavily, and, though he rode his stallion to a lather and wore himself into exhaustion keeping the caravans moving, Savaric came no closer to an answer.

The fourth night out of the gathering, the waning moon rose late beyond the grasslands to waken the wolves. The night was breathlessly uncomfortable. The moisture from the recent storm had quickly dried in the arid air, and the heat soared with every passing day. Now, even the nights gave scant relief. There was little wind to keep the mosquitoes at bay, and the dust settled slowly about the wagons. After setting the watch and posting the outriders, the camp fell into an uneasy rest. Savaric, weary of his own thoughts, gathered Ryne and Sha Umar and went to find Piers and Cantrell.

The bard had collapsed with a fever soon after coming to the clan and had been under Piers’s care during the trek. To everyone’s relief, he was beginning to recover. Savaric hoped he had regained enough strength to give advice. Cantrell was the repository of nearly every song and tale told by the clans for generations. Somewhere in that vast store of clan history and tradition, Savaric hoped to find the key to their survival.

They found Piers and Cantrell in the healer’s tent, finishing a light meal. The tent had only been partially raised over several poles and the wagon to give the occupants shelter. The flaps were wide open to catch the fitful evening breeze. Piers had not lit a cooking fire; only a small brass lamp glowed in the dark interior. Even so, the tent was stuffy and hot. Cantrell lay on a pallet near the entrance. His skin was gray with exhaustion, but he had eaten well and his wounds were healing.

Piers welcomed his guests and offered cups of wine. The chiefs accepted and sat down around the bard.

Cantrell’s face was unreadable beneath the bandages, but his mouth lifted in a smile as he greeted the men. “Khulinin Treld is far tonight, my lord,” he said to Savaric.

“I am weary, Bard,” Savaric chided. “We had hoped to hear a song that might help us face the leagues still to go. Not an observation on the distance to the treld.”

“My voice lacks its strength and my hands lack an instrument. Would you settle for a tale?”

“I shall listen to your wisdom, master,” Savaric said quietly.

Cantrell was still for a moment. He was well aware of the deadly peril that faced them. For years he had traveled among the clans—from the northern most Murjik Treld on the fringes of the great forest, to the deserts and the towers of the Turic tribesmen. He had seen Khulinin Treld and knew its advantages and its weaknesses, and he had watched the buildup of the massive Wylfling forces. He also knew Medb. The sorcerer would hunt the Khulinin to the grave unless the clan found a way to destroy him.

Cantrell had pondered for many hours what he might tell Savaric if the chief asked his counsel. Advice was a two-edged sword the bard did not like to wield lightly, particularly when his prophetic riddles clouded the issue. Yet, during the long, painful hours of riding in the wagon, he had remembered an ancient tale that had survived the wars and invasions of countless years to be written on a scrap of vellum and buried in the vast library of the Citadel of Krath. A long time ago, he had been allowed to study some of the priceless manuscripts there and had found that tale. It came to his mind now, and in its substance he saw a glimmer of hope.

“Many years ago,” Cantrell began, “before Valorian led the clans over the mountains to the vastness of the Ramtharin Plains, other peoples held this land. Short, dark-haired sons of the Eagle, they came from the west, beyond the Darkhorn Mountains, and joined the plains to their vast empire. Greedy for slaves, horses, and the riches of the grasslands, they subjugated the simple tribes that lived here and built their roads with the bones of the fallen. They built many fortresses to guard their mighty domain and garrisoned their armies within. From these walls of adamant, the invaders pinned their conquered realm in a grip of steel. Four of these strongholds were built to guard the steppes. One was located on the eastern flank of the Himachal Mountains, by the Defile of Tor Wrath.”

Sha Umar looked startled. “Do you mean those old ruins on the spur of the ridge?”

Cantrell barely nodded, for his wounds still ached.

“I remember that vaguely,” Lord Ryne said. His dark blue eyes shifted from one man to another. He was still nervous in such illustrious company, but his self-confidence was growing. “There was another fort near Bahedin Treld, along the Calah River. But that one was razed by the men of Pra Desh years ago.”

“That’s true,” Cantrell replied. “But this fortress still stands. It has withstood many attacks. I believe there are wards set in the gates to protect it from arcane assault.”

Sha Umar nodded and the other men looked both interested and apprehensive.

Cantrell continued. “When the western empire began to crumble, the strongholds along the frontiers were abandoned to bring the armies closer to home. After that, the fortress was used by other tribes and a self-proclaimed king or two. In the past years, its only enemy has been time.” He stopped for a moment, then his voice began a slow chant.

Cantrell fell silent, letting the images of the song play through the listeners’ thoughts. “It’s rather archaic,” he said after a time. “But that is a fragment of a song I found long ago.”

Savaric stared thoughtfully into his cup. Unlike the other men, he had not traveled the eastern slopes of the Himachal Mountains and was not familiar with the ruins or the defile Cantrell mentioned. He was reluctant to remove his clan to lands he did not know, and he had only the bard’s reputation to give any value to the consideration of the fortress. “This place—Ab-Chakan—what is it now?”

“Well, the clans never had any use for a fortified garrison, so it has been abandoned for years. But the walls still stand and the defile has many caves that bore deep into the mountains.” Cantrell paused, his face turned toward the chiefs around him. “For men with a little ingenuity, it could be an answer to a prayer.”

Sha Umar smiled slightly. “The werods will riot like it. Fighting within walls goes against the grain.”

“So does dying needlessly at the hand of a paid mercenary,” Savaric said dryly.

The Jehanan chieftain laughed. “I shall remember to tell them that.”

“Lord,” said Cantrell. “I do not know if this is sound advice. Ab-Chakan may be useless to your needs, but if it fails, the defile can be defended for months by a mere handful. And Medb would not anticipate such a move. It might give you a little more time.”

Savaric looked past the open tent flaps into the distance. “How far is this place?”

Cantrell pondered. “Several days journey north of Dangari Treld . . . perhaps thirty leagues from here.”

“I hope that Koshyn doesn’t try to get in our way,” Lord Ryne spoke up. “We have few enough men as it is.”

“I doubt he will,” Sha Umar replied. His lean, aquiline face broke into a smile, and he gestured to Savaric with his wine cup. “Koshyn respects you even if he does try to straddle two horses at once. It’s that band of exiles I’m worried about.”

“Yes. They were called forth five days ago. If they find us before we reach shelter, there will be much blood spilled,” Cantrell noted.

“Then we must move fast,” Savaric said, suddenly reaching his decision. He felt more hopeful than he had in days. At last there was an objective to reach for that offered a semblance of success. “Are we agreed?” he asked the others. The men nodded. “Then we will turn north and go to this fortress.” He paused and added, “Cantrell, if you wish to leave, I will provide a guide, horses, and supplies. Unfortunately, I can ill afford to send an escort.”

Cantrell waved off the suggestion. “I knew what I was walking into when I came for help. I have read the Khulinin’s riddle of doom, my lord. Now I want to understand the answer.”

Savaric’s mouth curled up in a weary smile. “I hope you do not regret your curiosity.”

Beyond the rim of firelight, where the herds dozed in the warm darkness, the outriders passed in silent vigil. They rode around the livestock, humming a soft song or stopping to exchange a quiet word with the sentinels around the camp.

On a low knoll near where the horse herd lay, Nara stood, darker than the night itself. Only her large eyes sparkled with faint starlight. Occasionally she swung her head to sniff the breeze or swished her tail at a mosquito. Except for these brief movements, she remained still. On the mare’s back, Gabria shoved her bow aside, leaned on Nara’s rump, and tried uselessly not to fidget. She was bored with the inactivity of guard duty and too anxious to sit still.

Time and again she remembered Cantrell’s strange reaction to her—and his advice to seek the Woman of the Marsh. Gabria had tried to ask him to explain what he’d meant, but the days had been too hectic and at night he was too ill and tired to answer. Piers could not help her, and she didn’t know who else to ask.

The marshes, as well as Gabria could remember, were southeast of the Tir Samod, where the Goldrine River, swollen with the waters of numerous tributaries, flowed down into a low, half-drowned land of reed-choked channels, pools, and treacherous mires before filtering into the Sea of Tannis. She had never heard of a woman living in the marshes. If there was such a woman, why was she important? Why would Cantrell tell her to seek this woman? Gabria wondered if the bard sensed her inherent ability for sorcery. Perhaps that was why his response was so odd. Maybe this Woman of the Marsh had something to do with magic.

For the past few days, Gabria had been able to put aside the realization of her power in the frantic departure and the hurried march of the caravan. It was easy to ignore Piers’s thoughtful looks and Cor’s absence, and it had been simple to keep the truth from Nara. But here, in the darkness, the shadows and distractions were dispelled and Gabria was forced to come face to face with a self she did not know. The girl she once had been, the girl who happily kept a tent for her father and brothers and who ran laughing through the days, had somehow become this short-haired stranger who wielded an unknown Power and set herself above clan law. She had tamed a Hunnuli, ridden with a werod, and killed a man with the Trymian Force. Gabria did not recognize herself any longer, and what she found instead was frightening.

It did not matter how Nara might reassure her or Piers might protect her; she could not shake off seventeen years of ingrained distrust of sorcery. To her, magic was a power that corrupted any soul it touched and caused nothing but grief. Lord, Medb was exactly what she expected a sorcerer to be: ruthless, deceitful, murderous, lusting for more power. If she were a true clanswoman, she would immediately turn herself over to Savaric and suffer the proper punishment before she became like Medb and threatened the welfare of the clans.

But the sense of survival that had sent Gabria walking out of Corin Treld refused to consider the notion. She would have to find a way to control her talent so she would never use it inadvertently again. Perhaps Cantrell had told her to seek the Woman of the Marsh because he knew this woman could help her deal with this unwanted ability. If only she knew how to find her.

Nara shifted and raised her head. Her ears swiveled forward. Boreas and his rider are coming, she informed Gabria.

The girl sat up quickly. She stiffened her shoulders and watched the black figure of Boreas materialize out of the darkness. Noiselessly, the huge stallion stepped up beside them and nickered softly in greeting.

The wer-tain sat silently, watching the dozing horses nearby. Gabria saw the dim sparkle of polished mail under the robe that covered him to his knees, but the glimmer of his helm was hidden beneath the hood of his cloak. She could not see the wer-tain’s face in the shadows of his hood, and she hoped he could not see hers.

“Nothing stirs tonight,” Athlone said quietly.

“No.” Gabria had not spoken to him since Cor’s death and she was not certain she wanted to now. She was horribly afraid that Athlone would probe into her actions and discover her power. The old threat she had once thought forgotten reared its ugly head between them.

“My father tells me we are going north.”

“North,” Gabria said testily. “Are we going to skulk in the mountains like thieves?”

He sighed, trying to be patient. “This caravan is too big to ‘skulk.’ We’re going to an old stronghold called Ab-Chakan.”

“I suppose that will be better than running over the plains like frightened rabbits.”

Athlone turned his head and she could feel his cold glance. “If you had a better suggestion, you should have informed Savaric.”

“I do not interfere with the councils of the wise,” Gabria said huffily. She wished he would go away.

“Fine words for a woman who claims herself chieftain, disrupts an entire gathering, and threatens a sorcerer.”

“And what was it worth? You let me delude myself with hopes of vengeance, then sat back and watched me make a fool of myself in front of the lords of the clans.”

Athlone shook his head. “This is an old argument. I did not know he was injured so badly until I saw him the first day.”

She was silent for a long while. The Hunnuli stood motionless, their ears cocked back to listen, their ebony eyes catching the light of the old moon as it thrust its horn above the hills. Athlone waited. His face was still shrouded in night, and his fingers picked restlessly at the folds of his robe.

Finally, Gabria slammed her fist on her knees. “What do I do now, Athlone? I’ve waited months to challenge Lord Medb. Now I have no satisfaction to quiet the voices of my brothers or wash away the memories of that day. Medb has slipped out of my grasp.”

“There are other ways to gain vengeance. Some more subtle than others,” he said.

Gabria whipped her head around and her heart began to pound. She could not see his face to read his expression.

“There are other ways,” he added, his voice level. “Some more fitting than others, to seek your revenge against a man like Medb. Sorcerer or no, he is still a man with his own weaknesses. Seek those out. Learn his greatest fears and use them against him.”

“How?” she asked sarcastically. “Do I stop him in the middle of a battle and ask a few questions, or do I visit his tent at nightfall?”

“Use your wits, Corin. None of us know how the coming days will unfold. Perhaps, if you’re clever, you will have weapons at hand that will be sharper than any sword.”

Gabria stared at the wer-tain. Just how much did he know about her? Had he talked to Piers or was he making his own deductions? Or was he simply offering his best advice? “All right, I’ll watch. But I doubt it will do much good.”

Athlone rubbed his hand down Boreas’s neck. “We never know. Wars are terribly unpredictable.” He stopped, then said, “I did not tell you, but I was very glad to see you alive the other night. If Cor had succeeded, I would have personally flayed him alive.”

“I’m glad you didn’t have the opportunity,” Gabria replied, surprised and pleased by his remark.

“How long will you continue this charade?” he asked suddenly. “You cannot pretend to be a boy forever.”

Gabria shrugged. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I guess until Savaric finds out or Medb kills me.”

Athlone’s hand unconsciously gripped his sword hilt. “Medb will not kill you if I have anything to do with it,” he muttered under his breath.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Tomorrow, you will join the outriders to search for Ab-Chakan.”

She saluted. “Yes, Wer-tain.” He turned to go, but she held out her hand and stopped him. “Athlone, do you know of the Woman of the Marsh?”

Athlone stiffened. Boreas snorted as his rider leaned forward. “Where did you hear of that?”

“From Cantrell.”

“Well, forget it immediately. That woman is evil and dangerous. You have no business with her. I forbid you to mention her again.” He kneed Boreas, and they vanished in the dark.”

“That was strange,” Gabria said, astonished by his vehement reaction.

Nara nickered softly. The man does not understand yet. He thinks as you once did about magic.

“Once did?”

Your beliefs have traveled far since you felled Cor the first time with magic.

“The first time,” Gabria repeated weakly.

Surely you did not think I did not know. Hunnuli are most comfortable with magic-wielders. We can sense many things about our riders that men overlook.

“Then you know I killed him.”

Of course. And now you know the truth.

“That I am a sorceress.” Gabria sounded disgusted.

You are not a sorceress yet. Your powers are untrained, but you have much natural talent. That should not be wasted. Especially now.

“Well, what can I do about it?” she demanded, trying to keep her voice down. “Lord Medb would never teach me, and who else knows the forbidden arts?”

Follow the bard’s counsel, Nara answered.

“The Woman of the Marsh? I don’t even know if she exists!” Gabria said.

The woman is there. In the great marshes. She will help you if she feels your desires are strong enough.

Gabria was stunned. She knew that Nara was telling the truth, and the possibilities of what the Hunnuli was saying were incredible. She sat lost in thought for some time before she broke her silence. When at last she spoke, her voice was filled with sadness.

“Oh, Nara, these are strange days. Legends spring to life, clan fights clan, and our fates hang on the thread of a sorcerer’s spell. Now I have a power I was taught to despise and I don’t know what to do with it. All I can think about is Medb and magic and the look of death on my father’s face.” Her words failed, and she leaned despondently on Nara’s neck.

The Hunnuli nickered in sympathy. I cannot always understand men’s feelings, but I, too, have felt loss and loneliness. When that happens, you must look for new strengths and the new pastures.

Gabria listened to the gentle words in her mind. She slipped her arms around Nara’s neck. “Will the marshes do?”

That will do very well. I have felt the need for a long run.

Two hours after dawn, Athlone sent his outriders forth as scouts. Riding northeast, they spread out to find the fastest road to the Himachal Mountains and the fortress of Ab-Chakan. Gabria and Nara rode with them. They galloped for leagues over the grassy, level end of the valley of the Hornguard. Gradually the terrain rolled upward and the hills surged toward the feet of the mountains. Ahead, the dark, smoky smudge marking the mountains sharpened into individual peaks.

The Himachal Mountains were not mountains in the rugged, glorious form of the Darkhorns. They were mere vanguards to the mighty range, and their crowns rose only to a modest height above the plains. Yet, despite their shorter, rounder tops, their slopes were steep and difficult and thick with heavy underbrush and timber.

At the southernmost end of the mountains, where a wide valley led a stream out of the forests to meet the Isin River, Clan Dangari had built their treld and ran their studs year round. They were the most sedentary of the clans and were trading their nomadic instincts for the pleasures of horse breeding.

Athlone’s scouts cautiously bypassed Dangari Treld and continued north, seeking only the defile and the fortress. There was still no word of Koshyn’s movements and nothing had been seen of the band of exiles. The Oathbreakers sent word to Savaric that the army of hired mercenaries had arrived at Medb’s camp and the combined forces of the four clans and the hired soldiers were marching after the Khulinin. Medb had also followed through with his threat to the cultists and had sent a large force to besiege the Citadel of Krath.

Time was running out. Savaric turned the clans north after the scouts, and the race began.

The three clans had a five-day lead on the Wylfling and they would need every hour of it to find the fortress in time. The caravans moved much slower than an armed host and had many leagues to travel. It would be close, but Savaric hoped that the clans would make it to Ab-Chakan with a day or two to spare. That hope was a real possibility—as long as the Dangari or the exiled marauders did not slow them down.

The next four days were miserable, but Savaric’s pride in his people grew tenfold. With the host of the sorcerer on their heels, the three clans drew together and fled for the mountains. Excess baggage, broken wagons, and sick or weak animals were left behind. They made no Stops during the day and at night they only stopped long enough to rest the horses, water the livestock, and eat a cold meal. The clans lit no fires, and the tents remained packed; the people collapsed in the shelter of their wagons and waited for dawn. On the trail, the sun burned on their heads and the dust rose to choke them. Before long, the grueling pace began to tell, particularly on the children and the foals, but the caravan pushed on, knowing it would mean certain death if they were caught on the open plains.

Late on the second day of the journey north, several scouts, including Gabria, returned to tell Savaric that the walls of Ab-Chakan still stood and the caves in the defile were empty. Two men had been left to watch the fortress, and others waited along the way. Dangari Treld was quiet and no news was known of the exiles.

Savaric sighed with relief when he heard the scouts’ reports, and he sent several more trackers out to follow the advance of Medb’s forces. In secret, he wondered where Koshyn and the Dangari were.

On the tenth day of the trek from the gathering, Savaric got his answer.