Lightning's Daughter

8

The day blossomed into a glorious, warm spring afternoon as the travelers followed the faint trail that led to Reidhar Treld. The land was much like Clan Jehanan’s holdings: gently rolling hills, patches of woods, open meadows, and lush valleys. Like the Jehanan, the Reidhar had their winter camp near the sea, but unlike their neighbors to the south, the Reidhar had given up many of the ancient nomadic ways and were turning more often to the water. Year by year their herds of horses dwindled and more and more of the clanspeople chose to stay at the treld during the summer to fish the teeming waters of the inland sea or mine the rich veins of copper in the hills nearby. More than any other clan, the Reidhar had lost the ways of Valorian.

Evidence of the changing social patterns were quite visible to Gabria as Nara crested a ridge that looked down over the Reidhar settlement. She had never visited the Reidhar clan at their treld, so the differences between her own clan and this one were startling. The Corins had been a small group and one of the most nomadic of the twelve original clans. The Reidhar clan was larger, and its roots went deep into the place they called home. A huge, ornately decorated stone hall graced the center of the treld, and many stone buildings replaced the usual tents. There were permanent structures housing the clan artisans, as well as storehouses and barns. A wide, shallow stream meandered down the valley’s center, past the meager herds of stock animals, and flowed a short distance to the sea.

From her vantage point, Gabria could look down the valley to where the creek flowed between two gentle bluffs and tumbled out to a white beach. Even from the ridge, she could see the boat sheds, drying racks, and docks that crowded the sands. Beyond those, the small fleet of tiny fishing boats bobbed on the sparkling water.

“No wonder their horses are such poor beasts,” Keth, the warrior in front of Bregan, said aloud. “The clan is nothing but a bunch of fisher folk.”

“They can still fight, so keep a civil tongue in your head,” Athlone reminded him sharply.

“They couldn’t last summer,” the warrior muttered.

Lord Athlone ignored him. Fisher folk or no, the Reidhar were still clan and kindred in blood and spirit, and despite Lord Caurus’s refusal to fight Lord Medb the year before, Athlone felt that the Reidhar still deserved the respect due any clan. Lord Caurus was a great warrior and fiercely devoted to his people. It was not cowardice that had forced him to leave that disastrous gathering, it was his own independent nature and an unfortunate distrust of the Khulinin.

Athlone nodded to his companions, and the party rode downhill toward the busy treld. On a rise nearby, an outrider drew a horn and sounded a warning to the camp below. At the edge of the treld, another rider left his post and galloped down the valley to find the chieftain. By the time Gabria and her party reached the fringe of the encampment, Lord Caurus and his hearthguard were gathered on horseback in the middle of the path. Behind them clustered other warriors and clansmen, until the entire way was blocked. Their faces were wary as Athlone and Bregan spurred their horses forward to meet Lord Caurus.

The Reidhar chieftain was obviously startled by Lord Athlone’s sudden, unexpected arrival at his treld. Caurus made no attempt to hide his suspicious, angry expression, but he remembered enough of his manners to greet Athlone first. He raised his hand. “Hail, Khulinin. Welcome to Reidhar Treld.”

“Greetings, Lord Caurus,” Athlone replied evenly. He eyed the heavily armed men around the chief. “This doesn’t look like much of a welcome. Were you expecting someone else?”

“We were expecting no one. Least of all you.”

Athlone shrugged. “I did not have time to send messengers. Our mission is urgent. We had not planned to stop, but we are in need of supplies and extra horses.”

“We have no extra horses,” Caurus said belligerently.

The Khulinin chief clicked his tongue. “Lord Caurus, do I need to remind you of the dictums of clan hospitality? Just last spring you were rumored to be the most generous host in the clans. Have you forgotten in one short year?”

“I have not forgotten.” Caurus shifted in his saddle, his ruddy face wary. “You are welcome, Lord Athlone, but we cannot allow that sorceress to enter our treld.”

With difficulty, Athlone swallowed his rising anger and stared coolly at the red-haired chieftain. “Why not, Caurus? She has been welcomed by other clans. We will not leave her at the edge of camp.”

“We are about to celebrate our Birthright ceremony. If that heretic were to enter our treld, Amara would curse our clan forever.”

The other Reidhar warriors muttered in agreement. The clan wer-tain kicked his horse forward and deliberately dropped his hand to his sword hilt.

Inwardly, Athlone groaned. He had expected reluctance and suspicion, but not outright refusal. It was their bad luck to have arrived so close to the clan’s Birthright ceremonies.

“Gabria,” Athlone called over his shoulder. “Come here and bring the foal.”

The startled Reidhar fell back a step, and a hint of fear passed over Caurus’s face as Gabria rode Nara forward to stand by Athlone. The colt and Eurus came with her.

A long moment passed before anyone spoke. The men of the Reidhar stared in open amazement at the fair woman and the magnificent black horses.

Finally Athlone asked, “Would Amara bless Gabria and her Hunnuli with a healthy colt if she were displeased?” His tone was deceptively pleasant.

This possibility stunned Lord Caurus. His face grew as red as his hair as he snuggled to find a solution to the dilemma Athlone had thrust on him. He never imagined the sorceress could be anything but evil. And yet, if that were true, how could she now have three Hunnuli, one a baby? The Hunnuli despised evil and avoided it at all costs. Still . . .

Caurus suddenly threw up his hands in disgust. “The sorceress and her Hunnuli may stay. But,” he glared at all of the party “only for one night.”

Athlone barely nodded in reply. “Your generosity is overwhelming.”

The Reidhar wer-tain slammed his fist on his sword. “Lord Caurus, you cannot allow this!” he shouted. “That . . . female is a magic-wielder! I don’t care how many Hunnuli tag after her, she’s a profaning heretic. The goddess will never forgive us for bringing her into camp.”

“Gringold,” Caurus said in annoyance, “I have made my decision. Abide by it!”

“As wer-tain of this clan, I cannot let her evil endanger our people.”

“And as chieftain of this clan, it is my decision to make,” Lord Caurus thundered. “I will not dishonor the Reidhar by refusing aid to another chieftain.”

With a snarl on his lips, the wer-tain backed down, but he savagely reined his horse over to Nara and leaned forward, his eyes blazing like a wolf’s. The wer-tain was a big man with heavy muscles and the overbearing attitude of a bully. He bore the scars of many battles and carried a full array of warrior’s weapons.

Nara pinned her ears back and snorted a warning. Gabria remained still, her expression cool and unruffled as the wer-tain shook his fist at her.

“Lord Caurus has given you one night, Sorceress. If you do anything that reeks of magic, I’ll slit your throat.”

“Thank you, Wer-tain Gringold, for your gracious welcome,” Gabria said with all the politeness she could muster.

“Gringold,” Caurus snapped. “Return to the treld and prepare quarters for our guests.”

They all breathed a sigh of relief when the wer-tain saluted his lord, spurred his horse away, and disappeared into the treld.

A very dangerous man, Gabria thought to herself. Her mouth tightened to a thin line, and she sadly remembered the Jehanan. She knew full well the Reidhar would never offer her companions a welcome like the one Sha Umar’s clan had provided.

She was quite right. Escorted by Lord Caurus and the warriors of the clan, Gabria and her party were led through the treld to the stone huts at the edge of the camp that were used to house guests. The huts were cold, damp, and sparsely furnished with a few cots and a fireplace. As soon as the party reached the huts, the Reidhar left them for the rest of the afternoon. No one came to talk, offer wine, or bring food or firewood, and no one brought blankets or the barest necessities due to a guest. The Reidhar blatantly ignored them all.

After a while, Piers found the clan healer and talked him into giving them enough firewood to light a fire in one of the huts. Two warriors, Secen and Keth, filled the water skins at the stream, and Gabria and Sayyed unpacked the bedrolls. After a great deal of trouble and effort, Athlone and Bregan found a trader willing to deal for several horses.

The trader was from Calah and spent his time traveling the plains and dealing in horseflesh. He had stopped at Reidhar Treld for a few days and had been disappointed with the trade so far. He was pleased to barter with the Khulinin for their pure-blooded Harachan.

Several hours later, Athlone and Bregan returned to the guest huts with three new horses. Lord Athlone was pleased with the deal, for the trader had taken the three Khulinin pack horses in an even exchange for three Calah horses. Athlone knew the trader had gotten the best deal, because the clan horses had better breeding and training and only needed a little rest and food to be back in shape. Still, the Calah horses were sturdy, strong, healthy, and available. Even Bregan had not been displeased. He had chosen a black gelding with long legs for his mount.

It was dusk by the time Athlone and Bregan had settled and fed the horses and made their way to the huts. Both of them were hungry and looking forward .to the evening meal. By the unwritten clan code of hospitality, it was the chieftain’s duty to feed his guests. If the guest was a visiting lord, then he and his escort were always invited to share the host chief’s meals. Thus Athlone fully expected an invitation to Caurus’s evening meal awaiting him when he returned. But when he inquired about it, Piers shook his head.

“My lord,” the healer replied, “there is neither food nor a message from Caurus. We are as good as forgotten.”

“This insult shall not be ignored,” Athlone snarled. He slammed his sword and scabbard on a cot beside him. “Remove your weapons,” he told his men. “We are going to the hall to eat with Lord Caurus. All of us.” He waited impatiently while Sayyed and the warriors left their swords, bows, and daggers on the cots. Slowly the chief brought his temper under control. It would not help their problems if his fury got the best of him.

When everyone was ready, he nodded once to his men and turned to Gabria. She was standing by the fire dressed in her long skirt and over-tunic. He was surprised to see she was wearing the armband he had given her and carrying her jeweled dagger in a scabbard under the sash of her skirt.

“Caurus may not feed you if I come,” she said. Her words were spoken half in jest, but her eyes were shadowed with worry.

“Caurus will have no choice,” Athlone retorted. He crossed his arms, and his lips curved upward in a harsh smile. “I’m sure he has done this deliberately to show his anger at me for bringing you to his treld. The clans will never learn to accept magic-wielders if we let chieftains like Caurus get away with these insults.”

Gabria looked at his face, and for a moment she saw something there she had never noticed before. That cold, calculating smile was exactly like his father’s. Lord Savaric had been a deliberate, controlled, cunning man who had often harnessed his anger to fire his actions. He had always sought for ways to turn difficulties to his advantage.

Gabria sighed to herself. Athlone was going to need every scrap of his father’s wiles and self-control tonight.

The treld was peaceful as the travelers left their hut and walked down the path toward the hall. The sun had dropped below the hills, leaving the plains to the approaching night. The smells of cooking food and wood smoke mingled in the treld with the usual smells of animals and people.

As the party approached the chieftain’s hall, Bregan took the lead and the other hearthguard warriors gathered around their lord. Piers, Khan’di, and Sayyed drew close to Gabria. Without asking to enter, they walked past the startled guards and strode under the flapping yellow banner above the doors into the large stone hall.

Lord Caurus, his wer-tain, a few hearthguard, and several bachelors were grouped around a long, wooden table near the center of the hall. Caurus’s wife, Lady Maril, and two girls were busy serving the men from a platter of roast meats and a kettle of stewed vegetables.

The entire group fell silent as the Khulinin chief and his companions entered the hall. Lord Caurus, for once, went very pale.

“Forgive me, Caurus,” Athlone said, his voice amiable. “We seem to be late.”

There was nothing for the Reidhar to do, short of openly insulting the Khulinin, so he accepted the party’s presence. With an ill-tempered look and a grudging gesture, Lord Caurus ordered the bachelors to another table and had places cleared for Athlone and his party. Lady Maril hastily set eating knives and plates for the guests and poured wine. The Reidhar warriors did not utter a word.

The serving girls brought more meat and vegetables and laid out baskets with thick slabs of bread. Gabria thought the meal would have been quite good if the silence and tension had not been so palpable. As it was, she found it very difficult to ignore the hostile looks of her hosts. Even Lady Maril, who sat beside her lord to eat her meal, remained grimly quiet.

Finally, the silence became too much for Lord Caurus. He pushed away his platter and said to Athlone, “I heard you found some spare horses.”

Athlone continued to eat for a few minutes before he answered. “Ah, yes. A trader from Calah had a few strong horses he was willing to part with. Unfortunately, he only had three. The rest of the stock we saw was quite poor.” He took a bite of bread and did not bother to look at Lord Caurus.

Caurus colored slightly and leaned back in his carved chair. “Your horses seem weary. You have been traveling fast?”

Athlone nodded. “As fast as we could.” He was not going to give this ill-mannered boor the satisfaction of an easy answer. He gestured to a girl for another helping of meat.

“Your business must be urgent.”

“Yes,” the Khulinin chief replied casually.

“Where are you going?” Caurus pressed.

“Hunting.”

At the other end of the table, Sayyed choked back a laugh, and Caurus turned fiercely on him. “And you, Turic, what are you doing with clansmen?”

The young tribesman stood up and bowed. “I am Sayyed Raid-Ja, son of Dultar of Sharja. I am traveling the Ramtharin Plains to compare the hospitality of the clans.”

“And you, Pra Deshian,” Caurus rapped at Khan’di.

“Where are you going?”

The stocky nobleman raised and lowered his eyebrows as if he had just been asked a stupid question. “With them,” he said, waving his hand at the table in general.

“I see.” Caurus twisted his mustache in anger. His expression was thunderous, and white showed around the edges of his mouth. He felt it was bad enough that the Khulinin had come without warning, stampeding through his camp with their sorceress in tow, and now they wouldn’t even tell him about their journey.

“By the way,” Athlone broke in pleasantly, “we still need a few supplies. Trail food. A new water bag. Grain. Some leather to repair our tack.”

“To go hunting,” Caurus said sarcastically.

Wer-tain Gringold suddenly slammed his eating knife on the table. “Lord, I wouldn’t give them a used horseshoe.”

“We don’t need horseshoes,” said Bregan as reasonably as he could manage.

The wer-tain turned to the Khulinin beside him and studied Bregan for a moment until a flicker of recognition lit in his narrow eyes. He curled his lip. “It’s a good thing your chief is only going hunting. With you as a guard, he’s going to need better luck than his father.”

“Bregan!” Athlone’s voice cut like a whip across the silence and stopped the warrior in mid-lunge.

The wer-tain chuckled as Bregan forced himself to sit down again.

“Now,” Lord Athlone said to Caurus, “about those supplies.”

Caurus scowled. “We have little to spare. This has been a bad winter.”

Khan’di looked amazed. “A bad winter? We didn’t know. I’d heard you had a prosperous summer last year, since you weren’t involved in that unpleasantness with Lord Medb. Besides, the weather has been quite mild this season.”

Athlone raised his hand to forestall the Reidhar chief’s angry retort. “Caurus, look. We need those supplies badly. I cannot tell you exactly why or where we’re going because your treld is too close to the caravan road. Word can spread fast, and we need the element of surprise. Just know our mission is very important. If we had not needed new horses so badly, I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

Caurus’s anger subsided a little, and he shifted his heavy frame in the chair. For the first time he looked directly at Gabria and asked, “And what of the sorceress? Is she a part of your important mission?”

Gabria had been quiet during the meal, trying to stay out of the conversation and not exacerbate the raw emotions in the room. At Caurus’s question, she looked up and met his stare with a cool expression of her own. “I am only a part of this troupe, Lord Caurus, and I can promise you that I have controlled my sorcery and kept my vow to the chiefs.”

“Huh!” Gringold said harshly. “What is a vow to a magic-wielder? They twist and turn their promises like nests of snakes until no one knows where the words begin or end. Remember Lord Medb and his silky promises? You are just like him, treacherous and evil.”

“She saved your clan, you miserable slug,” Secen, the Khulinin warrior, snapped.

Gabria, amazed by the warrior’s quick defense, smiled at him with gratitude.

“Since none of you had the guts to fight,” Bregan added.

This time it was Gringold who leaped to his feet. His golden wer-tain’s belt glittered in the firelight as he reached for his eating knife.

“Gringold!” Caurus shouted as the other warriors jumped up. “Sit down.”

The big wer-tain was too angry to obey. He snatched a heavy platter from the table and brought it down hard on Bregan’s head. The older warrior slumped sideways on the table, dazed and bleeding from his reopened head wound. Without a pause, Gringold slashed at Secen with a knife and caught a third Khulinin warrior in the stomach with the platter. Then, before anyone could stop him, he lunged across the table and grabbed Gabria’s wrist. “Viper!” he shouted at her. “You saved nothing but your worthless neck.”

Athlone, at the end of the table, snarled a curse and leaped toward the wer-tain. Before the chief could get there, Sayyed desperately grabbed for Gringold’s knife arm, and Bregan tried to block the wer-tain’s body on the table. To their dismay, Gringold was a powerful fighter. He swept them off and tried to wrench Gabria over the edge of the table.

However, he had forgotten Gabria’s past and her own training as a warrior. Instead of being the screaming, struggling female he had expected, the woman fought back. She snatched a heavy goblet from the table, smashed it into his face, and twisted her wrist out of his grasp.

Swearing, Gringold covered his bleeding nose and looked up to see the sorceress poised in front of him, her dagger drawn and her green eyes blazing. At that moment, Athlone reached him, and a furious blow to the jaw sent the wer-tain reeling. Even that did not stop the man. He staggered upright and went after the chieftain.

Lady Maril abruptly jabbed her husband in the ribs, jolting him out of his shocked inactivity.

“Gringold, that’s enough!” Caurus shouted belatedly. “You men hold him.”

The Reidhar warriors, who had not moved during their wer-tain’s attack, now scrambled after Gringold and pinned his arms to his sides.

“My apologies, Lord Athlone,” Caurus said with some sincerity.

“No!” Gringold yelled. “No apologies. I demand the right to defend my honor by battle.”

“A duel?” Caurus exploded. “Whom would you challenge?”

The wer-tain glanced at Bregan and the other Khulinin warriors, then he shook off his men and pointed at Lord Athlone.

“I challenge you, Chieftain. To the death,”

Caurus looked aghast. “Don’t be a fool, man,” he gasped, rising from his seat.

Gringold disregarded him. “What do you say, Khulinin?”

For a moment, Athlone did not answer. If he accepted and was badly wounded or killed, his loss could jeopardize their mission. On the other hand, if he did not accept, his refusal to duel with a man of lower status would seriously harm his influence in the clans and cloud his own honor. He looked about him—at Bregan leaning against the table while Piers tried to staunch the blood on his forehead; at the other warriors, one nursing a cut on his arm and one bent double over his bruised abdomen. Athlone glanced at Sayyed and Khan’di, and finally he looked at Gabria. The woman had sheathed her dagger and was standing quietly nearby.

The sight of her ignited a powerful mix of feelings within Athlone. He knew he still loved the sorceress in spite of their arguments, and he was furious with Gringold for assaulting her. If that was not enough to fire his temper, his anger, jealousy, and hurt pride from the past days still hammered at his patience and self-control. He felt ready to explode.

Lord Athlone grinned wickedly to himself. He would never admit it aloud, but what he really wanted was someone to vent his rage upon. Gringold had just volunteered. “Your challenge is accepted,” he murmured. “You have been rude and insolent. You have insulted and attacked my men. Worst of all, you assaulted a woman of our clan. For the sake of our honor, I will meet you in the morning. May Surgart bless my sword.” Lord Caurus groaned and sank back in his seat. Without another word, Athlone gathered his people and left the hall.

By dawn the next day, word of the duel had spread through every corner of the treld. Because the sky was clear and the sun shone with the promise of a warm, comfortable day, the clanspeople began to gather early around the chief’s hall. Duels were exciting to watch, but rarely were two such excellent antagonists matched in a battle to the death. Wer-tain Gringold was big, heavily muscled, and well-trained with the short sword, while Lord Athlone, although lighter, was reputed to be the finest swordsman on the plains. The clan could not wait to see the outcome.

While the Reidhar gathered by the hall, Lord Caurus paced in his quarters and cursed the rashness of his wer-tain. Individual dueling was a common clan practice used for settling arguments, ending blood feuds, or claiming weir-geld, and its rules were strict and rigidly adhered to. Combatants were required to fight with only a short sword and without a shield or mail for protection. A man needed every advantage of Strength and ability to survive, so challenges were restricted to the initiated warriors of the werod.

Normally Lord Caurus would not have objected to a duel.

The battles were usually fought until one opponent surrendered, and he would have enjoyed seeing Athlone taken down a notch or two. A battle to the death, however, was an entirely different matter. Athlone’s death could have serious repercussions throughout the clans. The other chiefs would be furious with Caurus and blame him for the killing. The powerful Khulinin would be without a chieftain and they would be enraged. And that sorceress . . . Caurus shuddered to think of the problems she could cause.

As for the other possibility, he would hate to lose his wer-tain. Gringold was a hot-tempered fool at times, but he was an excellent leader to the clan’s warriors. He was Caurus’s cousin, too.

All in all, the outcome of this duel looked grim to Caurus.

Unfortunately, not even a chieftain could call off a challenge if the combatants were determined to fight. Caurus had tried to talk to Gringold that morning to no avail. The wer-tain was adamant; the duel would be fought.

On the other side of the treld, as Caurus paced back and forth in his hall, the travelers joined Athlone in the meager hut to help him prepare.

Gabria watched the men for a short while, then slipped outside. Athlone had all the help he needed, and she wanted to be alone to compose her feelings. She was very worried. Athlone was an experienced, highly trained swordsman who could easily hold his own in duel. But Gringold was a brutal, powerful fighter, and battles between two well-matched antagonists were often unpredictable. Gabria swallowed hard to banish the nervous flutters in her stomach.

For a few moments she paced anxiously by the door until, finally, to take her mind off her worries, she retrieved the horse brushes from the baggage and carefully brushed the dust off Nara and Eurus until their ebony coats glistened. She combed their manes and tails and brushed the colt’s scruffy coat.

When she was finished grooming the horses, she leaned against Nara and tried to be patient.

Abruptly the wooden door of the hut swung open and Athlone strode out, followed by his four hearthguard. Piers, Sayyed, and Khan’di. Gabria stared at the Khulinin lord with pride. He wore only a pair of tight-fitting breeches, and he carried his sword in one hand. His muscles, while not as bulky as Gringold’s, were well-formed and as dangerously sleek as a mountain lion’s. His skin had been rubbed with oil to make it difficult for his opponent to hold him; his hair was tightly bound.

Gabria recognized the concentrated look of resolution in his eyes. He had withdrawn from everything but the battle at hand. “My lord,” she said softly. “Your mount is ready.”

Athlone looked at her, then at the great Hunnuli stallion that stood watching him with those deep, intelligent eyes. He hesitated for a breath while his reluctance to ride a sorcerer’s steed gave way to his common sense. He and Gabria knew the horses only accepted magic-wielders, yet the rest of the clans only knew that a man who could ride the magnificent horses was a man to be honored and respected. His appearance on Eurus would make a valuable impression on the minds of the Reidhar and hopefully unnerve his opponent.

Athlone vaulted to Eurus’s back, raised his sword, and shouted, “Khulinin!”

The four hearthguard warriors repeated his cry, and their shouts reverberated through the valley. They immediately took their positions beside their chief, and the others fell in behind. Nara walked with Gabria, for the sorceress did not want to distract the Reidhar’s attention from Lord Athlone. To her relief, Piers laid her hand on his arm and walked beside her while Sayyed stayed close behind.

On Eurus’s back, Athlone looked out over the Reidhar camp and saw the clanspeople swarming to the path to watch his approach. He grinned with pleasure and held his sword, blade down, as a gesture of peace to the Reidhar clan. The people cheered their approval. They did not care if he was an opponent to their wer-tain. All they saw was a proud clan warrior astride a great Hunnuli, his sword gleaming in the sun, his body ready for battle. In that moment, Athlone became a thrilling embodiment of the clans’ hero, the legendary warrior, Valorian.

They cheered as the group approached the hall, then fell silent and gathered in a ring around the wide, open space before the building. Lord Caurus and the wer-tain were waiting by the entrance. Gringold’s body was oiled like Athlone’s and laced with scars from many fights.

Athlone paused for a moment to run his hand down Eurus’s neck. He felt so alive, so natural, sitting on the back of this Hunnuli. He was as comfortable and at ease with this horse as he had ever been with Boreas. It was like coming home to an old friend.

Eurus twisted his head around and looked at Athlone through his long forelock. His reach is longer than yours, but he only uses his sword in his right hand.

The chieftain chuckled. “You know him well?”

Merely observant. Keep your head down.

With a laugh, Athlone slung his leg over Eurus’s withers and slid to the ground. He saluted Caurus.

The Reidhar chief returned the salute, as one lord to another. He tried to appear calm, but his face was grim, and his red beard fairly bristled with his agitation.

“Lord, a moment,” Gringold said. “I must ask a favor.”

“What is it?” Caurus asked impatiently.

The wer-tain turned and pointed to Gabria. “The sorceress. She must not interfere. Keep her at swordpoint.”

Before anyone else could move, Sayyed drew his long curved blade and planted himself before Gabria. “Do not try it,” he said flatly.

Athlone caught Sayyed’s glance, and the chief gave a slight nod of approval. Sayyed grinned.

The Reidhar warriors edged forward, waiting for their lord’s command until Caurus waved them back.

“Lord Athlone, tell her she is not to interfere.”

“I do not need to, Caurus. She would not do so.”

“So be it. Begin the duel.”

The Hunnuli and the travelers withdrew to the edge of the ring of people as Athlone and Gringold approached each other. The two men faced off silently and raised their swords above their heads until the two points touched. Gringold’s anger had hardly abated from the night before. His rugged face was twisted into a sneer of rage. Athlone was almost expressionless, and his eyes watched the wer-tain with the calculating calm of a hunter.

Into the silence stepped the clan priest of Surgart. He raised his arm. “God of war, god of justice,” he shouted. “Behold this contest and judge these men. Choose your champion!” At his last word, the priest swung his arm down and the two men brought their swords dashing together.

Eurus’s observation was right; Gringold held his sword only in his right hand, but he used his left to punch, gouge, and grab, and his reach was several fingers longer than Athlone’s. His strength was greater, too, and he bore down on the chieftain with the power and fury of a bear.

Athlone met Gringold’s sword attack blow for blow. He soon realized, though, that without a shield, he could not keep up his guard against the brute strength of the wer-tain. He ducked to avoid a punch to his head, slipped under Gringold’s arm, and, switching his sword to his left hand, nicked the man in the ribs. The wer-tain roared in rage and doubled his attack.

The sounds of dashing swords rang through the treld as the men fought in wordless fury. Time and again Gringold tried to beat down Athlone or crush him with his greater strength, but the chieftain was faster, more agile, and used his sword with either hand. Neither man could force a killing blow on the other, so they both struggled to wear the other down and catch a weakness or a fatal slip.

Before long, the men were sweating heavily. Gringold was bleeding from several cuts and nicks from Athlone’s sword. Athlone’s jaw throbbed from a well-landed punch, and his muscles were aching. He drew back a moment to wipe the sweat from his eyes.

“Too much for you?” Gringold sneered. “Would you care to kneel here and let me end it? I’ll kill you swiftly.”

Athlone jeered with contempt, “You couldn’t hit a dead horse, you lumbering oaf.”

Gringold charged the Khulinin, his sword swinging in a vicious arc. Athlone dodged and slashed at the man’s legs as he passed. The blade caught Gringold’s right thigh and cut deep into the muscle. The man staggered.

At that moment, Gabria heard Sayyed mutter a strange phrase, and she saw Gringold pitch forward to land heavily on the ground. To everyone else the wer-tain appeared to have fallen because of his wounded leg, but Gabria knew better.

Her hand clamped around Sayyed’s arm. “Stop that, now!” she hissed.

The Turk shrugged like a boy caught in mischief. “Do you want Lord Athlone to lose?” he whispered.

“Of course not. But he has to win this alone. He would not tolerate our help.”

“All right, but if you change your mind . . .”

They turned back to the duel in time to see Athlone press his attack on the fallen man. Gringold barely avoided the chief’s sword by rolling under the blow and deliberately tripping Athlone with his legs. The chief fell on top of him, and Gringold took the opportunity to land several punches on Athlone’s face.

The Khulinin chief, his head reeling, struggled out of the way and climbed to his feet. He faced the wer-tain with his sword in both hands. He could taste blood in his mouth, and his eye was beginning to swell. He drew some deep breaths as the wer-tain staggered to his feet. They glared at each other through their blood and sweat.

Swinging his sword in short, wicked slashes, Athlone feinted toward Gringold’s wounded leg just enough to force the man’s sword down, then he cut upward for the throat. The Reidhar’s reflexes were not fast enough to parry the jab, so he slammed his fist into the chief’s stomach. The blow deflected Athlone’s arm just enough to throw off the blade. The sharp edge cut the skin of Gringold’s neck and slid by.

The heavy punch threw Athlone off balance, and he stumbled, gasping for air. Instantly the wer-tain jumped after him and jabbed his sword toward the chief’s upper body. Athlone saw the blade coming. He tried to twist out of the way, but the point caught him in the hollow of his right shoulder. He snarled in pain, wrenched away from the blade, and fell heavily on his side. His sword was jarred out of his hand. It landed in the dirt a few feet away from his outstretched fingers.

Gringold shouted in delight. The wer-tain, his neck and leg running with blood, slashed his blade down at Athlone’s head. The Khulinin twisted away from the blow and reached for his weapon.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Gringold cursed. Unable to reach Athlone’s fallen sword himself, he tossed aside his weapon and jumped on the chieftain. He wrapped his hands around Athlone’s throat and grinned at the delight of killing a man with his bare hands.

“Gabria, please!” Sayyed whispered fiercely.

The sorceress clenched his arm. “No.”

Athlone’s world suddenly closed in around him in a red vise of pain. He struggled desperately to dislodge the heavy wer-tain sitting on his chest and to pull off the hands that were slowly strangling him. He might as well have tried to move a mountain. Inexorably the agony increased. The blood roared in his ears, and the used air burned in his lungs. His strength drained away.

Unbeknownst to him, the power of his sorcerer’s blood began to build in every fiber of his being. In his last moments of lucid thought, he remembered his sword lying only inches away from his fingers. He gave a frantic, tremendous lunge that brought him close to the weapon. He stretched every muscle and tendon in his arm to reach the hilt.

Gringold paid no attention to the heaving of his victim. He was too certain of victory. The Khulinin would be dead in seconds. He closed his eyes and bared his teeth as he squeezed harder.

All at once, Athlone’s fingers touched the cold leather wrapping the hilt of his sword. In that moment, his rage and desperation fused with the magic within him into a furious surge of power. A faint aura of blue, so dim it could not be seen in the morning sun, glowed around his fingers as he clamped onto the sword. The energy burst outward from every muscle and nerve ending, and galvanized into one mighty effort. He brought the sword up and over, hacking into the curve of Gringold’s unprotected neck. The blade cut into muscle; blood splattered over both men. Unseen, a pale burst of blue sparks exploded out of Athlone’s hand as the magic power seared into the wer-tain’s body.

Gringold died instantly. He jerked once and slowly toppled over Athlone, his dead face twisted in a grimace of surprise and rage.

Athlone gasped a lungful of air. He felt the pain and roaring in his head recede into darkness. A blessed quiet stole over him, and, as his sword fell from his hand, he passed into unconsciousness.