Winged Magic

14

The sun shone hot when a lone horseman approached the Clannad camp later that day. At the first low-pitched warning signal, the riders grabbed their weapons and formed a line of defense at the perimeter of the camp.

The rider, a Turic on a chestnut horse, reined his mount to a halt and studied the warriors with approval. He held up his hand in peace. “I am Mohadan, the Kirmaz-Ja. I see by your dress and white horses you are the troop I seek,” he said in Turic.

Hajira stepped out of the line of warriors and addressed the tribal leader as an equal. “I am Hajira al Raid-Ja, Commander of the Tenth. Why do you seek us?”

The stranger lifted an arched eyebrow and leaned his arm on the saddle horn. “These are hardly Turic soldiers, Commander, and as I heard it, most of the Tenth was slaughtered.”

“Not all of us, Kirmaz-Ja. So we make do with what we have.”

“And what are you planning to do?”

Hajira, who knew the tribal leader to be a man of honor, gave a short bow. “Perhaps you would like to join us. We could discuss possibilities.”

The stranger dismounted and led his horse to the camp to meet with Hajira, Sayyed, Helmar, and Rapinor. The Clannad warriors stayed in position, relaxed yet alert while their chief led the Turic to the shade of several tall cedars. Cool wine and plates of cheese and dates were brought and served by Tassilio. The Kirmaz-Ja sat wordlessly, watching the preparations with a fascinated eye. He seemed particularly intrigued with Helmar and her obvious authority.

“I do not know of you, Lady,” he said in rough but credible Clannish, “or your people. You are like clan and yet not clan. And how is it that a woman leads a troop of warriors? Some of whom,” he suddenly noticed, “are also women.”

“Swords and bows are not our first weapons,” Helmar replied. “Strength of arms is not as important as talent to us.”

The Turic narrowed his eyes. He had smallish eyes deep set behind a thin nose, but they were not piggish eyes, for his face was too hard and narrow, and his gaze glittered with intelligence and wit. He had a grizzled beard trimmed close to his jaws, and his knotted hair was iron gray. He shifted his eagle’s glance from Helmar to Sayyed. “And you, you are Turic no longer. I would guess you are the half-breed who aimed to sorcery.”

Sayyed merely lifted his cup in reply, impressed by the man’s knowledge and intuition.

“Are you here because of the women Zukhara holds?” Mohadan wanted to know.

Briefly Sayyed and Hajira told the Kirmaz-Ja the events beginning at Council Rock and leading up to their arrival at the outskirts of Cangora. Sayyed only touched on his time in Sanctuary and the Clannad’s offer to ride with him, but Mohadan’s sharp attention missed nothing, and he studied the warriors around him with keen interest.

When the narrative was through, however, Mohadan drove straight to the point that had brought him to see them. “I was told yesterday what your men did for the dead at the Saran Oasis. The families were grateful that you defied the Gryphon’s edict to let the men hang until they rotted. So tell me now, will you join your forces to mine and help me bring down the Gryphon?”

Hajira shared a glance with Helmar and Sayyed before he turned to Tassilio sitting close beside him. “Is it your will, Shar-Yon, that we unite with this man and the enemies of the Gryphon?”

For the first time, Mohadan’s expression registered real surprise. He had paid little attention to the boy who had served the wine, and now he focused all his fierce regard on the son of the Shar-Ja. “You are the sandrat? Rumor said you were dead.”

The boy looked startled at, the name by which Hajira had called him, but he collected himself quickly. “No, Kirmaz-Ja,” Tassilio replied with every ounce of his father’s dignity. “I am the Shar-Yon, and I am very much alive.”

Mohadan, the traditionalist, the man sworn to honor the throne of the Shar-Ja, had never once considered the possibility of winning the throne for himself. He greeted the unexpected appearance of an heir with sincerity and relief and bowed low before the boy. His gesture sealed Hajira’s decision.

At a nod from Tassilio, Hajira drew a dagger from a sheath at his waist and jabbed it into the ground in front of Mohadan. By doing so, he followed an old Turic custom of offering his services to another tribal leader. If Mohadan pulled the dagger free and returned it, he would accept Hajira’s services in an agreement as binding as a blood vow.

The Kirmaz-Ja looked at the blade quivering in the dry grass. “I welcome your assistance, Commander, but I must ask. does this also include the sorcerer and the lady and her warriors? I have a feeling that without them, we will stand little chance against Zukhara’s power.”

Sayyed answered first. “I have already sworn to my own lord that I will do everything I can to return the sorceresses to the clans. To that end, I will help you for as long as the women are held captive.”

“Fair enough. Clansman.” He turned to Helmar who was sitting beside her guard. “And you, Lady?”

Sayyed was taken aback by the bold look of interest in the man’s eyes when he looked at the chief, but Helmar seemed to pay no heed. Unaffected, she tilted her chin and replied coolly, “I made my promise to Sayyed to help free Lady Gabria and Kelene. We will do what needs to be done.”

The man’s jaw tightened, and his eyes hardened under a thoughtful frown, as if he had just made an unwelcome observation. He glanced at Sayyed then nodded to himself in decision. Without further hesitation, he yanked the blade free and passed it hilt-first to the royal guard. Hajira accepted it back with a thin smile.

“Now,” said Mohadan, jumping to his feet, “if you will break camp and come with me, I have something to show you.”

They followed his suggestion, swiftly and efficiently, and in less than an hour were riding in a column along the caravan road toward Cangora. They bypassed the city by a wide loop and trotted into the hills on the southern end of the broad valley. Mohadan led them into the first deep dale they reached and pointed them toward a long meadow where a large, bustling camp sat along the banks of a dry streambed. The yellow banner of the Kirmaz floated above one of the tents.

“Most of those men are my own,” said the Kirmaz-Ja, indicating the camp with a wave of his hand. “Some are survivors from the caravan. Others have been coming as the word spreads. Not all goes Zukhara’s way. There is lighting along the coast and in the cities of Hazereth and Shamani where the Fel Azureth have met resistance from several tribes—including the Raid. Perhaps two hundred men have gathered at my summons. More will come.” He indicated a place in the meadow where they could erect their camp near his.

“If all goes as planned,” Sayyed told him as they all dismounted, “there will be more men soon. My son is bringing Lord Athlone and the werods to aid the Shar-Ja as promised in their treaty.”

A second look of surprise spread over Mohadan’s face. Surprise, Sayyed thought, was not a common emotion to the hard-bitten leader, and today they had managed to shake him twice.

“They are coming to help?” Mohadan almost shouted. “We thought they had crossed the Altai to take revenge for the capture of the women and the raids on their trelds by the Fel Azureth.”

“I sent for them six days ago.”

Mohadan gave a great, gusty snort. “They crossed the Altai yesterday. A messenger bird brought the news from a cousin of mine this morning.”

“Yesterday.” Sayyed looked thoughtful. “Then they are four or five days away—if they ride like the wind and no one stands in their way.”

“I will see that no one does! I will send an escort and a safe-pass for the men of the clans.”

“Kirmaz-Ja. that is an excellent idea, but may I suggest we send the safe-pass and an urgent message with the winged mare? Only she is swift enough to reach them quickly.”

I heard that and the answer is no. Demira bugled before anyone else could respond. The mare pranced to Sayyed, her big eyes alight with anger. I am not going away from Kelene again!

Mohadan could not “hear” what she sent telepathically, but he understood what she meant well enough from her stiff-legged stance and her flattened ears. He gave a noncommittal shrug. “Perhaps it would be better—”

Helmar cut him off by throwing an arm around Demira’s neck. The mare rolled her eyes at the chief but did not pull away. “If you were not the best choice to reach Kelene’s father, we would not ask you,” she said in soothing tones. “If Hajira were healed and able to ride that far, he could go, though his horse could not travel fast enough. Some of my men would go, but they are not Turics and would be in constant danger. You have your glorious wings to fly swiftly above the trouble and reach Lord Athlone in time. Please understand. To have any chance at all of saving Kelene and Gabria, we need more men to attack the city.”

The Hunnuli twisted her neck so she could regard Helmar with her star-bright eye. Could I come back as soon as I find them?

“As fast as you can,” the chief promised.

Then I will take your message to Lord Athlone and Rafnir. She tossed her mane. The sky is clear, and the road is open. I will try to fly all night.

“She will take the message,” Helmar said, relieved.

Satisfied, the Kirmaz-Ja hurried away to obtain what he wished to send to the clan lords, and the Clannad put up their shelters and ate their evening meal. Sayyed and Helmar made much over Demira, brushing her glossy coat, wiping the dust from her nostrils, and feeding her tidbits until the Turic leader returned.

Mohadan brought a rolled scroll and a yellow banner tightly wrapped in cloth. “Give these to Lord Athlone. They will clear his way along the Spice Road to Cangora. And tell him to hurry,” he said to Demira and awkwardly patted her neck. He was not accustomed to talking to horses.

They fastened the banner and the scroll to Demira’s back and watched as she lifted slowly into the deepening blue of the evening sky. When she was gone, a tense anticipation settled over the camp. There was nothing left to do but wait.

The next day came hot and dry, as had most of the days before it. The arid wind that blew from the desert sucked what little moisture there was from the ground and left the hills parched and brown. After morning prayers, the Turics spent their time readying for war. They repaired their tack and battle gear, checked their weapons, and practiced swordplay and archery in the scattered splotches of shade under the few trees. Most of the Clannad stayed to themselves out of nervousness and hesitancy, for they had never been in the company of so many strangers. A few wandered over to satisfy their curiosity and before long were drinking Turic ale, admiring strange weapons or ornaments or other objects that were new to them, and “fumbling through clumsy conversations.

No one remained idle throughout the day. A regular rotation of guards kept watch on the perimeters of the valley and on the camps. Scouts rode to watch the trails and the caravan road. A steady stream of men traveled the roads around Cangora that day. Most rode on to the city to join the Gryphon’s holy war, but word of Mohadan’s resistance traveled as fast as Zukhara’s proclamation, and a constant trickle of reinforcements flowed into the Turic camp all day.

After noon, Helmar, Rapinor, Sayyed, Hajira, and Tassilio joined the Turics in the shade of Mohadan’s big striped tent, and they discussed with the leader and his officers everything that came to mind concerning Zukhara, his intentions, the layout of Cangora, and their plans.

“Is it true, Lady,” Mohadan said to Helmar, “that all of your riders are magic-wielders? Why couldn’t you blast your way into the city and bring it down around Zukhara’s ears?”

The lady chief drank some water from a cup before she took a deep breath and answered. “We are, but not all of us have the same strengths. Some of my people rarely use magic. We have been isolated for so long, our ways have become stagnant and our bloodlines are weakening.”

Rapinor started to protest, and Helmar laid a hand on his arm. “You know it’s true. That’s why you came. It isn’t just our horses or our livestock that are threatened. It is us.” She turned back to Mohadan. “Yes, we could open the gates with our magic and wreak havoc on your city, and we will do so if there is no other choice. But I would prefer to wait for the clans. It would be better if we had an army behind us to distract the Gryphon’s forces while we try to save the clanswomen and confront Zukhara. Besides,” she said, winking at Tassilio, “I do not want to be the only one to shoulder the blame for damages to the Shar-Yon’s city.”

The Kirmaz-Ja nodded at her wisdom and cracked a hard smile. “I understand. It would be better for us as well if we rode together. We have little hope of defeating the Gryphon alone.”

“Exactly.” She returned his smile with one of her own, her eyes crinkling at the corners above the constellations of freckles. She lifted her cup. “To cooperation and allies. Something we have not had in generations.”

More ale was brought, along with honeyed wine and ewers of precious water. The talk went on while several of Mohadan’s men outlined a map of Cangora for the strangers, describing the streets, the palace and its barracks, and the pinnacle with its huge temple.

“Could we try infiltrating the palace in a small group?” Sayyed suggested.

Tassilio looked dubious. “The palace and the grounds are heavily guarded, and soldiers are everywhere. The guards at the gate check everything and everyone. I don’t know how you could get past and still find Kelene and Lady Gabria. That palace is huge!”

“I still think a lightning attack is our best hope. We strike fast, ride to the palace, and stop Zukhara before the ritual,” Mohadan stated emphatically.

“And what if he kills the women or the Shar-Ja before we get there?” Hajira asked.

The Kirmaz-Ja sighed heavily. “That is a chance we lake no matter how we approach our attack.”

The talking went on while each person had their say about tactics and ideas. Although Tassilio listened closely, Sayyed thought he looked rather thoughtful, and the clansman wondered what scheme the boy was hatching in his active mind.

At the same time, scouts brought reports from the city, and new arrivals brought news from other regions of the realm. Fighting had spread across the country as I he few surviving tribal leaders, appalled by the massacre of their contemporaries, struggled to organize resistance against the Gryphon’s rebels. Those tribes without leaders were riddled with strife and confusion. Mohadan had hoped other leaders would join him at Cangora, but as the time passed and more news filtered in, he had to accept that he would have to fight alone.

By the time the sun crawled to its rest beyond the western mountains, the Turic and the Clannad alike were weary and ready for the cool of night.

The second day followed much the same course of heat and talk and preparation. The loyalists struggled to strengthen their numbers, and the Gryphon worked tirelessly to tighten his hold on Cangora and his bid for control of the fifteen tribes. Tension’s grip grew tighter over everyone while they waited for the first day of Janas.

Sayyed, especially, festered in his worry and impatience. Questions crowded into his thoughts almost unceasingly, like crows harrying a hawk. Would the clans arrive in time, or would the Clannad and Mohadan’s small army have to go, alone, up against the big city, which was well defended by a host far larger than their own? How was Zukhara treating Kelene? Had Gabria died of the poison? Would he and the Clannad be able to reach the women before Zukhara killed them? That fear terrified him the most and kept him awake late into the night, debating ways to get to them in time.

The third night, after another hot, interminable day, Sayyed crawled from his pallet and left the tent he shared with Hajira, Tassilio, and the healer. The darkness embraced him in a cool breeze and laved his fevered thoughts in quiet serenity. He walked barefooted away from the camps, out into the meadows where the horses grazed. The white Clannad horses were easy to see in the starlight, but it took him a while to find the black shape of Afer, standing like a shadow close to Helmar’s mare. Their tails idly swished at a few stubborn flies, and their heads hung in peaceful rest.

At Sayyed’s approach, both horses lifted their muzzles and nickered a welcome. Gratefully the sorcerer pushed his anxieties aside and crowded in between the iwo horses, where their warmth and companionship were the balm he needed for his spirit. Unwilling to disturb the silence, he leaned against Afer and sought out the stallion’s favorite itchy places. He rubbed and patted and scratched until the big stallion quivered with delight. A soft nose nudged his elbow, and without thinking, Sayyed turned around to caress the mare. He discovered quickly that she liked her back and withers scratched, and he dug in with all ten fingers to massage her itchy skin.

The mare stretched her neck, her eyes half-closed, her ears flopping. If she had been a cat, Sayyed mused, she would be purring.

Oh, that is wonderful, a light feminine voice sighed in his mind.

Sayyed grinned. He had suspected as much. “How about here?” He moved his fingers to the end of her inane, where the ridge of her withers rose under her silvery coat.

Yes, came the voice again. The mare leaned into him. / like that.

“So why didn’t Helmar tell me you were Hunnuli?” Sayyed asked casually, still scratching her back.

The white mare stilled, then gave a snort of amused annoyance. Well, it is too late now to play dumb. Do you know bow bard it has been to keep quiet around you?

“Why did you?”

Helmar told us all not to talk to you. Not until she was sure.

“Is she so afraid of me?”

Not of you. Of the clans.

“Why?”

I will save that, at least, for her to explain.

“All right.” Sayyed chuckled. “But if you are Hunnuli, why are all of you white?”

The horses turned their heads and whickered a greeting to someone else. Helmar walked out of the darkness. She wore only a light, loose-fitting tunic that rippled around her thighs in the soft breeze. She leaned over the mare’s back, her expression unreadable in the night.

“They’re not true whites, Sayyed. Only their hair is white. Our ancestors took the color of the lightning and covered over the black. If you look under their hair, their skin is still dark as night.” She patted the mare and stallion and softly chuckled her husky laugh. “Marron, my beauty, you stayed quiet longer than I thought you would.”

He was scratching my back, the mare offered as an apology.

“Is the lightning still there?” Sayyed asked, fascinated.

“Yes, if you look closely enough.” Helmar pushed in by Sayyed, parted the hairs on Matron’s right shoulder, and said, “There, you can just see the outline.”

The sorcerer eased close to her and peered at the place she indicated. Faintly in the darkness he saw the pale line of white skin beside black. In the days that followed, Sayyed never could decide if what happened next was deliberate or accidental—and Afer would never tell him. Just as he straightened, Afer and Marron shifted closer together, knocking into Sayyed and throwing him off balance. He took a step to catch himself and banged into Helmar. Her strong arms went around him to steady him. His wounded arm hit her shoulder, and by the time the pain ebbed and he realized what had happened, they were standing wrapped in a tight embrace.

Neither moved. They were so similar in height, their hearts beat against one another, and their eyes stared at each other’s from only a breath away. They hesitated, both surprised by the sudden intimacy of their position. Helmar’s hands trembled against Sayyed’s back, and Sayyed felt his skin grow hot. In a flash of unspoken consent, their lips met, and they kissed so long and deep it left them gasping.

Marron playfully reached over and nipped Afer. The stallion stamped a hoof, his neck arched, and he nipped her back. In a flash of phantom white, the mare leaped away, her tail held high like a flag. Afer galloped after her, and the two people were left alone in the meadow. The velvet night closed softly about them.

They stood, neither wanting to say a word, neither needing to. Sayyed’s hands untied the strip of leather that bound Helmar’s thick braid and gently worked her hair loose until it floated in a waving mass down her shoulders and back. He inhaled her scent, a warm blend of leather, horses, sun, wind, and a special fragrance all her own. He buried his face in her hair while her arms pulled his hard body against hers.

They kissed again, and all their questions and worries were cast to the winds until there was nothing left to think about but the warm grass and the wonder of a love unlooked for that had found them both.

Beyond the darkened meadow at the edge of the Clannad camp, a slim figure and a shaggy shadow slipped out of the healer’s tent and worked their way around the perimeter guards. Silent and unseen, they crept over the hill and disappeared toward the valley of Cangora. By dawn they were sitting at the city gates patiently begging and waiting for the day to begin.