Valorian

11

The winter that year held on with a stubborn determination. The snow fell deep in the mountains, blocking the trails, covering the meadows, and keeping the clanspeople close to their camps. The cold remained steady day after day until everyone wondered if spring would ever come.

Eventually, though, little by little, subtle changes began to happen to the land. The clanspeople, being tied so intimately to the natural cycles of their world, recognized every change and rejoiced in it. Each day the sun rose a minute or two earlier and lingered a while longer in the sky. The bitterly cold temperatures gradually lost their grip on the snow and ice. On sunny days, melting snow sent rivulets of water flowing over the canyon walls to join the small creek at the bottom. In the lowlands, the rivers began to swell and the roads turned to mud.

Valorian watched all of these changes with a sense of mingling worry and happiness. The time to make plans for the move to the Ramtharin Plains was upon him, and that gave him great joy, but no one else seemed to be paying attention. That deeply concerned him. Everyone, even Kierla and Aiden, was involved in his or her own responsibilities and plans, with little time to discuss leaving Chadar. He rode out a few times to talk to other families but met with little success. Most of the people were leery of having a wanted man in their midst and were in no frame of mind to discuss an exodus. It was very frustrating. Valorian didn’t give up, though. He knew he had to keep trying. Perhaps when the weather warmed and the clanspeople felt the urge to travel again, he could grab their attention.

In the meantime, the unusually heavy snows and cold weather had kept the Tarns in their homes and made life a little easier for Valorian and his family. That, he knew, would change with the first big thaw. He imagined Tyrranis was not pleased with the soldiers’ lack of success in finding him. By spring, he was afraid Tyrranis’s search for him would be renewed with a vengeance.

“Not pleased” was putting Tyrranis’s mood mildly. In fact, he was enraged. For three months, his servants, aides, and officers had stepped very carefully around the volatile general. One wrong move, one imagined slight or mistake could send a person to the dungeon cells beneath the old Chadarian garrison tower—or worse. Tyrranis railed against the stupidity and incompetence of his soldiers and threatened executions if Valorian was not brought to him by early summer at the latest. He wasn’t going to lose this man through the blundering of his underlings.

As soon as men and horses could travel through the snow and mud of the lower foothills, he started sending scouts out to search for the winter camps of the Clan. He knew the families couldn’t leave their camps until the trails dried enough to allow carts and herds to travel, so he hoped to find some clue or information that would lead him to the elusive clansman.

To make matters more interesting, he had it announced all through Chadar that he was offering a large reward in gold for the capture, or information leading to the capture, of Valorian. Tyrranis hoped the lure of gold would loosen the tongues of the impoverished clanspeople.

Then, late one windy night in the fourth month of the year, his offer of a reward reaped results. A Tarnish scout came galloping into the courtyard of Tyrranis’s palace with another man clinging behind his saddle. He demanded to see the general immediately, and the officer of the guard, seeing the ragged clansman with him, escorted him to Tyrranis without hesitation.

As usual, the general was working late on the endless details necessary to running the large province. Tyrranis was a ruthless man, but he drove himself as hard as he drove others, and his great pride lay in his enormous ability to govern. He glanced up irritably when his officer of the guard pounded on the door and announced himself.

At the general’s command, the three men entered, the two Tarns nearly dragging the reluctant clansman.

“What is it?” snarled the general. His fastidious side hoped the smelly, filthy clansman wasn’t the Valorian who had reputed magic powers and had eluded his best men for so long.

“I found him coming down out of the hills, sir,” the scout said breathlessly. “He says he has information and wants to claim the reward.”

Tyrranis pinned his dark stare on the clansman. It was impossible to tell the man’s age because he was so ragged, bearded, and covered with mud. He was probably one of those foul exiles even the clanspeople couldn’t stand in their midst. “Let’s hear what he has to say,” the general said to the scout. “Then we’ll decide if he has earned the reward.”

The clansman smiled a gap-toothed grin and shuffled a step forward. “Oh, I’ve earned it all right, Yer Highness. I know where Valorian is!”

Tyrranis didn’t deign to reply. He sat at his desk, his arms crossed, his face haggard-looking in the light cast by the oil lamp on the table. Outside, the wind gusted to a roar, rattling the shutters and blowing tiles off the roof.

There was a long pause while the clansman stared nervously around him until the thought of the gold in his hands shored up his courage.

“I know Valorian, you see,” he finally muttered. “Big man. Son of Daltor. Daltor didn’t like me. He arranged it so I was exiled seven years ago. The stinking—”

“Get on with it!” growled General Tyrranis. He was growing impatient with this fool.

The clansman started with fear and stumbled over his next words in his hurry to be away from there. “I, uh, saw him—Valorian that is—five days ago, riding that big black horse of his. Hard to miss that horse. So I followed him, at a distance. He went into Gol Agha and rode up the canyon for a long way. They’re camped in there, General. The whole family. Valorian’s with them.” He stared eagerly at Tyrranis, but if he was hoping for some sign of excitement or praise, he was disappointed.

The general only turned to the scout. “Can you find this Gol Agha?”

“Yes, General,” the scout answered.

“Good.” Tyrranis shot a quick glance over the clansman’s shoulder to the guards standing by the door and barely nodded.

“What about my reward?” the exile demanded, holding out a grubby hand. “Isn’t my news worth something?” He was so anxious to get his gold he didn’t see the guardsman slip up behind him.

There was a quick flash of steel and the sound of a thud, and the clansman slowly sagged to the floor, a dagger buried between his ribs.

“Now he cannot go back and sell a warning to Valorian,” Tyrranis said with heavy contempt. He gestured to the body. “Remove that.”

Just as the guards were dragging the body out the door, the garrison commander hurried in and saluted his general. He didn’t give the corpse a second glance. The commander was a very anxious man these days, for he was responsible for the success or failure of the search for Valorian.

“Did he have any news?” the commander asked, trying not to appear too hasty.

“Gol Agha,” Tyrranis replied. He rose to mask the sudden excitement that filled him and strode to the fireplace. The light of the flames flickered over his harsh face. “Go there,” he ordered the scout. “Find the camp.” He turned to the commander. “Now, as for you,” he snarled, “do as we discussed, and do not fail me again.”

Both men saluted and hurried out. While the scout went to find a fresh horse, the commander went to rouse the garrison. The officer wanted every man he could find for this duty. He didn’t intend to let a single clansperson escape from that camp.

That same night, the early spring winds were streaming down the canyon of Gol Agha with the strength of a gale and the voice of a howling madwoman. The lone rider who rode its length could hardly believe that any Clan family in its collective right mind had chosen to camp in this wild place. It wasn’t until he trotted his horse around the curves and into the comparative peace of the back canyon that he saw its advantages. He was around the last bend with the campfires in sight when two guards rode up beside him.

One of them was Valorian’s younger brother.

“Mordan!” Aiden cried with pleasure. “What brings you from our lord chieftain’s side?”

“Believe it or not, Lord Fearral sent me,” the stocky guardsman replied jovially. “He wants to talk to Valorian.”

“Oh? Another warning? Another dithering?”

Mordan laughed. He had long ago given up being insulted by the behavior of their chieftain. “I’m not sure. Our lord has had a rough winter, and he’s getting very nervous about spring. ”

“He should be!” Aiden grinned and pointed toward the camp. “Valorian’s in his tent.”

Mordan was about to ride on when he paused and suggested, “You might want to extend your guards out beyond that bend in the canyon. If I can find this place, so could others.”

Aiden nodded negligibly, waved, and rode on with his companion. Mordan’s comment was quickly forgotten in the excitement of Lord Fearral’s summons.

Mordan found Valorian’s tent at the edge of the big camp without too much difficulty. He dismounted and left his horse to munch hay with Hunnul in the shelter at the side of the tent. For just a moment, he stopped to pat the black stallion’s neck. The big horse lifted his head, his dark eyes shining, and snorted lightly as if in greeting.

“Mordan!” Valorian called from inside the tent. He stuck his head out the flap. “What are you doing here? Come in out of that wind.”

The chieftain’s guard gave Hunnul a strange look. How had Valorian known it was him? He shrugged and returned the man’s greeting. Following custom, he wiped the mud from his boots and left his sword by the entrance before he entered Valorian’s home. He stepped into the warm and pleasant interior. Outside, the wind was blowing in cold, damp gusts strong enough to make the tent walls heave and dance. Inside, rugs on the floor, light-colored wall hangings, and three or four small lamps combined to create a welcoming and snug living place.

Kierla was there, gently rocking her baby in the swinging cradle that hung from the tent poles. She made their guest comfortable with hot spiced wine and pillows and returned to her rocking without missing a step.

“I see the rumors of Amara’s blessing are true,” he said to her with a pleased grin.

Kierla surprised him by blushing. She looked at her husband proudly. “True and true again,” she replied.

Valorian, who was sitting down again polishing tack, chuckled. “The dam has broken, Mordan. There’ll be no stopping her now.”

The guardsman was nonplussed for a moment until the significance of what they had said sank in. “You’re expecting another?” he asked in astonishment. “Already?”

“I have years of childbearing to catch up on,” she said, her voice smug with satisfaction.

“Valorian,” Mordan said to his host, “you really do have the favor of the Mother Goddess.” He went straight to the point then of his message from Lord Fearral.

Kierla looked up excitedly, but Valorian merely nodded and said, “I will come.”

The chief’s guard hid a smile of satisfaction. He was pleased to see that Valorian wasn’t greeting the news with wild expectations. Lord Fearral had had all winter to think about Valorian’s plan, but he hadn’t explained his reasons for the summons. Valorian was wise not to get carried away by hope that Fearral had changed his mind.

The two men talked for a long while of Lord Fearral, the deteriorating conditions at Stonehelm, and Valorian’s journey south to Wolfeared Pass. Valorian explained in detail about the route he and his companions had planned, and he told Mordan everything he could remember about the pass and the land beyond. Unknowingly, his eyes glowed vivid blue with enthusiasm, and his hands fanned the air with excited gestures.

While he talked, Mordan avidly watched his every move and expression. What he saw in Valorian finally satisfied his own lingering doubts. The Clan needed a new leader, of that he was certain, and this tall, quiet clansman had a greater strength and vision than he had ever seen in any man before—a strength that drew Mordan like a hawk to the lure. It didn’t hurt, Mordan thought, his eyes straying to Kierla, that Valorian had the blessings of the Mother Goddess as well. Silently and knowingly, Mordan switched his allegiance to Valorian. He would continue to serve Lord Fearral for a while longer to fulfill his promised service. But when Valorian headed south, Mordan vowed he would go with him.

Early the next morning Valorian kissed his wife and son, swung up onto Hunnul’s back, and rode with Mordan back down Gol Agha canyon. Gylden and Aiden went with them, since Valorian felt two extra swords and a small show of support wouldn’t hurt his image. They left early enough so that by the time they reached the mouth of the canyon the next day, the Tarnish scout had not yet arrived from Actigorium. They rode out of the Place of the Winds and turned north for Stonehelm, unaware of the Tarn who came shortly thereafter.

The scout, weary from several days of constant travel, didn’t attach much significance to the fresh tracks he saw in the canyon. Tyrranis had told him to find the camp, not follow a few stray riders, so he cautiously began his search, not knowing the prey had already slipped out of the trap.

Valorian and his escort rode into Stonehelm a few days later only to find that Lord Fearral had been stricken ill. His daughters had confined him to his bed and refused to let anyone talk to him until his fever broke and he was stronger.

Valorian was annoyed by the delay, but since there was little he could do about it, he spent the time walking around Stonehelm and talking to its inhabitants. He quickly saw that Mordan’s assessment was accurate. The little village had deteriorated since his visit nearly a year ago. Most of the small pens and corrals were empty; the fields were only partially plowed, and some of the huts and shops were abandoned. The whole place looked neglected and forlorn.

“There’s little enough food,” one woman told him while her thin little boy clutched her skirts. “We’re herders, not farmers.”

One man, an old shepherd who loved his sheep as most clansmen loved their horses, put it more forcefully. “That fly-brained chieftain sold everything we had and left us nothing to start over. What does he think he’s going to do when the tribute comes due again? I say let him sell that precious hall of his. What does a Clan chieftain need with a hall anyway? He’s as bad as a Tarn!” he finished gloomily.

When Valorian mentioned leaving Chadar, the old shepherd brightened considerably. “I’d go with you, son. So would most of the people here, with or without Lord Fearral. We’re getting tired of staying put and starving. You get the chief to give his permission and the whole town would pack and leave by sundown. I’d wager my last lamb on that. ”

Other people were not as outspoken as the shepherd, yet their feelings were still evident in their grim faces and their willingness to listen to Valorian. They were tired of pouring their sweat and labor into things that were immediately taken away from them. They were tired of despair and lean bellies.

Their plight saddened Valorian and strengthened his resolve. It also made him more anxious to talk to Fearral and learn what was on his mind. To Valorian’s irritation, it was nearly six days before the chieftain was well enough to meet with him.

When his daughters could no longer keep Fearral down, he sent Mordan to bring the three clansmen into the hall shortly after the noon meal on a delightfully warm spring day. The old lord was sitting in his carved chair, moodily sipping a steaming mug of tea. When the men stopped before him and lifted their hands in salute, he eyed Valorian and the three men with him for a long, speculative pause. He noticed immediately that Mordan did not make a move to leave Valorian’s side.

Valorian, for his part, returned Fearral’s scrutiny. He was rather surprised to see that the lord chieftain actually looked better than he had last spring, in spite of his illness. His eyes were more alert, his hands were steady, and his shoulders were straight, as if a weight had been removed.

The chieftain seemed to read his thoughts. He lifted his mug and smiled dryly. “As you can see, I am not drinking wine or ale. My daughters and a few other people,” he said with a significant glance at Mordan, “prevailed upon me to get my head out of the wineskin and look around. It has been difficult, to say the least.”

Valorian said nothing, although his heart began to pound. Even Aiden was silent, watching the chieftain with a mingled look of disbelief and hope.

“I asked you to come,” Fearral continued, “because I want to bear about your plan for this exodus you have been talking so much about.” He chuckled wearily. “Everyone has heard about you and your journey to the realm of the dead except me.”

Fearral’s daughters brought chairs and mugs of tea for the chieftain’s guests, admonished him not to wear himself out, and left the five men alone in the big hall.

With pleasure, Valorian launched into his tale, complete with full magical effects. This time, though, to Aiden and Gylden’s surprise, he went on to include his second journey south to Wolfeared Pass and the trail back over Carrocks Road. His magical visions were so vivid his audience saw the splendid vistas of the Ramtharin Plains, felt the cold of the blizzard, and were awed by the dark beauty of the Carrocks’ caverns. When he was finished with his story, he bowed low to his lord and sank wearily into his seat. He had done the best he could to present his case, and he breathed a silent prayer to Amara that it would be enough to convince Fearral.

There was a long moment of silence, then the hall erupted with cheering and clapping. Valorian turned around, startled, and saw the hall filled with clanspeople who had slipped in to hear his story. Fearral’s two daughters sat near the front of the crowd, clapping wildly.

Lord Fearral watched the people, his wrinkled face torn by conflicting emotions. He knew what he had to do, but he wasn’t sure that he had the strength to go through with it. He was about to rise, when a stunned, faraway look suddenly crossed Valorian’s face.

“No!” Valorian shouted fiercely. The people quieted and muttered among themselves at his odd behavior. He bolted to his feet, his face white with a strange fear.

“What is it?” Aiden asked, alarmed.

At that moment, Hunnul charged into the hall, neighing in agitation and scattering people left and right.

“Ranulf is coming,” Valorian cried to his brother, and he fan to the doorway.

It was then that they all heard it, a loud despairing wail coming up the road through the town. “Valorian!”

“I’m here!” the clansman shouted. He ran outside to meet the young rider, followed by everyone in the hall. The people gasped aloud when Ranulf reined’ his jaded, staggering horse to a stop by Valorian and both mount and rider fell to the ground.

Valorian sprang forward to help him. He hardly recognized Ranulf under the dirt and soot and splattered blood, that covered his face and clothes.

“Valorian! Thank the gods,” Ranulf choked out. His hands grasped at Valorian’s tunic. With Aiden’s help, he was pulled out from under his half-dead horse and laid gently on the ground. He shoved away an offering of water. “Valorian,” he I cried in a voice drenched in tears, “they’re gone. All of them!”

“Who is gone?” Valorian prompted gently, though his stomach was sick with dread. and his hands were trembling.

“Everyone! The Tarns came. The whole lousy garrison. They knew where we were. They came looking for you, and when we told them you were gone, they tore the camp apart. We tried to stop them, but they killed anyone who argued. Then they burned everything, drove off the herds and took everyone who was left.”

“What do you mean they took them?” demanded Aiden frantically.

Ranulf’s haunted eyes shifted back and forth like a trapped animal’s. “The Tarns chained all the clanspeople together and herded them down to Actigorium.”

“Why?” Lord Fearral cut in.

“As bait,” Valorian said coldly. His face had gone rock hard.

Ranulf nodded. “The commander let me go to find you. He said to tell you they would let everyone go if you would turn yourself in.” He clutched Valorian’s sleeve in sudden panic. “You won’t do that, will you?”

Something suddenly snapped in Valorian’s mind. Hunnul came quickly to his side and waited only a moment for Valorian to spring to his back before he leaped forward down the road, heading for the town gates.

Mordan started to grab the reins of a nearby horse to follow him, but Gylden put his hand out. “You’ll never catch that horse,” he said sadly. “I know where he’s going.”

For the first time since they returned from the realm of the dead, Valorian witnessed the full power of his stallion. From the moment he broke into a gallop just outside the gates of Stonehelm until they reached the rocky mouth of Gol Agha, where he had to slow to a jog, Hunnul ran at a constant, ground-eating pace. He didn’t slow down, break into a sweat, or show any indication that he was tired. He simply kept going over, the leagues of hills and fields like a creature possessed. Numb with unanswered fears, Valorian held on to the black’s mane and watched the land streak by while the wind roared through his ears.

It was night when they reached the mouth of Gol Agha. A full moon swelling above the mountains showed Valorian the first sign of the devastation to come. A deep, muddy trail, black in the silver moonlight, marked the passage of the Tarnish troops and their long lines of prisoners. Off to the side of the new trail, in the grass, lay the body of a little girl from Gylden’s family. Her clothes were stained with smoke and mud, and her pale face was turned lifelessly toward the starry sky. Valorian swallowed hard.

Hunnul raced on deeper into the canyon. They saw more bodies, some older people, some children—all Valorian recognized—strewn along the way, tossed to the side with broken weapons, abandoned personal belongings, and an occasional dead animal or wrecked cart.

Finally, in the early afternoon, they rounded the bend in e canyon and found the ruins of the winter camp. Its blackened remains were an ugly sore against the warm sunshine and the newly budding trees. The sight sickened Valorian.

“Kierla!” he shouted. Even though he knew if she were there, she would be beyond answering, he couldn’t stifle his frantic desire to see her. Hunnul clattered up the trail’ through the burned and trampled tents to the site of Valorian’s tent. The clansman threw himself to the ground. He staggered, his legs stiff from the long ride, and made his Way to the ruins of his tent. The entire thing was burned to the ground; everything in it was destroyed. The baby’s cradle, Kierla’s favorite tea box, their clothes, everything was gone. His only consolation was that there were no bodies among the charred ashes.

For the rest of the day until the evening grew too dark, Valorian searched the camp. What he found left a hard, cold lump in his chest and a rage that settled deep into his bones.

The Tarns had left nothing for the survivors to salvage. They had swept through the camp with ruthless, deadly efficiency, destroying every tent and cart, pulling down the corrals and pens. The meager food stores were gone, the horses stolen, and the dogs and the livestock were either slaughtered or driven off.

Worst of all were the murdered clanspeople lying among the ruins of their homes. Valorian found Gylden’s father by his tent with an old, rusty sword in his hand and a spear through his chest. The Tarns hadn’t been particular about their victims; they had killed anyone who had stood in their way: men, women, and children. Valorian saw his elderly uncle, several of his cousins, Kierla’s younger sister with her baby, and numerous other friends and members of both families—perhaps thirty people in all. The ones he did not find were Kierla, Khulinar, Linna, and Mother Willa.

That night he lit a huge bonfire and stood guard over the bodies. They had been dead for five days and already torn by carrion eaters, but Valorian wouldn’t let another vulture or wild dog near them before they were properly buried.

Aiden, Gylden, and Mordan found him the next afternoon carefully hauling the bodies to a large bier that he had built in the center of the camp. Wordlessly they looked over the faces of the dead, then bent to help him as he laid the bodies side by side. No one said anything to Valorian. His eyes had a strange, distant look, and his expression was anguished. He didn’t greet them; he merely nodded in acknowledgement when they joined him in his heartbreaking task.

When their duty was done, the four men stepped back from the big bier. Gylden chanted the prayers for the dead until his voice grew tight and stumbled to a halt as he looked on his father’s face for the last time. Aiden and Mordan finished the prayers in his stead.

Valorian at last raised his hands. He spoke a command, and the entire pile burst into towering flames. He watched the fire burn for a long, long time before he finally broke his silence.

“The Harbingers were busy that night,” he said to no one in particular. The other three turned to stare at him, realizing perhaps for the first time that only he among living men really knew what it was to die. He went on, unmindful of their looks. “But I know where they went and how they will fare. We will see them again.”

His companions knew he was speaking of the dead, and they all took comfort in his words.

They waited until the smoke had faded and the fire had burned to ashes before they mounted their horses and left the demolished camp. Valorian didn’t look back. His thoughts had already moved on to the future and the survivors who were waiting for him in Actigorium.

“Tyrranis has gone too far!” Aiden burst out when they were halfway through the canyon. “It’s bad enough that he drives us into poverty and keeps us imprisoned in these forsaken hills. But now he has stooped to murder, pillage, and kidnapping!”

“But what can we do about it?” mourned Gylden. The death of his father and the loss of his beloved family and horses had devastated him.

Mordan glanced thoughtfully at Valorian, but the clansman said nothing. He had turned inward to secret places in his own heart and mind.

When they reached the open mouth of the canyon where the walls fell away to open hills, they came upon something that brought even Valorian up short. Lord Fearral was camped and waiting for them with every man, and some of the women, of fighting age in the Clan. They were all heavily armed and fiercely angry. In a noisy, turbulent crowd, they met the four returning clansmen at the edge of the temporary camp.

Valorian scanned the faces of the men gathered around the chieftain, and his heart leapt with hope. Even Karez was there, looking surly. Solemnly Valorian saluted his lord chieftain. “Word spreads fast,” he commented.

“It does when I spread it,” Fearral responded, returning the salute. “We saw the smoke two days ago. Were there many?”

“Thirty-two too many,” said Valorian.

Fearral winced. “And the rest of them have been taken to Actigorium?”

“It appears so.”

The chief lifted his head. “We cannot leave them there. We will work out a way to free them,” he promised.

“I have already done that, my lord,” Valorian told him softly.

“Oh? And what is that?” Valorian smiled then, the feral grimace of a hunter about to pounce. “I will turn myself in.”