Dark Horse

17

Gabria lost track of time. The hours she spent with the Woman of the Marsh seemed to spring from an eternal wellhead and flow endlessly beyond her memory.

The girl and the sorceress had descended to a large, round chamber that lay beneath the tree. They sat together around a small wooden table, the woman hunched over her words and gestures like a jealous priestess and the girl watching with a pale face and a fascinated light in her eyes. Slowly, as the uncounted hours passed and the rasping voice muttered unceasingly in her ear, Gabria began to understand the depths of her power.

“Will is at the center of sorcery,” the woman said time and again. “You have no time to learn the complexities, the difficult spells or gestures that govern the proper use of magic, so beware. You are attempting to impose your will on the fabric of our world. Magic is a natural force that is in everything: every creature, stone, or plant. When you alter that force, with even the smallest spell, you must be strong enough to control the effect and the consequences.”

Gabria stared into the sorceress’s remorseless black eyes and shivered.

The woman’s dark gaze fastened on her. “Yes! Be afraid. Sorcery is not a game for half-wits or dabblers. It is a deadly serious an. As a magic-wielder, you must use your power wisely or it will destroy you. The gods are not free with the gift and they begrudge any careless use of it.”

“But can anyone use this magic?” Gabria asked.

“Of course not,” the woman said irritably. “People are born with the ability. That was the reason for the downfall of the sorcerers so long ago. A few magic-wielders abused their powers and those people without the talent grew jealous and resentful.” The woman coughed and shifted in her seat. “But that time is past. As for you, your potential for sorcery is . . . good. Your will to survive is a facet of your strength. And that strength of will is the most essential trait of a magic-wielder.”

Gabria nodded. “I understand.”

The sorceress’s face twisted into a mass of wrinkles. “You understand nothing! You have no conception of what it is to be a sorceress. You are a child. Do you know yourself at all? You must know every measure and degree of your own soul or you will not recognize when your sorcery has begun to leech strength from your being.”

The woman sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Not that it matters. You will not have the time to learn, if you wish to defeat that worm-ridden Wylfling any time soon.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?” Gabria shouted in frustration. “If I cannot learn my own abilities, how in Amara’s name am I supposed to control this power?” Gabria discovered that she was shaking. She clamped her hands together and stared at the table.

The woman laughed, a cackle edged with arrogance. “You do not need superhuman knowledge or control for this task, only desire and concentration. The critical ingredient in any spell, no matter how simple, complex, or bizarre, is the will and strength of the wielder. Those, at least, you have plenty of. I am merely warning you, should you overextend yourself particularly in an arcane duel.” She paused and her eyes lit with a strange, greedy light. “I do want you to succeed.”

The girl was puzzled by the odd look in the old sorceress’s face, but before she could think about it, the woman hurried on.

“You need to know what you have become a pan of, so listen.” She jabbed her finger at Gabria. “The other trait you need for spells is imagination. Not all spells are rigidly defined. It is often better to create your own. On this we will proceed.”

The old woman Stood up and fetched a stub of a candle. She set It down in front of Gabria. “The reason you need to use spells is to formulate your intent. The words elucidate the purpose in your mind and help you focus your power on the magic.

“When you used the Trymian Force before, it came as an unconscious reaction to your will to survive, and so it was very weak and uncontrolled. But if you had used a spell, you could have changed the intensity of the force and used it at will.”

“But how do I learn these spells?” Gabria asked.

“Sorcerers experimented with spells for years. They worked out many spells that were formulated for the greatest clarity and efficiency. But you do not always need to use them. Magic spells can be worded any way you wish.” The woman suddenly snapped a foreign word and the candle in front of Gabria popped into flame. The girl started back, her eyes wide with surprise.

The sorceress snuffed out the flame. “You try. Concentrate on your purpose and speak a command.”

Gabria gazed at the candle. She tried to picture a flame in her mind, then she said, “Light, candle.” A tiny flame puffed and died out.

“Concentrate!” the sorceress ordered. “Focus your will on that candle.”

The girl tried again. She dosed her eyes and demanded, “Light, candle.” This time the candle’s wick flickered once and lit in a gentle, yellow flame. Gabria opened her eyes and smiled.

“Good,” stated the sorceress. “You are beginning to understand. You must know exactly what you are trying to do or the magic will go awry. That is why we use spells.” She snapped another strange word and the candle’s flame went out. “Now,” the woman continued. “It is possible to do almost anything you desire with magic. But it is vital to know exactly what you want to do before you begin.”

Gabria nodded, fascinated by the old woman’s teaching. “What are some things you cannot do with magic?”

“You cannot create something out of empty space. You have to use something that is already there. See.” With a brief word, the sorceress changed the candle to an apple. “You can alter form or change an appearance, but you cannot create.”

“But what about the Trymian Force?”

“The Trymian Force, like a protective shield or any kind of visible force, is formed from the magic within you. That is why it is important to know your limits; you must not weaken yourself so much that you cannot control your spells. Remember that if you duel Medb.”

The old sorceress brought other small items to the table and had Gabria practice basic spells: changing the object’s form and altering its image, even moving it around the chamber.

As Gabria’s confidence grew, her skill developed in leaps and bounds. She learned how to form the intent of a spell into the words that would trigger the magic and how to dismantle a spell before it went awry.

The sorceress, surprised by Gabria’s rapid progress, taught her other spells of healing and shape-changing, and the rituals for the arcane duels. She also taught the girl the best spells to control the Trymian Force, call it at will, and most important, to defend herself against it with protective shields.

At last, the old woman nodded in satisfaction, and her wrinkled face creased in a smile. “You have learned all that I can teach you. Now you must teach yourself. Practice what I have told you, learn your limits and your strengths. Remember the dangers if you lose control of the magic.” She went to an old battered chest by the wall, pulled out a small silk bag, and brought it to Gabria. “Go back to the clans. When you are ready, open this bag. Inside is the last item you need to become a full sorceress. The item will help intensify your powers and mark you as a true magic-wielder.”

The old sorceress sank into her chair and was silent. Gabria leaned back feeling numb. The girl looked about her, amazed, for the time with the sorceress seemed so unreal. She wondered how long they had been in the chamber.

Gabria began to stand up, but immediately her exhaustion caught up with her. Her body sagged, and she caught the chair to keep from falling. She took a weak step toward the stairs that led up to the entrance. What day was it? How long had she been there?

“I must go,” she mumbled.

The sorceress raised her hand and a spell caught the girl before she fell. Gently, she laid Gabria down on the floor. The girl was already asleep. For a moment, the woman stared down at her with glee in her heart. Never had she known an ability so strong.

This girl had strength, will, and talent, and if she did not lose her wits, she had a good chance of defeating Medb. The old woman rubbed her hands together and cackled with pleasure.

Once Medb was dead, Gabria could return to the marsh and pay her price, a price the girl did not need to know about. The sorceress’s hands moved over the girl and she muttered a spell, one of the few complex incantations she still remembered.

She was stunned when the spell failed. She knew that her powers were weak, but the girl’s natural defenses were not that strong. There had to be something else. The woman quickly searched Gabria’s clothes until she found the small stone ward.

Her eyes flew wide when she recognized it, for she thought all those wards had been destroyed. She shrugged, pocketed it, and recreated the spell; this time it worked perfectly. Chuckling to herself, she went to rest. It had taken the last remnants of her strength to force the spell on the girl, but it would ensure the payment was made if Gabria had to crawl from the edge of the grave to deliver it.

Gabria came awake and sat up in confusion. She was lying on a pallet in the chamber beneath the mangrove and there was no sign of the sorceress. Daylight glimmered through the hatch that led up to the tree trunk.

“Oh, gods,” she whispered. “What day is it?” She jumped up in frantic haste and gathered her belongings. Her cloak and food bag were lying nearby, already replenished, and her water bag was full.

Something scratched at the wood outside, and the otter peered down through the hatch. It chirped when it saw Gabria was already awake.

Gabria flung her cloak over her shoulders. “I have to go,” she muttered to herself. “I have been here too long.” She climbed the steps, crawled through the hatch into the tree trunk, and peered through the crack in the tree. She remembered that it had been sunny when she arrived at the mangrove, and now the rain was falling in sheets and the clouds were low and heavy above the trees.

Gabria grasped her bag and followed the otter down the tangled roots to the small boat that bobbed on the tugging tide. The wind whirled past her head and yanked at her cloak, but she ignored it just as she ignored the rain. Only one thought prayed on her mind: How long had she been gone?

The journey back through the marshes was long and tedious. Gabria poled the boat with quiet desperation while the otter led her through the labyrinth of reeds and channels. Unerringly the animal found the river’s main current and followed it laboriously upstream. The rain fell incessantly; the clouds moved sluggishly inland, pushing the tide ahead.

Fortunately, the otter had taken a shorter route through the marshes to find solid ground. Gabria had approached the marshes from the north, where the delta encroached farther inland. By following one of the main channels west, the otter cut off many miles of their journey.

A few hours after sunset, the rain stopped, and, for the first time, Gabria saw an end to the rushes and marsh grass. The river had swung away from her to the north in a great loop that eventually turned west again. Not far from Gabria, the marshes ended abruptly in a bold scarp of arid hills that were the last bastion before the great plains.

Gabria poled the boat ashore near the fringes of the reeds. The channels had dried to shallow pools and stagnant meres, making it difficult to travel by boat. The girl tugged the craft up onto the bank and stood gratefully on solid ground.

The otter glided to her feet and sat up, its round eyes glistening. It chirped and waved a paw at her. Then, with a flick of its tail, it dove into the water and was gone.

“Wait!” Gabria lunged after it, but the otter had vanished. The girl slid to a stop before she fell in the water and looked dolefully at the marsh. She had hoped the sorceress’s guide would lead her back to Nara.

Water dripped into Gabria’s eyes as she scanned the marshes to find her bearings. Although the rain had stopped, the impenetrably inky clouds were a solid, sinking roof. She was cold, wet, and miserable. Gabria knew vaguely where she was, for the hills that began near her feet stopped the southern encroachment of the delta. However, she had to go north. Nara waited for her on the northern edge of the marshes; now, between them, lay the silt-laden Goldrine River.

Gabria started walking. It was very difficult going; since she could only see a few paces in front of her; she could not choose the best path through the heavy brush and boggy ground. Several times, Gabria tripped over unseen roots or fell into a sink where the mud stank and the water was slimy. She struggled on for hours until her muscles were limp and her nostrils were deadened to the rank smells.

Finally Gabria stopped. It was still quite dark and she bleakly looked around and admitted to herself that she was totally lost. She had no idea which way to go and precious time was being wasted. She needed Nara.

The Hunnuli had told her once to whistle if help was needed. Gabria knew that it was impossible for the mare to hear her, and yet, she thought that, maybe if she used her new powers, she could reach the mare with her need. A slim chance at best. Gabria decided to try it. There was nothing to lose by whistling in the dark. She closed her mind to everything but Nara, inhaled deeply, and whistled, bending her will to the mare with all the urgency she could muster.

The night was silent for a long moment, then, astonishingly, Gabria heard a horse neigh, as if from many miles away. She whistled a second time and hoped desperately she had not heard amiss. The call came again, joyfully and much closer this time.

“Nara!” she shouted. The Hunnuli was coming. Gabria turned to face the direction from which she heard the sound of hoof beats, and the giant black horse burst out of the darkness. The mare skidded to a halt in front of the girl and reared, her head thrown back and her mane flying.

Gabria gasped, “Nara.”

The mare settled down and her breath steamed in a snort. Truly you have learned your art well.

The girl’s mind whirled in happiness, confusion, and wonder. “How did you come so fast?” she blurted.

The sorceress sent a message to tell me to come south, but your call led me here.

“How long have I been gone?”

The sun has set four times since we parted.

Gabria mentally counted the days. That did not seem right. If Nara was correct, she had only spent two days with the marsh woman. It seemed like years. She leaned gratefully against Nara’s warm shoulders and ran her hand down the livid white streak.

“Let’s go home,” Gabria said.

With the girl on her back, Nara trotted westward through the failing edges of the marsh, toward the hills where the ground was firmer for a horse’s hooves. Once on the dry slopes, she ran with the speed of the wind. Behind them, an orange glow fired the east as the clouds broke before the rising sun.

Gabria and Nara came to Ab-Chakan before sunset, riding in from the south along the flanks of the foothills, in the shelter of the trees. Nara eased silently through the undergrowth to the edge of the broad valley. In the thickening darkness they saw the fires and torches of Medb’s army. Gabria’s heart sank.

She had seen the Wylfling werod in full array, but even the tales of added forces had not prepared her for the vast fields of tents, wagons, horses, and piles of supplies she saw. She would never make it through that camp to the fortress. Medb’s forces were spread out in a semicircle at least a half-mile wide. Not even a Hunnuli could bolt through those ranks alone.

Gabria dropped her head. She was too late. It had not occurred to her that she might not be able to reach the Khulinin, and now that possibility was all too real.

Suddenly a horn sounded on the walls of the fortress. Clear and proud, its notes soared over the valley. Gabria stared at the fortress with pride and she felt her crumbling will revive. Behind those alien walls of stone, the four clans were still adhering to tradition with the horn call to sunset. She noticed angrily that the sorcerer’s army had not bothered to reply. They had sunk so deeply into conquest that they had abandoned the traditions of the clans.

She was leaning over to say something to Nara when the mare’s ears swiveled back and her nose turned to catch the breeze.

“What is it?” Gabria whispered. Her hand crept to her dagger. Without her other weapons, she felt ill at ease, and she wished that she had brought her sword.

Men are behind us. The whip carriers. They are seeking us.

Gabria drew her dagger and hid it in a fold of her cloak. If the Oathbreakers were seeking her, they would find her. When they did, no weapon—save, perhaps Nara—would save her if the men of Krath wanted her dead. But the cold, hard feel of the knife under her hand steadied Gabria as she waited quietly for the men to come.

Gabria wondered why the Oathbreakers were trailing Nara. The last she had heard, the cult was besieged in their towers by Medb’s forces, and no man among them would desert his post. She shuddered. If the Citadel of Krath had fallen, Medb cultists would have all the arcane tomes, manuscripts, spells, and artifacts in his grasp. He would be able to bring the clans to their knees in a matter of days.

Just then, out of the twilight, a shrouded figure on a dark horse rode into the trees. The figure raised his hand in a sign of peace as ten other riders rode up behind him. The man threw back his hood, revealing his thin, cruel face. He nodded and said, “Hail, Corin, and well met.”

Gabria inhaled sharply. It was Savaric’s brother, Seth. She stared at the bloodied gash on his forehead and at the weary, blood-stained men behind him.

Seth nodded, his fury barely contained. “Yes, we are all that is left. The citadel fell yesterday. Now we ride to the fortress. Do you wish to go?”

Gabria could only nod.

Seth motioned for his men to dismount. “We will go at midnight,” the Oathbreaker said curtly. Then, without another word, he withdrew with his men and sat down to wait.

It was an hour after midnight when Gabria and the Oathbreakers started. Hundreds of campfires burned in a broad swath across their path. Guards and squads of men patrolled among the tents. Somewhere a drum beat endlessly, as if marking the single heartbeat of the enemy camp. Medb had not bothered to fortify his flanks, for he expected no attack from behind.

Gabria and the men, leading their horses, were able to slip past the sentries to the outskirts of the encampment unnoticed. They gathered behind several wagons near the old road and waited for the path to clear.

They only had to wait a few minutes before Seth nodded to his men. As they mounted their horses, Gabria shot a glance down the road and saw that it was clear. She mounted Nara and closed her mind to everything but the road ahead, the road to safety and the clan.

Gabria’s eyes began to gleam. She leaned forward over Nara’s mane and the Hunnuli instantly sprang forward. The mare’s ears were flattened and her head stretched out. Her hooves rang on the stone. Behind them, Seth and the cultists galloped in a tight group, their whips uncurled and the wrath of their goddess revealed on their faces.

Horns suddenly bellowed around them; men began shouting and running toward the road. The stone path still lay empty, but through the tents came soldiers to cut them off. Nara screamed a challenge as a mass of dark-skinned Turic warriors surged toward her. Gabria answered with the Corin war cry and hung on as the Hunnuli tore into them.

Snapping and kicking with hooves deadlier than any sword, the horse plunged into the attackers with ferocious speed until the men fell back in terror. The Oathbreakers followed the mare closely, their whips cracking with killing force. Arrows rained down among them, and one of Seth’s men fell. Still they raced on behind the fury of the Hunnuli.

Before Gabria realized it, they had passed the main camp and reached the fields and front lines. Startled, enraged faces turned toward the riders and the horns blared again. Then Nara raced past the defenses and toward the old stone bridge. Before the mare lay the dark, littered, bloody ridge and the road to the fortress gate.

Gabria prayed fervently someone would open the gate. Already she could hear the sounds of hooves as enemy riders galloped in pursuit. The fortress remained ominously quiet. Nara neighed imperiously as she ran over the bridge and up the road, but the gate still remained closed. Gabria glanced back and, seeing the pursuing riders, she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Open the gates, her mind cried.

A war horn sounded from the tower. As the ancient wall reared up in front of the riders, the gate was thrown open and Nara and the Oathbreakers’ horses galloped through. Shouts of anger came from behind as the gate crashed shut and was barred. Gradually the yells and hoof beats dwindled away and a tense quiet fell over those in the fortress. Gabria lay on Nara’s neck, panting. The Oathbreakers wearily dismounted.

From out of the black shadows by the wall, a figure walked through the men to Nara’s side. The Hunnuli nickered a greeting, and Gabria looked down into Savaric’s face. She was stunned by the haggard lines on the chief’s face and the weariness that dulled his movements. She slid off the mare and saluted.

“Lord, I beg your forgiveness for leaving without your permission. I only know I felt my reasons were important and that I had little time.”

Many of the other warriors were staring at Gabria; Koshyn crossed his arms. Savaric remained quiet and deliberately examined her from head to foot, taking in her filthy, tattered clothes, her thin body, and her lack of a sword. At last, he returned her salute. “I’m certainly glad to have you back,” he said, then his eyebrow arched in disapproval. “The next time you decide to leave, tell me first.”

“Yes, Lord.” She was relieved to find that he was not angry with her, but she still had to face Athlone. And Gabria knew he would have a few things to say. She glanced around and wondered where he was.

She and the men were standing by the front gate, in the bailey between the two walls. A few torches flickered on the parapets, casting a dim light on the exhausted faces of the defenders and on the battered walls of the old fortress. Everywhere Gabria looked were signs of a hard-won battle. Broken weapons littered the ground, huge rocks and fallen masonry lay between the walls, blood stains marred the parapets. Gabria suddenly shivered. Where was Athlone?

Seth and his men walked to Savaric’s side, and the brothers greeted each other.

“Does your presence here mean the citadel has fallen?” Savaric asked.

“For now.”

“What of your library?”

Seth shook his head. “We had time to hide the most important books where Medb will never find them. But—” Seth paused and pointed to his men. “We are all that are left.”

Savaric glanced around. “There are not many left here, either. If Medb tries one more all-out assault, we’ll not be able to hold the fortress. I’m afraid you picked a poor place for a sanctuary.”

Seth shot a look at Gabria. “Not necessarily.” He looked back at his brother and for the first time noticed something in the chieftain’s face: the lines of crushing grief. Seth leaned forward and asked, “Where is Athlone?”

Gabria stiffened.

For a moment, Savaric stared into the night, his face frozen. “Athlone is dead,” he finally answered. “He took some men out last night to burn the catapults and I did not stop him. Medb’s men overwhelmed them.”

Gabria stepped back as if struck by a blow. She started to shake and her heart caught in her throat. Without a sound, she turned and fled into the fortress.