Valorian

1

Valorian crouched, poised immobile behind a clump of boulders, his ears trained to the voices in the valley below. He listened intently for a few breathless moments before he slowly lifted his eyes over the edge of the rock and peered down into the narrow, wooded valley. They were directly below him, making camp as best they could under the dark, wet trees. Several thin horses were tethered nearby, picking at a sparse pile of fodder.

A heavy drizzle obscured the details of the men’s faces and dress, but Valorian saw enough to recognize the occupation of the five men. They all wore the black eagle emblem of the XIIth Legion of the Tarnish emperor. Strangely, though, the legion was supposed to be on the other side of the Darkhorn Mountains. What was this small group doing so far from home?

Valorian studied the soldiers for a few more minutes, then slipped down behind the rocks again. He leaned back on his haunches and scratched the four-day stubble on his jaw thoughtfully. The men below posed a real problem to the hunter. Normally he would avoid Tarnish soldiers like lepers. In the many years since the Tarnish armies had invaded his homeland of Chadar, Valorian had never known the soldiers to be anything more than merciless, greedy curs who helped their emperor maintain his conquests with ruthless efficiency. Valorian knew that if he went down among them alone, they were as likely to kill him as to talk to him.

The hunter risked another glance over the boulder. The men were still grouped together, trying vainly to light a fire.

Valorian curled his lip. The fools were going about it all wrong, and from the appearance of their haggard faces and dirty tunics, things had been going wrong for them for a long while.

Valorian loosed a sigh and looked back up the hill to where his stallion stood out of sight in a copse of trees. On the horse’s back was Valorian’s prize, the result of four days of difficult tracking and nearly fruitless hunting: one thin, field-dressed deer. The deer would mean fresh meat for his family for the first time in many days.

And yet perhaps those men in the valley had a greater prize, a prize worth the danger of facing the soldiers alone and unarmed. Information.

Valorian believed the XIIth Legion was garrisoned at the Tarnish stronghold of Ab-Chakan, to the east, on the other side of the Darkhorn Mountains, in a tantalizing land Valorian knew only by the tales he had heard. The land was named the Ramtharin Plains and was described as a vast, empty realm of grass and endlessly rolling hills—a land perfectly suited for his nomadic people and their horses. Unfortunately the Tarnish Empire had extended its hold over the plains as far as the Sea of Tannis nearly seventy years ago and still held it in the name of the emperor.

Now, however, the empire was beginning to lose its grip on its far-flung provinces. Enemies were plaguing its borders, several tribes far to the west were rebelling, forcing the emperor to send thinly stretched legions to quell the uprisings, and three years of bad weather had played havoc with the crops that fed the great capital city of Tarnow. The Tarns themselves were growing unmanageable. To make matters worse, the old emperor, who had doubled the size of his empire and struck terror in the ranks of his enemies, had died, leaving his throne in the hands of his weaker, less capable son. In just eighteen short years, the empire had lost a fourth of its outlying provinces and had been forced to abandon many of its fortresses. Ab-Chakan was the last Tarnish garrison on the eastern side of the Darkhorn Mountains and the only one left on the Ramtharin Plains.

Perhaps those soldiers down in the chilly, wet clearing knew some news that would be useful. There had to be an important reason for them to be so far from their garrison, and there was nothing like. a hot meal and a warm fire to loosen a man’s reluctance to talk.

All of these thoughts passed through Valorian’s mind while he debated his decision. Then, with a curse of resignation, he slipped out of his hiding place and made his way quickly uphill toward his horse. The meat would help his family temporarily, but the information he might gain could help his entire Clan for a long time to come.

The stallion, Hunnul, standing quietly in the gathering shadows of night, nickered softly to the man when he entered the copse. Valorian paused to run his hands down the horse’s powerful black shoulder. The clansman smiled a rueful grimace.

“After all that work, Hunnul, we’re going to give our prize away to some Tarnish soldiers.”

The big stallion snorted. His dark, liquid eyes watched his master with unusual intelligence and affection.

“Perhaps I’m crazy,” Valorian muttered, “but they’re from the Ramtharin Plains! I’ve been trying to learn more about that land for a long time.” With brusque movements, the hunter packed his bow and short sword out of sight in his gear, keeping only his hunting knife in his belt. Then he mounted Hunnul’s saddle in front of the wrapped body of the deer and drew a deep breath to help still the faint trembling of his cold hands. “Let’s go,” he said to the horse. “We have Tarns to feed.”

Obediently the stallion walked out of the trees and began to pick his way down the rock-strewn hillside. Twilight was settling heavily into the valley under a gloomy shroud of drizzle and mist, enabling Valorian to ride almost to the edge of the soldiers’ camp before one man saw him and shouted a warning.

The others whirled in surprise. Dirty and disheveled they might be, but Valorian immediately saw the soldiers still maintained the strict training of the crack XIIth Legion. In a blink, the five men had drawn their swords and stood back-to-back in a tight circle, their faces grim and their weapons ready.

“Well met!” Valorian called as cheerfully as he could muster. He slouched his tall frame to look as innocuous as possible and pushed back the hood of his cloak. Hunnul stopped at the edge of the clearing.

The five soldiers didn’t move, staring balefully at him.

“Identify yourself,” one man ordered.

In answer, Valorian untied the deer from the back of his saddle and dumped it on the ground in front of Hunnul. He allowed the hungry men a moment to eye the meat before he slowly dismounted. The soldiers didn’t budge from their defensive positions.

“I am called Valorian,” the hunter told them, opening his cloak so they could see he wasn’t armed.

The men in front of him studied his iron-bound leather helmet, his long wool cloak, his sheepskin vest, and his tattered tunic and leggings. They didn’t bother to look past the grime and the patches to the long, lean man with the face hollowed by days of hunger and the quick flash of intelligence in his deep-set eyes. “A clansman,” one soldier snorted derisively. The five Tarns visibly relaxed.

Valorian stifled a surge of anger at their disdain and tried to smile. The effort was thin at best. He knew the Tarnish Empire and the Chadarians held his people in low esteem.

The clanspeople of Fearral were regarded as slovenly, weak, cowardly, and of little account. The only useful thing they could do, and the only thing that kept them out of slavery in the emperor’s galleys or salt mines, was breed and train horses. Valorian had anticipated the soldiers’ reaction to his origins, but that didn’t mean he had to like their attitude.

What really galled him was there was too much truth behind their scorn.

The Tarn who had spoken stepped out of the circle and thrust his sword point toward Valorian’s chest.

The hunter didn’t flinch, but stood still as the point came to a stop a hairbreadth away from his ribs. He forced his eyes to widen in fear and his mouth to hang open.

The soldier eyed the clansman suspiciously from helm to boot. He was a big man, as tall as Valorian himself, with a strength and brutality forged from many battles. His hard, craggy face was clean-shaven, and his uniform and weapons were well cared for despite the obvious wear of long travel.

Valorian recognized the insignia on the man’s shoulder as the rank of a sarturian, a leader of usually eight to ten men within a legion. Gritting his teeth, Valorian swallowed his humiliation and bowed his head to the soldier. “I have a deer I thought to share, General.”

“I’m no general, you stupid dog!” the man snarled. The tip of his sword slowly dropped away from Valorian’s chest.

“Share, hah!” a short, bandy-legged soldier snapped. “Just kill him. That’ll leave more for the rest of us.”

The sarturian cast a speculative glance at the clansman to see his reaction.

Valorian shrugged, his eyes still downcast. “You could kill me, but then who would you have to light the fire and roast the meat?”

“Good point,” a dark-haired Tarn said. “We’re not having much luck with the fire.”

The circle of soldiers began to break apart as they edged around to stare hungrily at the deer.

“Let him cook it, Sarturian. Then we can kill him,” the short Tarn urged.

Their leader made an irritated sound and slammed his sword back in the scabbard. “Enough! The Twelfth Legion doesn’t deal in treachery. You and your deer may join us, clansman. ”

For just a moment, Valorian lifted his gaze and came eye to eye with the Tarnish sarturian. He despised Tarns with a hatred born of thirty-five years of bitter experience. His common sense told him to look away and maintain his harmless, weak facade, but his pride overrode his sense for just a heartbeat. He let his silent hatred bore into the man’s dark stare. When he saw the Tarn’s eyes begin to narrow, he thought better of his intentions, swallowed his pride, and let his eyes slide away. His jaw clenched, he turned before he could damage his credibility as a harmless clansman any further and went to his horse to unpack his saddlebags.

The sarturian stood for a minute as if deep in thought, a scowl on his face. Finally he gestured to his men. “If you want to eat tonight, help him.”

The four other men obeyed, spurred on by the hunger that gnawed in their bellies. Two hauled the deer carcass to the edge of the clearing while the other two came to help Valorian as he undid the girth of his saddle.

“Fine horse,” remarked the short legionnaire. He reached for Hunnul’s head and cursed as the stallion whipped his nose away from the strange grasp. The horse wore no bridle or halter, so the soldier could not get a good grip on the muzzle.

Valorian was slow to reply. Hunnul was a fine horse, probably the finest in Chadar. Tall at the withers, long legged, and beautifully proportioned, the stallion was a magnificent animal—and Valorian’s pride and joy. The horse had been carefully bred, hand raised, and trained to the clansman’s utmost skill. Oddly enough, he was totally black, without a single white or brown hair. Such a horse would be valued highly by the soldiers of the Black Eagle Legion.

Valorian shrugged nonchalantly at the soldier, thrust several bundles in the man’s arms, and said, “He’s not bad. Rather vicious, though.” Before the soldier could react, the clansman slipped off the saddle and spoke a command.

The big stallion tossed his long mane. With a neigh, he turned on his heels and plunged into the darkness.

The five soldiers looked after the horse in amazement.

“Planning on walking home?” the sarturian asked.

Valorian ignored the remark and picked up his gear. “He’ll be nearby if I need him.”

The men exchanged glances of mingled surprise and doubt, but Valorian gave them no more time to speculate on the magnificent stallion. He set them to work immediately, butchering the deer and gathering more firewood. From his saddlebags, he removed a small pack of dried tinder, his fire starter, and a small hatchet. With the skill gained from over thirty years of practice, Valorian swiftly cleared out a space on the ground for his fire, built a lean-to of woven vines and branches to protect the flames from the rain, and gathered the necessary materials for the blaze.

The soldiers watched as he quickly piled his tinder—a handful of dried fluff, grasses, and tiny twigs—on the cleared ground. Using his knife, he feathered the ends of several larger twigs and added them to his pile, then he brought out his most precious traveling tool: a small, glowing coal, carefully nurtured inside a hollow gourd. In a moment, the hunter had the fire blazing merrily in the dark, wet clearing.

The Tarnish soldiers grinned in a sudden release of tension and frustration.

“As good as magic,” one man said, slapping Valorian on the shoulder.

“Magic,” the sarturian grunted. “You ought to know better than to waste your time with that nonsense! Magic is for self-deluded priests and fools.” The clansman sat back on his heels. “What do you know about magic, Sarturian?” he asked out of interest. Unlike many of the Tarns, the clanspeople didn’t believe in a power of magic, only in the powers of their four deities.

The leader gestured to the fire with a broken length of deadwood. “Magic doesn’t exist, Clansman. Only skill.”

“Don’t tell General Tyrranis that,” the dark-haired soldier said with a smirk. “I’ve heard he’s trying to find the secret of magic.”

“Shut up!” snapped the sarturian.

The mention of General Tyrranis made Valorian grit his teeth. The general was the imperial governor of the huge province that encompassed Chadar and the foothills where Valorian’s clanspeople were forced to live. To say he was hated was putting it mildly. Tyrranis was an ambitious, ruthless combination of astute politician and merciless military man who crushed anyone who tried to thwart him. He ruled his province with enough violence and fear to keep the people firmly under his heel without any thought of rebellion.

Valorian had heard rumors that the general’s ambitions reached as high as the imperial throne, so the mention of Tyrranis’s search for magic didn’t surprise him. Perhaps with luck, Valorian thought to himself, Tyrranis would kill himself in some foolhardy experiment looking for something that didn’t exist.

Seeing the sarturian watching him, Valorian quickly removed any expression from his face and set to work. He didn’t want to stay with these men any longer than necessary. He wanted to feed them and get their tongues talking about more useful information—such as why they were in Chadar, what was the Ab-Chakan garrison doing, and where was a good trail to the Ramtharin Plains.

As rapidly as he could, Valorian built his fire hotter and roasted strips of deer meat over the glowing coals. The soldiers plunged into his cooked offering with the voraciousness of hungry wolves.

By the time they stopped eating, the deer carcass was virtually stripped, and the rain had died to a heavy mist. The soldiers leaned back, laughing and talking and drinking from their last flask of wine. No one offered wine to Valorian or paid him any heed as he sat in the shadows under a tree and gnawed on the last of the venison.

The clansman felt a brief pang of guilt for filling his stomach with meat while his family was probably eating watery soup and the last crusts of old bread. The winter had been hard, and there were very few stock animals left in their herds. The family was counting on him and the other men to bring in meat for the cooking pots. Perhaps, he hoped, one of the other hunters had had some success. He drove the feeling away and concentrated instead on the talking soldiers.

The meat and wine had indeed soothed their tensions, setting their tongues free to air their gripes and worries. Their disregard for the clansman was so complete, they seemed to forget he was there.

For a while, the five men simply conversed about the everyday complaints of soldiers: bad food, hard work, loneliness. Warm in his cloak and weary from the days of hunting, Valorian listened to their conversation with growing drowsiness. His eyelids drooped. He was beginning to wonder how he could turn their talk toward the Ramtharin Plains when the short legionnaire said something that jolted the clansman wide awake.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m glad to be leaving that forsaken pile of rocks.” The man took a long swig from the wine flask and passed it on. “Good riddance to Ab-Chakan!”

“How can you say that?” another soldier said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “I’m going to miss the place—the cold, the wind, the heat and the fleas in the summer, no town in sight for league after league after league. Why would we want to trade that for a comfortable billet in Tarnow?”

One man slapped the eagle emblem on his chest, grinned, and said, “By the sacred bull, I’ll be glad to see Tarnow again. I haven’t been home in ten years.” The speaker, a dark-haired soldier, slid off his seat to stretch out full length on his back. “Say, Sarturian, has General Sarjas said when we’re being withdrawn?”

A grunt escaped the sarturian’s lips as he retrieved the flask of wine. “You think the commanding general of the Twelfth Legion discusses his plans with mere sarturians?”

“No, but you must have an opinion. You’ve been around long enough to figure out officers.”

The sarturian shifted his position and snorted. “No one understands officers. . . still, I’d say we’ll pull the garrison out by late summer. The legion’s supply wagons have to get over Wolfeared Pass before snow blocks the trail.”

Three of the legionnaires grinned at each other. It wasn’t often they could get information out of their closemouthed sarturian, and this was a chance too good to let pass.

Under the tree, Valorian leaned back, his heart pounding. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. Breathlessly he remained still, closed his eyes, and willed the soldiers to continue talking.

“So which way do you think we’ll go home?” the short Tarn probed his leader. “North through Chadar to Actigorium or south through Sarcithia to Sar Nitina?”

There was a long silence that dragged out until the soldiers began to think the sarturian wasn’t going to reply. Finally he shrugged and said, “I’d lay my money on the southern route. It’s longer than going through Chadar, but it’s easier than risking General Tyrranis’s political traps. He’d sell his wives to have a full legion under his jurisdiction. If we want to get back to Tarnow without delays, we’d better go by way of Sar Nitina.” He took a long swallow of wine as if to end the conversation and passed the flask on to the next man.

“Then why are we going to Actigorium to see General High-and-Mighty Tyrranis?” asked a soldier.

The dark-haired Tarn snickered. “General Sarjas doesn’t see things as clearly as our sarturian, so he’s probably sending us for the general’s written permission to cross Chadar just in case he decides to go that way. Isn’t that right?” he demanded.

The sarturian cocked an eyebrow at him. “You have a big mouth, Callas.”

Callas pulled his lips into a triumphant grin. “I am right! Well, I don’t care which way we march as long as we get out of those plains. Gods, I miss cities.” Suddenly he noticed the fourth soldier sitting quietly across the fire, looking glum. “What about you, Marcus?” he jibed. “You haven’t said a word. Aren’t you glad to be going home?”

“Not this way!” the older man said bitterly. “The Twelfth Legion has never retreated, and yet here we are about to abandon a perfectly good fortress and withdraw because our all-powerful emperor can’t even hang on to what his father left him!”

“Keep such thoughts to yourself, Marcus,” the sarturian growled. “Talk like that can separate your head from your shoulders.”

The old soldier gestured angrily. “It’s the truth and you know it! Ab-Chakan is the last occupied fortress on the plains. When it’s abandoned, Tarn will lose the entire Ramtharin Plains.”

The short Tarn shook his head. “The plains have given us nothing more than grass, copper, hides, and a few miserable slaves. We can find those anywhere. Better to lose a distant, unprofitable province than our own homeland.”

“The loss of the province isn’t so bad,” Marcus agreed. “It’s the cost that angers me—the loss of pride and honor for the legion, the loss of confidence and respect in the empire. The man who sits on the throne of Tarn is throwing away a mighty realm out of weakness, stupidity, and—”

“That’s enough!” commanded the sarturian sharply. “You don’t need to shout your views across all of Chadar.”

The soldiers fell quiet. Although Valorian kept his eyes shut, he could sense their attention had abruptly turned toward him.

“What about the clansman?” he heard one soldier ask softly. “Do we kill him or let him go?”

“Let him go. The meat was worth his life,” answered the sarturian.

“What if he’s heard everything we’ve said?”

Their leader laughed a sharp sound of derision. “He’s a clansman. He can’t do anything about it, and the rest of the empire will know soon enough.”

Even the sarturian’s scorn couldn’t stifle the thin smile that twitched across Valorian’s lips. Fully alert now, the hunter continued to feign sleep while the Tarnish soldiers bedded down under their blankets and the fire died to embers.

When the men were snoring and the clearing was dense with mist and darkness, the clansman rose from his place under the tree. He retrieved his saddle and slipped away silently into the night.

At dawn, Valorian found Hunnul in a meadow down the valley, not far from the clearing where the Tarnish soldiers were beginning to stir. The hunter whistled to the stallion, and he watched with satisfaction as the big horse came cantering toward him, his mane and tail flowing like black smoke. Quickly he saddled Hunnul, then turned his mount south, away from his home camp.

Valorian had some time to think about what he had heard that night as he tried to sleep in the meager shelter of a thicket. He mulled over the soldiers’ words with growing excitement until he had decided to extend his hunt. His family’s winter camp lay to the north, and he had already been gone longer than he had intended; his wife, Kierla, would be worrying. But he still had no meat, and somewhere—to the south, he believed—was a pass—the only pass he had ever heard of that was low and wide enough to allow wagons to travel over the towering Darkhorn Mountains. He would hunt to the south. Perhaps if the gods were watching over him, he would find both meat and the pass.

For two more days, the hunter rode south toward the borders between Chadar and Sarcithia, deep into country where he had never traveled before. He studied the unfamiliar peaks with the practiced eye of a man born in the shadows of the mountains and saw nothing that resembled a usable pass. He searched for game, any game that would feed his people, but he didn’t even see a hoof print. The rain continued to fall from a low, dismal roof of clouds, washing the streams out of their banks, turning the earth to glutinous mud, and washing out all signs of game. Valorian’s clothes and gear grew sodden, and even his skill as a woodsman couldn’t coax the soaking wood to flame.

On the third day, he turned Hunnul deeper into the foothills. Throughout the morning, they rode higher and higher into the skirts of the towering Darkhorns toward a tall, bare ridge that afforded an unobstructed view of the long range of peaks.

“If we don’t find something soon, Hunnul, we’ll have to go back home empty-handed,” Valorian remarked as the horse struggled up the steep slope of the ridge.

Hunnul scrambled up to the top of the crest before he paused to snort as if in reply. His sides heaved with his exertion, and his nostrils flared red.

Valorian patted the stallion’s damp neck. He saw nothing strange in talking to his horse as if to a good friend. Hunnul was an intelligent animal and seemed to understand much of what his master said to him. The hunter only regretted that the stallion couldn’t respond in kind. He spent so much time on horseback, it would be pleasant to have someone to talk to once in a while.

The clansman let his horse rest for a time while he gazed at the land around him in disgust. There wasn’t much to see. Rain was everywhere. It hid the mountains in an impenetrable cloud, effectively blocking any hope Valorian had of spotting the pass or any game.

He slammed his fist against the pommel of his saddle. “By the gods,” he exclaimed. “It’s rained for fourteen days! When is it going to stop?”

A sudden crack of thunder made him flinch. He stared up at the iron-gray sky in surprise. This was early spring, rather soon for thunderstorms. But all clanspeople knew the thunder was really the sound of the steeds of Nebiros, the messenger of the god of the dead. Perhaps Nebiros himself had been sent to fetch a soul.

Another bolt of lightning seared across the sky, followed by a tremendous crack of thunder. The wind suddenly gusted over the ridge, snapping at Valorian’s cloak. Hunnul flattened his ears and pranced sideways.

Valorian felt his muscles tighten with nervousness. He had never liked lightning. “Come on, boy. Let’s get off this ridge and find some shelter.”

The horse was quick to obey. They found an outcropping on a hillside nearby that offered some relief from the wind and the torrent of rain that poured from the sky. The lightning and thunder continued unabated for a long time until the hills reverberated with the sound and fury.

Irritably Valorian stood by Hunnul’s steaming side and ate the last of his trail bread while his thoughts slogged morosely through his mind. When the afternoon was late and the rain was still falling, Valorian reluctantly decided that, meat or no meat, it was time to go home. He would have to try again some other time to find the pass.

At last the rain eased to an intermittent drizzle, and the wind died to mere gusts. The lightning and thunder seemed to move farther to the south.

Depressed and weary, the clansman rode his horse to the top of the ridge again for one final look at the mountains. The clouds had lifted a little with the passing of the thunderstorm, revealing a glimpse of the imposing ramparts of the Darkhorns.

Valorian’s mouth tightened. He hated those mountains. As long as those great peaks blocked his people to the east and the Tarnish Empire forced them out of the west, they had no hope of survival. If the Clan was to continue, they had to escape. They had to find a way over the mountains and out of the grasp of the Tarns.

“We have to locate that pass, Hunnul,” Valorian said forcefully. The stallion’s ears cocked back to listen. “If we could just find it, I could give Lord Fearral positive proof that a path over the mountains really exists. Then he’d have no excuse not to bring the Clan together and seek the Ramtharin Plains!”

There was a pause, then the man threw his hands wide. “Imagine it, Hunnul! A realm of sky and grass, there for the taking. No Tarns, no tribute or taxes, no General Tyrranis. Freedom to raise our horses and our families. Freedom to be as we once were! If I could only convince Lord Fearral . . .” Valorian lapsed into silence and stared morosely at the curtains of clouds and rain to the south. If the clanspeople deserved the ridicule and scorn of the Tarnish Empire, Lord Fearral was one reason why.

In the time of Valorian’s grandfather, the Clans had been a proud people who had roamed the fertile lands of Chadar in large, loosely knit nomadic bands, each ruled by a lord chieftain. They had been fierce warriors, excellent stockmen, and good neighbors to the sedentary tribes of Chadarians who populated the riverbanks and valleys of the country.

Clan life had followed a smooth and natural course, until the armies of the Tarn had invaded Chadar. The clansmen had tried ferociously to defend their land, but the Chadarians surrendered to the armies and refused to help. The large, heavily armed infantry legions decimated the mounted Clan warriors, massacred entire camps of women and children, and drove the survivors into the bleak and barren Bloodiron Hills in the northern Darkhorns. The people had remained there ever since, penned in, isolated, and rejected.

Since that time, nearly eighty years ago, the Clans had lost many of their traditions and much of their pride. They had dwindled to a single Clan composed of a few ragged family bands who paid homage to one old lord chieftain. Their rich pastures, large herds, and the accumulated wealth of generations were gone. They managed to eke out a bare subsistence through hunting, foraging, and petty thievery.

Everything else they had went as tribute to General Tyrranis.

Valorian recognized the futility of fighting the Tarnish Empire to regain what was lost, but he couldn’t give up hope for his people. If they couldn’t survive where they were, then he firmly believed they had to seek a new home.

The problem was convincing his wife’s uncle, Lord Fearral. The timorous old chieftain was as hidebound as an old cow. Valorian had tried several times to plead with the chieftain to bring the scattered families together and lead them somewhere to new lands. Fearral had refused. Without more definite hope and specific information about their destination, the aged lord wouldn’t even attempt a move. The Darkhorns were too dangerous, he told Valorian repeatedly, to warrant such a foolhardy journey. Besides, General Tyrranis would never allow the Clan to leave their place in the hills. The chieftain was adamant.

Now, though, Valorian hoped that if he could bring news of a pass over the mountains and a land free of Tarn’s grip, it would sway Fearral to at least send out scouts and begin making plans.

If only he could find the pass so he could be certain. A sudden impulse born of deep emotion brought his hand to his sword. With the ancient war cry of his people, Valorian drew his weapon and flourished it at the sky.

“Hear me, O gods!” he shouted. “Our people are dying! Show me a way to save them. Help me find Wolfeared Pass!”

At that instant, in the heart of the thunderstorm south of the high ridge, an incredible power burst into incandescent existence. Brilliantly hot and deadly, it knifed through the cold air like a divine bolt and exploded out of the confines of the storm. In the space of a heartbeat, the lightning arced to earth and found a conductor of metal as its target.

With unearthly force, it struck the helmet and sword of the clansman. Its power seared down his arm, through his head, into his body, and continued down through his horse.

Valorian arched over backward, connected for an eternal second to the power of the gods, and then his world exploded in fire and light. The thunder boomed around him, but he didn’t hear it. Both horse and rider were dead before their bodies crashed to earth.