Dark Horse

14

Footsore and weary, the three clans swung east to avoid Dangari Treld and then north again to follow the Isin River. The Himachals lay on their left hand and the vast, wind-walked plains of Ramtharin lay on their right. Savaric was relieved they had traveled almost thirty leagues in the four days since leaving the Goldrine River—an unheard-of pace for a caravan so large—but the clans were exhausted. Men, women, children, and animals were pushed to the limits of their strength. Only the Hunnuli showed no signs of fatigue as the caravan trudged the last leagues toward the defile.

Along the mountains’ foothills, the Isin River flowed south, following the lay of the terrain. Like a boundary line, it separated the rugged hills on the west side from the smoother grasslands that rolled east to the sea. After some debate, the chieftains decided to stay on the east bank of the river. There was very little cover to shield them from hunters and few places where they could easily defend themselves if caught, but their passage would be easier and faster.

The decision proved a wise one. As the caravan traveled farther north, the mountains tumbled down into rough hills, gullies, and sharp-backed ridges that would have been impossible for the wagons. On the east bank, the slopes were gentler and the patchy growths of scrub were easier to avoid. The clans moved faster, hoping that they were almost to the fortress and safety. Only the openness, something they usually loved, made them feel strangely insecure. No one knew when the exile band or Medb’s host would sweep down on the slow-moving caravan, so people waited and watched and constantly looked over their shoulders.

Then, just after midday of the fifth day, one of the outriders, scouting to the south of the caravan, wheeled his horse and galloped back to the line. Instantly, the werods herded the wagons together and drew a tight ring around them; swords glittered in the sun and a deadly shield of spears pointed outward from the ring. The outriders galloped in and all the mounted men filled the gaps behind the warriors.

The three chiefs drew their swords and waited as the scout reined to a stop. Savaric’s face was stern. Gabria and Athlone waited side by side on their Hunnuli just behind him. The clans were quiet while they waited for the news.

“Lord,” the Khulinin said to Savaric. “The Dangari are behind us. They ride swiftly without herds or wagons.”

An excited murmur rushed through the listening clans. Their worst fears seemed to be realized.

“We should move back to the river and the shelter of the trees,” Lord Ryne suggested.

Savaric shook his head and slammed his sword back into its scabbard. “No. We have no time. We will wait.”

No one else moved. They watched warily as a large troop of mounted, mail-clad men swept toward them along the skirts of the hills. The riders carried their painted shields on their arms and in their hands were tall spears of ash. A blue banner floated at their head.

Suddenly they swerved toward the waiting caravan and gal loped up with a noise like thunder. The three clans instinctively moved closer together, and the warriors’ hands tightened on their swords. A horn cried out, clear and keen, then the company came to a halt not far from Savaric. The two groups eyed each other silently. Then, a lone man rode forward, leading a string of seven mares. A white horsetail flowed from his helm. His blue cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, and his fair face grinned in relief.

“Savaric, you are a hard man to track down.”

“Koshyn, what in Surgart’s name are you doing here?” Sha Umar yelled suspiciously.

“I could ask you the same, for you are on my holdings,” Koshyn replied, ignoring the hostile looks of the clansmen. “But I’ve come to pay my debt. Seven mares, remember?”

“You choose a strange time to do so,” Savaric said.

“The situation demanded it. The exile band is not far behind me,”

Athlone, his eyes smoldering, urged Boreas forward. “And you led them directly to us!”

Koshyn’s face darkened as though a cloud of rage had passed over him. “They attacked my treld last night and butchered five of our prized stallions and a score of mares before we could drive them off. They’re licking their wounds now, but they will return.”

Voices burst out in anger and surprise from the watching clanspeople. The warriors kept their spears raised, but their hands relaxed. Every person there understood the Dangari’s grief and rage at the loss of their beloved horses.

“Why did the marauders attack your clan?” Savaric asked.

“Because I refused to join Medb. We left the gathering after you. Medb was furious. I think he diverted the exiles from you to take his revenge on us,”

“I see. Thank you for the warning and the mares. We must go,” Savaric wheeled his stallion and raised his hand to motion to the caravan. Although he desperately wanted the help of the Dangari, he would not beg for aid now—not after days of frantic flight and worry.

Koshyn rode forward and stopped him. The young chief’s eyes were bright with anger, and the tattoos on his face faded into a dark flush. “We’re going with you, Lord Savaric,” he said. “I have been justly punished for my sluggardly courage and now I ask your leave to join you.”

Savaric paused and looked at his fellow chieftains. Sha Umar shrugged; Ryne nodded firmly. Savaric stared at the Dangari’s face for a full minute and weighed the fury and sincerity he saw in Koshyn’s blue eyes. Then he nodded abruptly. “Your help is most welcome, but we must move fast if the marauders are following. Where is the rest of your clan?”

“They are coming. We’re driving the herds to secret pastures in the mountains, and the women are gathering supplies. I came to find you and learn your counsel.”

“Listen, then. We are going to Ab-Chakan at the Defile of Tor Wrath. Join us there as quickly as possible,”

Koshyn stared. “That pile of rock? What for?”

“Piles of rock are easier to defend,” Savaric replied curtly.

The younger chief looked over the weary clans and back to Savaric. He still couldn’t believe the caravan had traveled this far so fast. When his scouts had told him the location of the clans, he wouldn’t believe them until he saw the trail for himself. His respect for Savaric had doubled.

“We will be there,” Koshyn said. He handed the lead line of the seven mares to Savaric, spurred his horse around, and cantered back to his men. With a ringing shout, they galloped back toward their treld.

Sha Umar grinned. “Now we will only be very outnumbered instead of desperately outnumbered,”

Savaric leaned on his saddle horn and said, “If only the other clans could be so easily persuaded,” He waved to the caravan, and the werod and wagons fell in behind him.

Nara waited a moment and watched the dust settle behind the vanishing company of horsemen. We will have to go soon. Before it is too late.

“Yes, tonight, I suppose. I hope we will find the clans still alive when we return,” said Gabria.

Since she had made the decision to search for the Woman of the Marsh, a strange reluctance to leave the Khulinin had hindered Gabria. She kept putting off their departure, waiting for a better moment. Gabria realized that the days were pressing close, but every time she considered leaving, a thought like a stinging fly buzzed in her mind: it had happened once; it could happen again. She could return to find nothing left but blood and smoke and rotting corpses. The image terrified her, more, she told herself, than the fear of her power or an uncertain meeting with an odd woman of legends. If she stayed with the Khulinin, she would not have to face the agony again and she could live or die with them.

Nara understood her reluctance. She pawed the ground and snorted. They will survive for a while behind the wall of that fortress. They do not need you yet.

Gabria shivered slightly. “Can you promise me they will be alive when we return?”

I can promise you nothing. Just have faith in them.

She rubbed the mare’s neck, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath the velvet hair. “You are always honest, Nara. You give me heart.”

The mare looked at Gabria sideways from beneath her long forelock. That is why I am with you. Pack ample food; I do not know how long we will be gone.

The afternoon slowly passed into evening. The sky was barred with high clouds and the sun faded to copper as it fell. It was nearly dusk when the scouts found the remains of an ancient road in the tumbled shrubs and weeds of the Isin’s valley.

Built long before the horsemen rode the plains, the road had served the fortress of Ab-Chakan as a supply route to other cities and strongholds, places that had fallen to ruin after the demise of the empire. Now, only crumpled patches of paving stone showed through the grass and dirt.

As the clans traveled farther north, the road became more obvious. Its straight flight and level course were clearly seen on the flanks of the hills where it followed the river. Although the grasses and vines clambered over the stone, the road was still passable and the caravan thankfully used it. Even in the dim twilight, the clans could see the skillful handiwork of the men of old in the cut and lay of the stones.

Several hours after nightfall, the clans halted by the river. Savaric spread the word that they were five leagues from the fortress and would reach it the next day. Breathing prayers of thanks to their gods, everyone prepared for the night. Soon the camp sank into the silence of exhausted sleep. Only the sentinels and outriders “moved beyond the edges of the encampment. The night was quite black, since the moon would not rise until much later and no fires or lamps were lit. A mild wind hummed over the grass, and the stars reflected on the river’s surface like jewels on a black mirror.

Gabria waited until all was still, then she stealthily collected her gear. She took only a bag of food and her dagger. Piers would care for her things until she returned. After a moment’s thought, however, she fished out the arcane stone ward and wrapped it carefully in her cloak. She dressed in a dark blue tunic and pants, folded her cloak into the bag, and shoved her dagger into her belt.

Piers and Cantrell were sleeping beside the wagon. She carefully picked up her bag and a water skin, and slid over to the bard. She gently shook him. He woke immediately.

Gabria could not see Cantrell’s face, but she felt his body stiffen. “It’s all right,” she whispered. “It’s only Gabria.”

He lay still for a moment, listening, then he murmured in understanding, “You are leaving.”

“Yes. Please tell Athlone not to worry. I will be back.”

He chuckled softly. “The wer-tain will be very busy for the next few days, but I will tell him. Please be careful. My advice is not always commendable.”

“The Hunnuli will see to my safety. Farewell.” She slipped away.

Piers rolled over. “So she is leaving at last.”

“Yes. I only pray it does more good than harm.”

“Bard, she had no choice.”

Cantrell sighed. “I know. But the Woman of the Marsh can be dangerous, and she may not accept another pupil.”

“It is more dangerous to have an untrained magic-wielder in our midst.”

The bard relaxed into his blankets. “We will see soon enough,” he said sadly.

Piers lay back and looked up at the stars. “The gods give you speed, Gabria,” he murmured to himself.

Nara was waiting for Gabria on the edge of camp. As silently as wind-blown shadows, they glided past the guards and disappeared into the darkness. For a short distance, the Hunnuli Cantered south along the path the clan had followed, then she veered east and stretched out into a gallop. Like a cloud scudding across the night sky, she swept over the leagues of grass, her legs thrusting forward in an endless rhythm. She can effortlessly, and the air trembled as she passed. Astride the mare’s back, Gabria held fast to Nara’s mane and marveled at the speed the Hunnuli held. The girl leaned forward. The wind whipped the mare’s black mane into her face.

Nara felt her rider’s joy and in answer, she leaped forward ever faster. Her nostrils flared, her ears tucked back, and her muscles flowed beneath her black hide. The immeasurable plains opened before them. Far ahead, a thunderstorm etched the horizon with lightning. Flinging her head high, the mare raced to meet the storm.

They swung wide to the east to avoid running afoul of Medb’s army, eventually bending their way south toward the Sea of Tannis and the marshes of the Goldrine. The storm was left behind. After a while, Gabria was lulled by the rocking of Nara’s gait and she dozed on the mare’s neck, watching through half-closed lids as the land flowed away beneath them in a blur. Imperceptibly the blur began to lighten and tinge with color. Once, Gabria started awake and looked up to see the sun poised on the rim of the world.

The hills flattened somewhat, rising in a slow, easy swell, and their treeless slopes soon were covered with thick grasses that formed a springy cushion under Nara’s hooves.

The day quickly grew hot and the wind faded. Above, a hawk circled in the brilliant blue sky, but it was the only living thing that Gabria saw all day. Either the animals were lying low to escape the heat or had fled at the sight of the running Hunnuli. By noon, shimmering heat mirages wavered in the distance. Gabria was stiff and thirsty, and, at last, she could feel Nara beginning to tire.

The Hunnuli found a water hole in a depression between several hills, and horse and rider rested in the shade of a small copse of trees. Gabria and Nara left again a few hours later and the mare galloped south with the wind. At dusk, they came to the edges of the Goldrine Marshes.

It was late in the morning before Athlone knew that Gabria was gone. The realization that he had not seen the girl or the Hunnuli for hours came gradually as he led a company of the werod ahead of the caravan. When he questioned Boreas, he learned that Gabria had left in the night, but where she was going the stallion would not say. Blazing with fury, the wer-tain galloped Boreas back to the caravan. There were only two men who might know where the Corin went, and Athlone intended to find out what they knew.

Piers, walking by the side of his wagon, saw the wer-tain bearing down on him and spoke a soft warning to Cantrell, who was seated on the loaded bundles. The healer clucked to his old mare and began whistling nonchalantly.

“Where is that wretch of a Corin?” Athlone demanded as Boreas skidded to a halt. The clansmen around them stared curiously; Piers tried to look innocent.

“The boy will be back soon, Wer-tain,” Cantrell answered.

Athlone’s face was livid. “Where is he?” he shouted, almost forgetting to use the masculine term before the interested onlookers. Boreas pranced sideways under his rider’s agitation.

The bard shrugged. His bandaged face showed no expression; his voice was calm and reasonable. “His cause was urgent and he will return. Let us leave it at that.”

“I will not leave it at that. That boy is under my care and . . . stop that infernal whistling,” he snapped at Piers. The healer gave him an aggrieved look, which Athlone ignored. “Gabran had no just reason to leave alone at this time! It’s far too dangerous.” His eyes suddenly narrowed. “Unless . . . he’s been under Medb’s sway all this time!”

“Athlone, read your heart,” Cantrell said. “You know that is not true.”

“Then why did he leave? And why did you let him go?” Athlone shouted at both men.

“We had no say in Gabran’s decision,” Piers replied. “But we would not have stopped him.”

Boreas spoke gently in Athlone’s mind, Nara went with Gabria, Athlone. They will return soon.

The Wer-tain calmed down a fraction. “I hope to the gods that boy does return,” he said with feeling. “Because if Medb or the marauders don’t kill him, I just might.” Boreas spun around and galloped off, leaving Piers and Cantrell relieved.

“Have you noticed,” Piers said, “that the wer-tain appears to care for the Corin more than he realizes?”

Cantrell nodded. “Interesting, isn’t it? But the tragic paradox is if she kills Medb to save the Khulinin, clan law will order her death for using magic. Athlone, as wer-tain of her adopted clan, will have to fulfill that edict.”

“Is that her doom?” Piers asked sadly.

“Only if she can find the answer to Medb’s riddle.”

“And if she does not. . .”

Cantrell finished the sentence for him. “None of us need worry about difficulties with clan law.”

High, hazy clouds drifted in during the afternoon and obscured the sun with a half-hearted veil. Word passed down through the ranks that the fortress was only a few miles distant, and those with sharp eyes could already discern the black towers like tiny teeth against the reddish bluffs. The caravan was heartened by the news. Forcing their weary legs to move faster, they pushed on, hoping to reach the stronghold by dusk.

Suddenly there was a commotion at the rear of the caravan. It spread up the line like wildfire as a Khulinin, a crude, bloodied bandage on his shoulder, galloped by on a lathered horse. Two outriders rode at his side. Voices raised in consternation, for the Khulinin recognized him as one of the trackers sent to observe Medb’s forces. The clanspeople watched as he halted before the chiefs at the head of the caravan. Many heads turned to look behind them, expecting to see the sorcerer’s army bearing down on them. Many hands reached for weapons.

The tracker leaned wearily on his saddle and saluted his chieftain. His face was grimy with dust and sweat, and his brow was creased with pain. “They are close, Lord,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Three days at the most.”

The men broke out in exclamations. Savaric cut them off. “Where?”

“They were moving toward Khulinin Treld, but they turned after us several days ago.”

“I see. Have you seen the band of exiles?”

The tracker nodded angrily. “They chased us for a while. An arrow killed the other scout, Dorlan.”

Savaric cursed under his breath. “Where are they now?”

“Harassing the Dangari. The blue cloaks are coming behind us, too.”

Savaric’s smile was dry. “I wonder who will reach us first.”

Built during the reign of the eighth Tarn Emperor, the fortress, Ab-Chakan, was the culmination of one architect’s dreams and skills. The builder had chosen his site midway in the Himachal Mountains, where the valley of the Isin opened out onto the plains. At the head of the valley, the hills closed in, forming a deep defile that wound inward to the heart of the mountains, where the cliffs rose in impregnable buttresses and the river sprang from the lightless roots of the mountains.

At the mouth of the gorge, where the river flowed out into the valley, the slopes ended abruptly in high bluffs. There, the emperor’s architect had built Ab-Chakan on a small ridge of rock that thrust out from the southern cliffs and partially blocked the entrance to the defile.

The builder had constructed an octagonal fortress with black towers at each corner. Walls thirty feet high and so thick two horses could walk abreast along the top united the towers. The battlements had overhanging parapets and crenellations through which archers could shoot. The great stones of the wall were set with such skill that no wedge could be driven between their joints.

Realizing the value of the defile behind the fortress, the men of old also constructed a thick wall from the corner of Ab-Chakan over to the northern cliff, barring the entrance to the gorge. The Isin passed beneath the wall through a culvert. The river’s current was too strong to swim or dam, and as it curled around the foot of the fortress, the Isin itself provided another natural defense for Ab-Chakan.

It was nearly dark when the wagons finally reached the crossroads, where a wide, well-paved road intersected their road and went up to the main gates of the fortress. The Caravan halted and every eye turned to the hulking, dark mass above them. Its blank walls and windowless towers were eerie and seemed to loom over the clans in the twilight.

Even Athlone was reluctant to broach the hidden secrets of the fortress at night, so the clans decided to spend the night in the relative safety of the defile. Another road led to a crumbled gateway in the river wall. The travelers carefully picked their way over the remains of the road and into the gorge. The noise of the tumbling river seemed horribly loud in the canyon, and the wind-haunted walls of rock reared over them like prison towers. The floor of the defile was uneven and rocky. The meager path was often blocked with stony debris, but the clans pushed on deeper into the gorge, until they found a wide, grassy area free of broken boulders. There they set up camp and waited anxiously for morning.

Light came slowly in the deep gorge, but the chiefs and their clans set to work long before the sun rode over the river wall. They found caves near the mouth of the river, and they hid their wagons and supplies. The herds were left under such guard as could be spared. The women went to work gathering what food could be found, baking unleavened bread, filling the water skins, and gathering wood. The armorers set up their small forges to repair weapons and make arrows and spear points. The children were sent to cut fodder for the animals.

Savaric, meanwhile, put the men to work on the river wall. It had stood for centuries, but floods and time had taken their toll. The warriors put aside their horses and swords to carry stone and shift earth. They spent the day strengthening the gate and filling in the ruinous gaps in the stones.

Athlone was still angered at Gabria’s disappearance, so he threw himself into the unfamiliar labor. His men watched him and wondered, but they were heartened by his tireless strength and they worked long into the night without complaint or slacking. Above them, the massive shape of Ab-Chakan sat in forbidding vigilance.

When night came, the three clans were pleased with their progress. The women and children had gathered a large store of food, water, and firewood. The river wall was patched and the gate was shored up against attack. Few expected the wall to survive a prolonged siege, particularly if the guardian fortress fell. But while its stones stood and defenders survived, the wall would help protect the herds and act as a last defense if the clans had to retreat into the defile.

The clanspeople went back to their camp bone-tired and, although they had done a major task, they all knew that the primary work had to be done tomorrow on the fortress. So the clanspeople treated their blisters with salves, rubbed their weary muscles, and prayed for more time-time to strengthen Ab-Chakan and to learn its secrets, time for the Dangari to arrive.

Savaric knew that Koshyn would keep his promise to come, but somewhere between Dangari Treld and Ab-Chakan was the band of marauders, and behind the Dangari was Medb’s army. If anything went wrong, Koshyn’s clan would be slaughtered. Savaric considered sending messengers to the Dangari to urge them on; instead, he settled for posting watchers on the bluffs. It would do no good to tell Koshyn something he already knew.

Nevertheless, Savaric could not keep his eyes from wandering to the south, where he hoped to see the dust of an approaching clan. Or of a Hunnuli. Athlone had told him of Gabran’s disappearance and, although he was distressed at the boy’s danger, he sensed Gabran had an important reason for leaving. If the gods allowed, the boy would soon return.

The next day, the clansmen broached the fortress. The three chiefs, along with Cantrell, Athlone, and a picked force of warriors, trod the ancient road to the main gates. The stone road that began in the valley crossed the river on a crumbling bridge and climbed the face of the short hill.

When the men reached the top of the hill, they stood on a broad, smooth ramp that led through the wall into the fortress. On either side were two of the eight towers, and, at their base, the walls molded into the natural rock and fell away to the valley floor. Before the men, the main gate stood partially open.

Two bronze doors, now weathered to a dingy brown, hung in the huge archway of the front entrance. Fifteen feet tall or more, they rose above the men’s heads to a curved lintel carved with strange beasts and letters. On each door a bronze lion’s head glared down at the interlopers. The lions, guardians of the gate, were worn and grimy, but their topaz eyes still glittered fiercely in the rising sun.

Within the gate, the men glimpsed another wall and red colored buildings, dark doorways and patches of thick weeds.

The abandoned walls towered above them, and the wind moaned in the empty towers. The men paused at the entrance and stared nervously inside. The huge, echoing fortress held only shadows, but the enclosed, lifeless confines were almost more frightening to the free-roaming clansmen than all the armies of Medb’s host. Warriors with gleaming swords were a tangible danger. These strange, old ruins were beyond their knowledge. Still, the clans’ survival depended upon this stronghold and upon learning how to exploit its advantages.

Athlone boldly stepped forward and pulled on one of the doors. Several men jumped to help him. They expected the doors to be heavy, but the massive bronze gates had been cleverly hung so only one man was needed to open them. To the warriors’ surprise, the doors swung back and slammed into the stone with a resounding boom. The men started like nervous hounds as the sound reverberated through the courts and battlements. A flock of crows leaped out of a tower and flew overhead, cawing harshly.

Cantrell leaned on his guide’s shoulder and laughed softly. “If anyone is here, we have certainly made our presence known.”

The men glanced at the bard sharply, and Ryne said, “Who could be here?” His voice was uneasy.

“Only the dead and their memories,” the bard replied. “These are only stones, Lord Ryne, hewn by men as mortal as yourself. There is nothing within to be wary of.”

Ryne was not convinced, but he did not want the others to see his dread. He stepped through the gateway. Athlone and the others fell in behind him. Before them, the road passed through another, smaller wall and into the fortress proper. At one time, the area between the two walls was kept clear and free of debris, its wide space a vital part of the fortress’s defenses. However, years of wind-blown dirt and wild growth had accumulated, and weeds grew profusely among the moldering trash, tumbled rock, and the rotting remains of a few wooden shacks put up by later occupants. While the main wall had only one gate, the secondary wall was pierced with eight, one at each tower and one at the road. Single bronze doors with small lions’ heads guarded the gateways.

The clansmen walked into the fortress and gazed about with wonder. Despite the military function of the stronghold, its center was similar to a wealthy city. Inside the eight gates circling the inner wall were the decayed ruins of wooden barracks, stables, kitchens, and servants’ quarters. But beyond those were curious houses and courts, broad paved paths, verdant gardens now overgrown and wild, and fountains-all built or decorated with skillfully carved granite or local red stone. Only the eight towers were built of ebony marble, a stone that glistened like black ice and was prized by the old invaders.

Savaric and the warriors slowly paced up the main road past the empty houses, toward the center of the stronghold. The clansmen were stunned by the sheer size of the fortress and the work that had gone into its creation. The men had never seen anything like it.

In the light of early morning, the shade among the buildings was still heavy and a chill lurked in the silent stones. There was no sound except for the men’s footfalls. Athlone caught himself staring and listening for a voice in the halls, or a footstep on the side streets, or a face in the embrasures. Instead, all he saw were barred or broken doors, rotting roofs-many of which had fallen in-and eroding masonry with weeds and grass growing in every chink that could hold earth. Year by year, Ab-Chakan was falling into ruin, yet it surprised him how many walls still stood.

The warriors passed out of the buildings’ shadows and saw in front of them, in the center of the fortress, the graceful rooms and terraces of the palace built for Ab-Chakan’s general. A wide courtyard curved away on either side of the palace. In its center stood a fountain with a carved horse of black marble. Stained and pitted, the statue reared elegantly over a dried pool. Athlone strode to the horse’s side and put his hand on the raised hoof.

“I’m beginning to admire these strange people,” he said. “They certainly knew horses.”

“And knew how to build,” Savaric replied. His face was creased with worry, and he inspected everything closely. He was certain he had made the right decision to bring the clans here, but he was overwhelmed by the immensity of the fortress they had chosen to defend. No one in their group had any experience in this kind of warfare, while Medb would possibly have several advisors in his mercenaries who knew how to plan a siege.

“Now it is time for work,” Savaric continued. “Ryne, you worked well on the river wall yesterday. Would you bring the werods and examine the walls and towers? Be sure there are no breaches or weak places.”

The young Bahedin nodded, pleased to have such an important task.

“Jorlan,” Savaric said to his new second wer-tain, “I want you to take two men and find the wells. If the water is bad, we will have to bring some from the river.”

Sha Umar looked down the road to the great walls. “We’ll need plenty of food. I’ll start bringing in the supplies.”

Savaric agreed. “Cull out the livestock, too. We’ll leave the breeding stock and the horses in the defile.”

The men left for their tasks. Cantrell and his guide, Athlone, and Savaric were left alone.

“I would like to see this hall,” Savaric said, “before we become too busy.”

The men walked across the court to the entrance of the great hall that formed the front of the palace. Seven arches graced the front of the building. Behind the middle arch was a smaller replica of the magnificent bronze gate. Athlone gingerly pushed it open, and the doors swung gently aside. The Khulinin looked into the hall.

It was lit by deep embrasures set just below the roofline, and the light of the morning sun poured through. Two rows of tall pillars supported the vaulted roof, which was still in good condition. On the floor, faint traces of gold still gleamed through the thick layer of dust, debris, and bird droppings. No hangings, trophies, or anything of wood or fabric remained. But on every wall were murals of ancient battles and generals long forgotten. The colors had dulled with time and the walls were scarred and filthy, but the figures were still clear and detailed.

Savaric and Athlone were staring, fascinated, at the walls when Cantrell suddenly raised his head. “There are horns blowing at the front gate,” he said urgently to Savaric. “Leave me. We will find our own way out.”

The two warriors bolted for the door and ran across the courtyard. As they raced down the road toward the main gates, they, too, heard the horns of the Khulinin outriders blowing frantically from the valley below. Other warriors were crowded around the gate and clustered on the walls. Savaric and Athlone charged up the stone stairs, pushed through the men, and stopped on the brink of the parapet.

There, a mile distant from the crossroads, a small company of horsemen was galloping from the south. A blue banner streamed at their head. Behind the troop, a cluster of wagons was following at full speed and a larger group of riders was fighting a running battle in the rear with an unidentifiable company of warriors. The attackers wore no cloaks and were less disciplined than the fleeing warriors, but they kept up a deadly barrage of arrows at the larger force and cut down anyone who fell behind.

Clan Dangari gained rapidly on the fortress, its attackers close on its heels. It appeared to the watching men that the Pursuers did not realize the other clans were nearby.

Savaric and his men leaned over the wall to see the chase.

“Come on, Koshyn!” Athlone shouted. “Ride!”

Suddenly a score of horsemen led by Sha Umar left the shelter of the river wall and galloped toward the approaching clan, their horns blowing a welcome. The horsemen and wagons pivoted around the foot of the fortress and hurried toward the river wall. The attackers took one look at the approaching warriors and the clansmen gathered on the walls, then wheeled about and cantered off to the shelter of the woods on the other’ side of the valley. The weary clansmen rode gratefully into the defile to the sound of horns blaring wildly.

The Dangari had come.