Dark Horse

18

In the heated darkness of his tent, Lord Medb stirred on his couch. His eyes slowly opened like a bird of prey disturbed by the movement of a coming victim. A cold smile creased his face. So, he thought with satisfaction, all the prizes are gathering in the same trap. It made things much easier. Medb was not surprised that a few rats from Krath’s citadel had escaped; that warren was so full of bolt holes, even he would have had a difficult time finding them all.

What did surprise the Wylfling lord was the return of the Corin and his Hunnuli. He thought that the boy was long fled, cowering in some hole. Instead, the Corin had broken through his lines to the safety of the fortress. Medb chuckled to himself.

He knew the outcome of this siege. While it was true he had been surprised by Savaric’s move to the fortress, it would still not avail the fool. The fall of the clans was inevitable. He had let his mercenaries try their hand at cracking Ab-Chakan, and the ruin still stood. Now it was his turn. He would let the clans stew a little while longer, then he would attempt another method of breaking them that would be faster and more efficient.

A new, delightful possibility had fallen into Medb’s lap and he was pleasantly contemplating his choices. He chuckled and glanced at his unconscious prisoner, bound hand and foot to the tent poles. Medb had in mind a simple trade, after which the clans could go free with their beloved Athlone returned.

They would not realize until too late that the man was not the same independent, fiercely devoted leader he had been. But by then Athlone would be chieftain and the Khulinin would be solidly in a Wylfling grip. Of course, if the clans refused to barter, Medb would still have the pleasure of forcing them to watch as Athlone died a particularly nasty death. He leaned back on his couch and laughed.

Morning came quickly on the wings of a rising wind. The night chill fled and the heat of the sun seeped into the earth.

The clansmen and the Oathbreakers stood behind the walls and watched the sun illuminate the sorcerer’s camp. There was no sign of the bodies of Athlone, the Hunnuli, or any of the men who had gone with them. Throughout the fortress, the clansmen gripped their weapons and waited in the mounting heat and dust. They knew Medb would not hold off his attack much longer.

In the general’s palace, Piers was attending the wounded in the great hall. He had heard of Gabria’s return, but he had not seen her and was beginning to worry. By midmorning, there was still no sign of her’ and Lady Tungoli offered to go look for the Corin.

She found Nara first, in the shelter of a crumbling wall near the main road. Gabria was curled up asleep in the mare’s shadow. Tungoli gently shook her.

“Gabran,” the lady said gently. “Morning is almost gone. Piers is pacing the floor waiting for you.”

Gabria stretched her stiff muscles and looked up at the lines of grief etched on Tungoli’s face. Her own sadness tightened her throat and her heart ached. She stood up and the two of them walked slowly back toward the palace.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Tungoli said after a few steps. “Athlone was very fond of you. He was terribly upset when you left.”

The girl felt her tears burning in the back of her eyes, and she fiercely fought them back. She could not weep yet. “I’m sorry,” she said, not knowing what else to say.

A small smile touched Tungoli’s face. “I may be a foolish, wishful mother, but I don’t believe he’s dead.”

Gabria stared at the chieftain’s wife.

“It’s only an intuition, I guess,” Tungoli went on. “But I feel he is still alive. For now.” Her mouth trembled and tears sparkled on her eyelids. “I would give almost anything to have him safe.”

A small seed of hope stirred in the girl’s mind. “If you’re right, Lady, I will do everything I can to save him.”

Tungoli took her arm. “I believe you, Gabran. Thank you.” They walked on in silence to the palace.

Piers was delighted when Gabria came into the great hall. He waited beside the warrior he was tending and watched gladly as the tall, sunburned girl strode through the crowd to him. She moved with a subtle grace and wore an air of self assurance most clanswomen tried to hide.

Piers clasped her with honest warmth. “Welcome back, Gabran. Your journey was successful.” His words were a statement, for he could see the truth in her eyes.

Gabria nodded, touched by the unspoken concern in Piers’s gesture. “For what it’s worth.”

The healer understood much of what she did not say. “Choices are often hard,” he said softly. “But don’t you think yours was already made?”

“I guess there never was a choice. I ride the only way left open for me.” She smiled a little weakly. “Sometimes though, it seems to me I am very unfit for this task. Why would the gods lay so careful a trail and spend so little time preparing the one who must follow it?”

“That is the paradox of some of our best tales, Corin,” Cantrell said behind her.

Gabria turned and greeted the blind bard. “I doubt anyone will sing tales of my deeds. Everything I’ve done has been unlawful.”

“It is the ending of the tale that often decides that,” he replied.

Seth came through the palace doors and saw Gabria. He came to join them. “Corin, I need to see you. Are you done here?”

Piers looked at the cultist in obvious distaste. “Go ahead, Gabran. We’ll talk later.”

Seth strode out the doors, expecting Gabria to follow. She hesitated. Her eyes met Piers’s, and she saw his unmistakable support and affection. Comforted, she ran to catch up with Seth.

The silence was the first thing Gabria noticed when she and Seth passed the last building and came into sight of the inner wall. They slowed and Gabria stared around with a growing suspicion that something was wrong. There was no one by the inner wall, so they walked through the first gate to the bailey.

On the battlements above, Savaric, Koshyn, Ryne, and a crowd of warriors were leaning against the stone parapets, staring down at the fields. No one moved. Beyond the fortress wall everything was quiet. There was no sound or sense of movement in the valley below.

Following Seth, Gabria picked her way over the trampled dirt and tumbled stone to the stairs. They joined the chiefs on the parapet and looked over the wall to the fields. The sorcerer’s army was in full array; the men stood in stiff ranks in a large crescent around the mouth of the valley. Everything was totally still.

Lord Koshyn suddenly stirred and pointed. “Look.”

A large wagon carrying a number of men and pulled by four horses rolled out of the ranks of men toward the fortress. The defenders watched in growing suspicion as it crossed the bridge and stopped by the remains of the catapults. It turned ponderously around, and the men on board heaved off something large and black. As the wagon pulled away, a gasp and a moan of anger rose from the watching warriors. It was Boreas, the spear still protruding from his chest.

Medb did not give the clans long to recover from their shock. Horns suddenly blared from all corners of the field and four horsemen, bearing the banners of stark white, trotted out of camp. They halted by the dead Hunnuli. The horns continued to sing until the fortress echoed with their music. A second Wagon rolled slowly down the road. Behind it came a procession of Wylfling warriors; in their midst rode the sorcerer on a large white horse.

Gabria stared at the sorcerer in amazement, for she had not known he had healed his crippled legs.

Medb’s brown cloak had been discarded for a long robe of white—the color of death, the color of magic-wielders. He raised his hand and the procession stopped. Medb motioned a second time. Three Wylfling soldiers dragged the stumbling body of a man from the wagon to Boreas’s body. They stepped back and Athlone fell to his knees. The horns stopped.

The clansmen immediately recognized the wer-tain, and a cry of rage roared out of the fortress.

Lord Medb laughed and spurred his mount forward. A Wylfling warrior seized Athlone’s head, yanked it back to expose his throat, and poised his dagger inches away from the jugular. The clans grew quiet and waited.

“Khulinin. Dangari. Bahedin. Jehanan. Hear me!” Medb shouted. “I wish to congratulate you on your success thus far. You have held off your defeat quite admirably. However, your luck will not carry you forever, and I am afraid that when you fall, I will not be able to control my men. They are growing impatient and very angry. Most of you will not survive. But I do not wish to lose four clans, so I have a proposal for your consideration. Is there any man who will listen?”

After an angry pause, Savaric, Koshyn, and Ryne climbed to the top of the parapet and stood side by side. With a blade at Athlone’s throat, they had little choice.

Lord Medb leaned forward like a snake eyeing its prey. “The terms are simple. For the safe return of Athlone, I want the Hunnuli, the Corin boy, and the four chieftains turned over to me. If these hostages are given quickly, I will withdraw my army and allow your clans to go in peace.”

The chiefs exchanged glances. “What if we refuse?” Koshyn shouted.

Medb snapped a word. The Wylfling stepped back from Athlone. At another word, an invisible force yanked Athlone to his feet and held him spread-eagle in the air. From out of the ground, pale flames of red and gold flared up and around his body. Athlone writhed in agony, but Medb’s magic held him mercilessly fast.

“Athlone will die very slowly before your eyes. And then your clans will follow,” the sorcerer replied.

For a heartbeat, Savaric wavered. He would give anything to save his son from death. He would gladly surrender himself to Medb if he thought that Athlone would live. Unfortunately, he was certain of only one thing: Lord Medb could not be trusted to keep his word. His treachery was as plain as his heresy. Without a twitch of remorse, the sorcerer would slay his hostages, massacre the clans, and destroy Athlone anyway. In a voice that belied the tearing grief in his heart, Savaric shouted, “Your terms are intolerable. We cannot accept them.”

Lord Medb threw back his head and laughed. “Don’t jump into your fate so fast, Savaric. Give yourself time to think. You have one hour. At the end of that time, you will surrender the fortress or die.”

Without warning, Medb raised his hand and pointed to the great bronze gates of the fortress. A blue fire sprang from his fingers. It struck the gates in a brilliant flash, searing along the edges of the bronze doors and scorching the stone arches. The ancient arcane wards in the entrance held for a few moments, then they cracked under the tremendous power and the gates crashed to the ground.

The clansmen stared down in horror as the dust slowly settled around the broken gate.

“One hour,” Medb called. “Then Athlone dies.” He stopped the flames around the wer-tain and waited as the Wylfling planted a post and hung Athlone up by his wrists. Then Medb reined his horse around and rode back to his army.

Gabria watched Athlone. From where she was standing on the parapet, she could not see his face, only his body hanging limp on the pole. She felt someone move beside her and turned to see Savaric staring down at his son. The chief’s hands clenched the edge of the stone wall as if he wanted to tear down the parapet.

“Are you going to do anything to save him?” Gabria asked, although she knew what his answer had to be.

The chieftain shook his head, not even looking at her. “There is nothing we can do. Medb will not free him and I will not sacrifice the clans.”

The girl nodded in understanding. Silently, she left the parapet and walked up the road toward the palace. Nara was waiting for Gabria in the big courtyard and came to join the Corin as she sat on the rim of the fountain.

For a long time, Gabria ignored the people passing by and stared at the mare waiting patiently by her side. The glorious Hunnuli, Gabria thought, they are as intelligent as humans, telepathic, impervious to sorcery, stronger and swifter than any other creature, and totally devoted to those few humans lucky enough to befriend them. They were creations of magic.

Everything Gabria had learned in her life had taught her to reject magic in any form, yet the clans did not reject the Hunnuli. In fact, Gabria began to realize how much magic was still a part of clan life. The magic was hidden behind different names, but the power was everywhere. It seeped in the rituals and traditions of the priests and priestesses; it was guarded by the Oathbreakers; it was sung of by the bards; it was embodied by the Hunnuli; and the talent to wield magic was still passed on from generation to generation.

Yet the clans, in their fear and ignorance, turned a blind eye to the power in their midst. Even after two hundred years, their prejudices had not allowed them to see the truth. Magic was not an evil, corrupting power. It simply was a force that existed, a force that could be formed into something as lovely or as hideous as its wielder desired. For the first time in her life, Gabria recognized how foolish her people had been to ignore magic.

Just then, Nara turned her head and her ears pricked forward. Gabria followed the mare’s gaze and saw Cantrell walk carefully down the steps of the palace. He had a bundle under his arm.

Nara neighed and the bard called, “Gabran, are you there?” Gabria walked over to him and took his arm.

“Come,” he said. “Walk with me a moment.” They walked slowly around the courtyard, out of earshot of any casual listeners. The Hunnuli stayed close behind.

Gabria finally spoke. “Will the clans never learn to accept magic for what it is?”

“Not as long as Medb lives,” Cantrell replied.

She sighed. “Then perhaps they need to see magic as something positive as well.”

The bard gripped Gabria’s arm tightly. “I heard Medb’s ultimatum. There is not much time left.”

They came to the front of the palace again and Gabria stopped walking. She knew what she had to do to free Athlone and save the clans—the conflict had stood at the end of her path since the day she left Corin Treld. But the very idea terrified her. She was no match for Lord Medb and she knew the consequences of her failure. Unfortunately, there were no more alternatives.

Cantrell held out the bundle he had been carrying. “I thought you might need this.”

She opened it and found her scarlet cloak with the buttercup brooch, and a long, pale green tunic.

“The tunic was the closest I could find to white,” the bard joked with a faint smile. He embraced her quickly. “The gods go with you, Gabria.” He turned and left her.

Gabria wound her fingers in Nara’s mane, and they went back down the road toward the main gate. Behind a ruined wall, Gabria stripped off her clothes. The rags that bound her breasts, the filthy tunic, and the Khulinin cloak were tossed aside, though she hesitated taking the gold cloak off. The Corin kept only her leather hat, her boots, and her pants. She tucked her father’s dagger into her boot, then pulled the green tunic over her head and belted it with her sash. She thought about using her power to change the tunic’s color to white, but she changed her mind. It was time magic-wielders had a new color. Gabria laid her red cloak over her shoulder and sighed with relief. Never again would she have to play the boy. Soon the clans would know her for exactly what she was.

Gabria took a slow breath and opened the sorceress’s bag. A long, needle-thin diamond splinter fell glittering into her hand. Gabria stared at it, puzzled. The sorceress had told her this thing was the sign of a true magic-wielder, but she had not said what Gabria was supposed to do with it.

“You will need an assistant to help you complete the rite,” someone said behind her.

Gabria nearly jumped out of her skin. Nara snorted, but it sounded more like an agreement than a warning.

Seth walked around the wall and joined her. “It is too difficult to insert the splinter alone.”

“How do you know?” she gasped.

“The men of my cult have guarded the knowledge of the magic-wielders for years in hopes someone would need it.”

“But how did you find me?”

His eyebrows arched. “I followed you.”

Gabria studied him for a long time before she gave him the diamond. Seth took her arms and extended them, palms up.

His weathered face was impassive. He spoke the words of the ancient rite as if he had spoken them every day of his life, without hesitation or distaste. The words were still hanging in the air when he raised the diamond splinter to the sun to capture the heat and light. The sliver glittered in his hand. Then, with a skill as deft as a healer, he pierced Gabria’s wrist and slid the splinter under her skin.

The pain lanced through Gabria’s arm, and she could feel the heat of the diamond burning under her skin. Immediately the splinter began to pulse with the pounding of her heart. A tingling spread through her hand and up into every part of her body. The sensation was warm and invigorating. Gabria looked into Nara’s wise eyes and smiled.

Seth turned her wrist to look at the splinter pulsing under her skin. “Use this wisely, Corin. You are the last and the first, and it would be best if you survived.”

“Thank you, Seth.”

He grunted. “Go.”

The girl mounted the Hunnuli, and the horse trotted toward the main gate. The one-hour reprieve was over. Medb had returned.

The Wylfling lord rode arrogantly up to the fortress. His army was ready to attack; his face was alive with triumph.

“What say you, clansmen?” he shouted to the defenders.

Lord Savaric, Koshyn, and Ryne leaned over the parapet. “We will not deal with you,” Savaric called.

“But I will!” a strange voice shouted below him. Hoof beats clattered over the stone road and the Hunnuli galloped forward. The mare reached the entrance and went up and over the fallen gates with a terrific heave of her hind legs. Gabria’s scarlet cloak flared like wings. The horse landed lightly and cantered a few paces forward to a stop.

Savaric shouted, “Gabran! Come back here!”

Gabria ignored him and calmly faced Medb. Her hat and her cloak still disguised her femininity and the embedded splinter that pulsed in her wrist. “I will make you an offer, Lord Medb,” she said coldly.

“I do not deal with mere boys,” Medb sneered. He snapped a word and magic fire flared around Athlone. The wer-tain jerked in agony.

“Gabran!” Savaric cried.

Gabria was silent. With deliberate slowness, she raised her hand and the ruby light of the splinter gleamed on her tanned skin. The flames around Athlone snuffed out, the cords binding his wrists parted, and his body sank to the ground. The wer-tain shivered once and his eyes opened. A Wylfling warrior, his sword drawn, jumped toward the fallen man. A blue flare of Trymian Force surged from Gabria’s hand to the warrior’s chest, flinging him backward into a smoking, lifeless heap.

The silence on the field was absolute.

“Oh, my gods,” Koshyn breathed.

Medb stared at the Corin thoughtfully. So that was the answer to those many, puzzling questions. He parted his thin lips in a twisted smile. “What is your offer, boy?”

“You may have me and the Hunnuli in exchange for Athlone’s life. But you must fight me to win your prizes.” He shrugged. “A duel? That is impossible. A boy cannot fight a chieftain.”

“I am chieftain of the Corin, thanks to you. But I do not wish to use swords in this duel.”

“An arcane duel? Against you?” Medb laughed. “If that is what you want, I will humor you.” The sorcerer knew his strength was low. He was not fully recovered from the battle two days before, and he had expended a great deal of energy shattering the fortress gates. Still, he thought it would take little effort to crush this upstart. Smiling, Medb ordered his warriors back. He dismounted on the level space by the fallen gates.

“You are a fool, boy. Did the bard not tell you the riddle of my doom?” the Wylfling asked.

Gabria looked down at Medb. Standing straight and tall, he was a powerful, handsome man. “It is a riddle no longer.”

“Oh?” He fixed her with a cold stare.

“I am the answer to your riddle, Medb, for I am no boy and my name in the northern dialect means buttercup.” Before her stunned audience, Gabria peeled off the leather hat and shook her head until the loose curls fluffed out and framed her face in gold. Then she unpinned the cloak and let it drop over Nara’s black haunches. The wind molded the green tunic against her breasts and slender waist. The sun glittered in her eyes, as hard and as bright as any sword.

“Gabran is dead these many days. I am Gabria, his sister, and daughter of Lord Dathlar.”

For the first time since his hands touched the Book of Matrah, Medb was deeply afraid. This girl had come out of nowhere with a knowledge of sorcery and the emblem of a magic-wielder burning in her wrist. Where had she gotten her knowledge? And the splinter. He had not been able to find one, but this girl had not only attained one but had it properly inserted. For a moment, Medb’s heart quailed and the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

Then he steadied himself. She was a difficulty he had not anticipated, but he had not struggled this far to be overcome by a girl and a riddle. She might be the “buttercup,” but she was not bearing a sword. With a silent curse, Medb swore he would end the riddle once and for all.

The girl slid off the Hunnuli and the mare backed away, leaving her alone. Gabria pushed away every doubt that might distract her, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the ancient spell the Woman of the Marsh had taught her. She lifted her right hand and pointed behind Medb. “I, Gabria, daughter of Dathlar, challenge you, Lord Medb, and by my challenge set the first wards.”

Medb’s voice purred. “I, Lord Medb, accept your challenge and, by my acceptance, set the second wards.”

Gabria opened her eyes. The spell had worked. Four scarlet pillars of light stood equidistant from each other, forming a square that enclosed Gabria and Medb in an area only twenty paces wide. A pale mist glowed between the pillars and arched overhead. The two were now surrounded by a protective wall of power that shielded the spectators. Gabria could see the clansmen watching with horrified fascination from outside the wall.

“You have unwisely challenged me,” the sorcerer sneered. “But the question is not who is stronger, but by what means I shall prove it to you.”

Medb lifted his hand and launched a sphere of Trymian Force. It was only a test, and the Corin dodged it easily. The blue ball exploded on the ward shield. He fired more at her, faster and faster, and she swayed and dipped around the bright, deadly fires as if dancing with them. The girl did not try to retaliate; she only avoided his assault and waited for his next move.

At last, Medb grew weary of playing with her. He had to be careful, for his strength was waning and he did not know how great this girl’s powers really were. He studied the Corin for a moment, then he spoke a command.

Suddenly Gabria felt a tug of wind at her feet. The strange little wind whipped abruptly into a whirlwind of vicious intensity and wrapped around Gabria in a swirling, shrieking maelstrom. Dirt and grit flailed through the dark wind, tearing at .her hair, her skin, and her clothes. She tried frantically to escape the maelstrom, but the force of the whirlwind tossed and buffeted her, ripped the breath from her body, and wrenched every bone and muscle.

Then, as quickly as it had begin, the wind died away. Gabria fell to the ground, panting and crying with pain. Her tunic was shredded and her skin was raw and bleeding.

“See how easy it is?” Medb said. “Let me show you another. You have survived the tragedies in your life well, but do you really know the terrors of your mind?”

Before Gabria could defend herself from it, a paralyzing chill froze her. She threw her hands across her face. Images crowded into her mind: her brother falling, his skull crushed by a battle axe; her father hacked by a dozen swords; Nara torn alive by wolves; Athlone hanging by shredded ligaments from a bloody pole. From a dark gray patch of earth, the rotting corpses of Clan Corin staggered out of their graves and pointed accusing fingers at her. Gabria stumbled into a desert of searing thirst and unendurable loneliness. A scream tore at her throat. Desperately she tried to rise, only to pitch forward when her legs would not respond.

Beyond the shield, Athlone struggled to his feet. He leaned against the pole, his eyes on the girl. “Fight him, Gabria,” he cried.

“Do you understand now?” Medb chuckled appreciatively. “You should have stayed at your place by the cooking fires and left the wars to those capable of handling them.”

Gabria tried to stop the chaos in her mind and bring her thoughts back under her control. She realized the visions that plagued her were fears she had known before. There was nothing that she had not already faced. A little at a time, she forced the images out of her mind and finally broke Medb’s spell. She tottered to her feet.

The Corin knew now that she could not defeat Lord Medb in a confrontation of expertise. He had been studying and conditioning his talent too long. She lacked the skill necessary to destroy him outright. Gabria had only one hope, a slim one at best: to catch him off guard. If she could survive just long enough to take him by surprise, perhaps her untried powers would be enough. Quickly she rapped a spell that exploded underneath the sorcerer’s feet and threw him to the ground in a sprawling heap.

Medb jumped up, enraged. “Enough of this!” he shouted. The Wylfling decided to use a killing spell he had already perfected. He spread his arms wide, his lips formed the harsh words, and slowly he began to bring his hands together.

For a moment, Gabria stood warily. She began to feel a pressure on all sides. There was no pain or distress, only a mild discomfort, as if she were wrapped in a heavy fur. She braced herself and tried to fend it away, but the pressure increased. Her head began to throb and her chest hurt. She was having trouble breathing. Straining to escape the pressure, Gabria clenched her teeth and used her power to form a protective shell about her body. The arcane grip grew stronger. She fought to maintain her shield, but Medb’s grip contracted with a jerk, once and then again. Her protective shield cracked and the pressure closed in around her. The pain worsened, and the Corin’s bones began to creak under the stress. Gabria moaned and her hands tore at her head.

Medb pushed his hands closer together and struggled. to break the girl’s resistance. He could feel his strength beginning to ebb, but he disregarded his growing weakness in his effort to kill the last surviving Corin.

Unseen by Gabria and Medb, Athlone began to stagger toward the arcane shield. He knew he should be horrified by what Gabria was doing, but instead he was strangely drawn to the arcane duel and his only lucid thought was to help his friend. He could not bear to see her die.

Gabria cried as Lord Medb strained harder. The pain in her body was almost overwhelming and her consciousness began to close in around her. In desperation, the girl gathered her last shreds of strength and courage into one final core of resistance. She clung tenaciously to one thought: she would never submit. Her last awareness flickered and she screamed her defiance.

Lord Medb tried desperately, but he could not crush the girl’s last opposition. Her defiance was fueled by fury and righteousness and by a will that Medb sensed was greater than his own. Surprise and a seed of doubt crept into his mind. He felt his power weakening rapidly.

All at once, Athlone shouted furiously, “Medb, no!” The wer-tain stood by the arcane shield, his face dark with rage and helplessness. He put his fist through the shield and, to Medb’s horrified surprise, the arcane wards shattered. The shield abruptly disintegrated, slamming Athlone to the ground.

Gabria felt Medb’s power fade, and in that moment, she remembered the last line of Cantrell’s riddle. Summoning every ounce of will, she wrenched loose of the sorcerer’s arcane grip. The blackness vanished and the pain eased. Her vision returned with startling clarity. She had just enough energy left.

Before Medb was aware of what she was doing, Gabria snatched her father’s dagger out of her boot and transformed it into a silver sword. The splinter in her wrist flared red with her blood as she hurled the sword at the sorcerer. It soared in a glittering arc across the space between them and plunged into Medb’s chest.

A great cry shook the fortress. Medb jerked, contorted by pain, and his cruel mouth shaped one last curse. Then he collapsed backward, impaled by the silver sword.

Gabria shivered uncontrollably. The world fell away and she sank to the ground. But as the edge of consciousness darkened, a vision came of a hollow tree and an old woman who waited for her. Before the pain finally drowned her, Gabria clawed the air, trying to answer to the strange summons that beckoned her to the marsh.