Dark Horse

3

The stranger rode into the treld at morning, just as the horns were recalling the dawn watch. He was flanked by two outriders, who kept a wary and respectful distance from the Hunnuli mare which dwarfed the Harachan stallions they rode. The people froze, appalled, as he passed by, and they stared at his back in utter dismay. The news spread quickly through the tents. Men and women, whispering in fearful speculation, gathered behind the three riders and followed them up the main road through the encampment.

The stranger appeared to be a boy of fourteen or fifteen years with a lithe figure and features obscured by a mask of dirt. His light gold hair was chopped shorter than normal for a boy his age and was just as filthy as his face. He sat on the Hunnuli easily, his body relaxed, but his face was tense and he stared fixedly ahead, ignoring the crowd behind him. On his shoulders, like a blazon of fire and death, was a scarlet cloak.

The cloak was nothing unusual. Every clansman of the steppes wore one, but only one small clan, the Corin, wore cloaks of blood red. According to recent messengers, that clan had been completely massacred only twelve days before. Some said by sorcery.

Who was this strange boy who wore the cloak of a murdered clan? And to ride a Hunnuli! Not even in the tales told by the bards had anyone known of a boy taming a wild Hunnuli, especially one as magnificent as this mare. She shone like black lacquer overlayed on silver and walked with the tense, wary pride of a war horse. She wore no trappings arid would tolerate none. The observers could not help but marvel how a boy, not even a warrior yet, had won the friendship of one such as she. That tale alone would be worth the listening.

By the time the three riders reached the circular gathering place before the werod hall, most of the clan had gathered and were waiting. The boy and his escort dismounted. No words were spoken and the silence was heavy. Then five men, their swords drawn and their golden cloaks rippling down their backs, appeared in the arched doorway of the hall and gestured to the boy. They took his sword and pack and, with a curt command, ordered him to attend the chieftain. The outriders followed.

The Hunnuli moved to stand by herself and snorted menacingly at the clanspeople. They understood well to leave her strictly alone. They settled into noisy, talking groups and waited patiently for the meeting’s outcome.

Unlike many of the clans’ wintering camps, Khulinin Treld had been established centuries ago. Generations of Khulinin had returned to the natural protection of the valley until it became instilled in the clan as the symbol of home. For the semi nomadic people, the valley was their place of permanence and stability—a settlement they could return to year after year. Because of their pride in the ancient traditions of the treld, the Khulinin had built a permanent hall for clan gatherings, a building that would survive until the last hoof beats dwindled from the valley.

The hall delved into the flank of a towering hill near the falls of the Goldrine River. From the massive arched entrance, the sentinels who stood on either side could look out over the open commons to the encampment that spread like a motionless landslide down to the valley floor. The Khulinin banners of gold swayed in the breeze above the door.

Inside, the main room of the hall ran deep into the hill. Wooden columns, hauled from the mountains, marched in two files down the long chamber. Torches burned from brackets on every column and golden lamps hung from the vaulted ceiling beams. A fire burned in a large stone pit in the center of the hall. Its flames danced in a vain attempt to follow the smoke through the ventilation shafts. Trestle tables, a rarity in an encampment, were piled against a wall in readiness for feasts and celebrations, and several tapped casks of wine and mead stood beside them. Tapestries and weapons taken in battle hung on the whitewashed walls.

At the far end of the hall, the chieftain sat on a dais of dark stone. He watched thoughtfully, his dark eyes veiled behind half-drawn lids, as the stranger was brought before him. Behind him, in a semicircle, stood his personal retainers, the warriors of the hearthguard.

The men shifted uneasily as the boy walked toward them. Savaric could feel their angered tenseness. It was little wonder they were ill at ease, for they all had been disturbed by the rumors of sorcery and the horrors of the massacre at Corin Treld. Such a thing had never happened to the clans before. The reverberations of this hideous deed might never end, and the gods alone knew what aftershocks this boy was bringing.

Savaric masked his own concerns for the sake of the boy, but he knew the others were openly wary. Even Savaric’s son, Athlone, who stood at the chief’s right hand, was watching the boy with unconcealed suspicion.

Four paces before the warrior-lord, the boy knelt and extended his left hand in a salute. “Hail, Lord Savaric. I bring you greetings from my dead father.” His voice was low and forced.

Savaric frowned slightly and leaned forward. “Who is your father, boy? Who greets me from the grave?”

“Dathlar, my lord, chieftain of the ghost clan of Corin.”

“We have heard of the tragedy that befell that clan. But who are you and how is it-you have survived if you are indeed Dathlar’s son?”

Gabria felt a spasm of pain. She had expected the question of her survival to be raised, but she still could not answer without guilt. She hung her head to hide her face, which burned with her inner shame.

“Are you ill?” Savaric asked sharply.

“No, Lord,” Gabria replied, keeping her eyes downcast. “My eyes are not used to the shade of this hall.” That part at least was true. After the bright morning sun, the gloom of the hall made it difficult for her to see. “It is my greatest shame that I am alive. I am Gabran, youngest son of Dathlar. I was in the hills hunting eagles when I became lost in the fog.”

“Fog?” Athlone broke in sardonically. Murmurs of astonishment and skepticism from the watching warriors echoed his disbelief.

Gabria glared at Athlone, seeing him clearly for the first time. He was different from the men around him, for he was taller, of heavier build, and fairer in skin. His brown hair was chopped short, and a thick mustache softened the hard lines of his mouth. There was a natural assumption of authority in Athlone’s manner, and an unquestionable capability. Since he wore the belt of a wer-tain, a commander of the warriors, he could pose more of a threat to her than Savaric. Savaric was chieftain, but as wer-tain, Athlone was captain of the werod. If Gabria were accepted, she would be under his direct command. That thought unnerved her, for he came across as a man of power rather than charm, resolution rather than patience.

He could be a formidable opponent.

Still, the way Athlone looked at Gabria irritated her. The man’s brown eyes were narrowed in distrust, looking as cold as frozen earth. His hand was clenched on his belt, a hairsbreadth away from the hilt of a short sword.

“Yes, fog!” She snapped the word at Athlone, daring him to doubt the truth of it again. “You know we do not have fog in the afternoon of a cool spring day. But it came! Because of it, the outriders brought in the herds, and the women and children Stayed in the tents.” Except me, she thought bitterly. She had become lost in the fog on her way home and would never forget its dank smell.

“That fog was cold and thick, and when the attack came from every direction, there was no warning. They slaughtered everyone and combed the woods to ensure no one escaped. When they finished, they drove off the horses, scattered the livestock, and burned the tents.” Gabria turned back to Savaric, her head tilted angrily. “It was well planned, Lord. It was an intentional massacre, done by men with no desire to plunder or steal. I know who is responsible. I am going to claim weir-geld.”

“I see.” Savaric sat back in his seat and drummed his fingers slowly on his knee. The chieftain was as handsome as Gabria remembered, of medium height with a dark, neatly trimmed beard and eyes as black and glitteringly dangerous as a hawk’s. His face was weathered by years of sun and harsh wind and bore the marks of numerous battles. His right hand was missing the little finger.

He sat now, studying Gabria, waiting for a weakness or a slip of the tongue. He recognized a family resemblance in the boy, but oddly Gabran reminded him more of the mother, Samara, than his friend, Dathlar. Savaric was inclined to believe the boy’s story, as incredible as it was. The chief’s instincts told him that the boy was not treacherous and his instincts were always right. Still, he had to satisfy his warriors before he considered taking the boy into the clan.

“You have the red cloak of your clan, Gabran, and your story fits what little we know of the ambush. But I have no obvious proof that you are who you say you are.” Gabria bit back an angry retort. It was only to be expected that they would not accept her tale immediately. Rumors of war had been growing since last autumn, and, after the annihilation of an entire clan, every chieftain of the plains would be cautious.

She removed her cloak and swept it onto the floor before her. Its brilliant color drew every eye and held them like a spell. “My father was Dathlar of Clan Corin. He married Samara, a Khulinin, twenty-five years ago. They had four sons and one daughter.” She spoke slowly as if repeating her history by rote.

“My mother was beautiful, as fair as you are dark. She could play the lyre and the pipes, and she wore a gold brooch of buttercups. She died ten years ago. My father was your friend. He told me of you many times. In token of that friendship, you gave him this.” She pulled the silver dagger out of her boot and threw it on the cloak. It lay on the scarlet fabric, a silent messenger, its red gems glowing in the light like drops of blood.

Savaric stood up and reached out to pick up the dagger. “My guards are growing careless,” he said quietly. He stared at the shining blade and turned it over in his hands. “If you are truly the son of Dathlar and he was slain in treachery, then I must also seek weir-geld for my blood brother.”

Gabria was stunned. Blood brother! She had not expected this. If Savaric believed her and the garbled news he had received about the massacre, he was bound by his oath of friendship to Dathlar to settle the debt owed to Dathlar’s family—what was left of it. Blood friendship was as binding as a blood relationship and carried the same responsibilities. The fact that Gabria was an exile was now irrelevant to Savaric. She had only to convince him that she was telling the truth and, most difficult of all, that she really did know who was responsible for the killing. Then he would do everything possible to help her.

“Lord Savaric,” she said. “By the Hunnuli that bears me and the gods that nourish us, I am the child of Dathlar and I know who had my clan murdered.” She spoke forcefully, her eyes matching Savaric’s black gaze.

Savaric sat down again, still holding the dagger, examining it as if it bore a vestige of the man who had once carried it. “If nothing else, the Hunnuli is the strongest plea in your favor. She alone vouches for your character.”

Athlone stepped to his father’s side. “Hunnuli or no, there was sorcery at Corin Treld. We cannot accept this boy’s word so easily.” He leaned over and grasped the cloak. “Anyone with a little ingenuity could obtain a scarlet cloak and an interesting tale.”

Gabria snatched the cloak out of his hands and held it tightly to her breast. Fury blazed in her eyes. “Yes, sorcery formed the fog at Corin Treld, sorcery spun by the hand of lord Medb. Not I!”

It was the first time Lord Medb had been mentioned, and the significance of his name was not lost on the watching warriors. They muttered uneasily among themselves and no one looked surprised at her accusation. Athlone was not surprised either, and he made no attempt to hide his suspicions of Lord Medb’s rumored heresies.

“Perhaps not. But you could be a servant sent by Medb to spy on us. Certainly you could not have survived the massacre or obtained a Hunnuli mare without help,” Athlone replied with deliberate derision.

“Certainly not,” Gabria retorted. “Since you are convinced it cannot be done.”

“I know it is not possible for a mere boy to earn a Hunnuli’s respect. I ride a Hunnuli stallion and taming him was no task for a child.”

“I can see why it was so difficult for you,” Gabria noted with heavy sarcasm. “The Hunnuli are good judges of character.”

Several of the guardsmen laughed. Savaric crossed his arms, watching the exchange with interest. The boy had pride and courage to stand up to a wer-tain. He certainly learned that from his father.

Athlone shrugged. “Then you accomplished it the simple way, with sorcery or coercion, knowing a Hunnuli could help you worm your way into our clan. How can we not think you are an impostor?”

“Why do you think that?” Savaric interrupted conversationally.

“Impostor!” Gabria nearly shrieked, cutting him off. She cringed at the high note her voice had hit and quickly lowered it again, hoping no one had noticed its feminine tone. She knew Athlone was deliberately baiting her, but she had had enough of him and his arrogant accusations. He did not realize how close he was to the truth. “You faceless, din-eating, dung shoveler. . .”

She continued on at length, richly describing Athlone’s habits and character with every appellation she had heard her brothers use, until the men around her began to choke with ill-concealed laughter. Even Savaric was taken aback. Athlone’s face began to turn red and his mouth hardened to a granite slash. Finally, before his son’s temper exploded, Savaric cut Gabria off with a curt word.

“Now,” he said to Athlone in the sudden silence. “I would like to know why you think this boy could be an impostor.”

Athlone stood by the dais, his body rigid. There was something wrong about this boy—he could sense it. But he could not recognize what it was. Incredible as the boy’s story sounded, it was plausible. Athlone knew full well that the Hunnuli could not be won by coercion or treachery. Yet a niggling little warning disturbed him. The boy was not telling the truth about something.

He stared hard at Gabria, at a loss to explain his suspicion.

“Medb would like to have an informer in our camp. Why not a boy with a story of kinship to Dathlar?” He curled his lip. “Or maybe he is just a miserable exile using a stolen cloak to gain acceptance.”

“I am an exile,” Gabria cried. “Medb made me one. Because of him my clan no longer exists.” A bitter sadness seeped into her heart, stifling her outrage. “I came to ask for a place in the Khulinin, to seek aid against Lord Medb, for he is too powerful for me alone. There was no magic in my coming to you, or treachery. Only blood ties. There was only pain and hard work in winning the Hunnuli.” She held out her hands, palms up, and the men saw the raw cuts for the first time.

The cold left Athlone’s eyes and his anger receded under the pain he saw in Gabria’s face. He glanced at his father and briefly nodded.

Savaric stood up and the hearthguard moved to his side. “I would gladly accept you into this clan and do everything I can to help you attain your rightful blood debt. To my eyes, you are Dathlar’s son, and to my heart, you are honest and very courageous. However, it is the clan that must sustain you. In this case, I will let them speak. Come.”

He walked to the entrance, followed by Athlone, Gabria, and the others. Nara, seeing the girl surrounded by the guardsmen, firmly pushed between them and Gabria until the men drew off to a respectful distance. Gabria reached up and twined her fingers into the horse’s glossy black mane.

You are well? Nara asked.

Gabria nodded, her face turned to the watching clansmen. The people were quiet as Savaric told them Gabria’s tale and her reasons for seeking the Khulinin. They listened intently. The men, in warm woolen jackets, baggy pants, and boots, stood to the front of the crowd. The women, dressed in long skirts and tunics of bright colors, stood as a brilliant backdrop behind their men. Many faces were expressionless, despite the fear that pervaded the encampment.

When Savaric was finished speaking, several men detached themselves from the crowd and conversed together for a few minutes. Gabria recognized them as the elders of the clan, Savaric’s advisors. One wore the emblem of the herd-master, the head stockman, and one was a priest of Valorian. No one else from the throng offered a word. The decision, it seemed, rested on the elders.

The herd-master finally approached Savaric and said reluctantly, “Lord, we do not want to endanger our clan with the evil and taint of sorcery this boy brings, but there are too many sides to this tale to refuse him outright. He does ride a Hunnuli, and to turn the mare away might bring the gods’ displeasure. If you agree, we feel it would be just to allow him a time of trial. If he serves you well and follows the laws of the clan, then let him be accepted. If he does not, then he is truly exiled.”

Savaric nodded in satisfaction. “Gabran, you may stay with the clan. You and the Hunnuli are welcome. . . for now.” He smiled at her as the clanspeople slowly dispersed. “Athlone will be your mentor,” he said, ignoring Gabria’s horrified look. “When you have washed and had some food, I would like to continue this conversation about Medb and how you won your Hunnuli.”

Gabria leaned against Nara and said weakly, “Yes, Lord.”

The dazed young girl was too drained to even react when Nara said in her mind, The first contest is yours.