Lightnings Daughter

by Mary H. Herbert

  "Your horse can't keep up with a Hunnuli.”

  "He can try! You cannot go alone,” Sayyed insisted.

  Piers stepped forward, his demeanor calm. "Athlone, he's right. You and Gabria will need him. Take him on Eurus, and the warriors and I will follow."

  Athlone looked down at the old healer, and something in his friend's quiet, reasonable voice calmed his wild impulse. Some of his father's cool, deliberate cunning surfaced in the chief's mind, and he nodded. "Al right, Sayyed. You ride with me."

  The Turic whooped with relief and went to col ect his weapons and burnoose.

  As the Turic and the chief were about to leave, the three hearthguard warriors stepped up to Eurus.

  They were not happy about being left behind, even though they understood the reasons. Nevertheless, they looked up at Athlone and gravely saluted. There was a short pause as they glanced at one another, then Keth said, "Be careful, Lord. The clans need you back."

  Athlone said nothing. His hand tightened on Eurus's mane in expectation.

  Secen, his strong, plain face clear in the moonlight, said quietly, "We were afraid at first when you told us that you were going to wield magic. But Lady Gabria's mask reminded us that Lord Valorian had once been a chieftain and a sorcerer. If his people could accept that, so can we."

  "We'll support you before the clans, too,” Valar added.

  Lord Athlone raised his fist and returned his warriors' salute. He was proud of his men and vastly relieved for himself. Their acceptance would give him strength in the days of controversy ahead---

  provided, of course, that he survived until then. "Come as fast as you can," he ordered.

  With Sayyed behind him on Eurus's back, Athlone yel ed the Khulinin war cry and urged the Hunnuli into a canter. The two men and the stal ion were gone from sight in the blink of an eye.

  During that moment of departure, no one noticed that Tam quietly slipped onto the colt's back, and she, the colt, and Treader trotted away into the night.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The sun rose orange above the plains into a cloudless sky. Its early heat baked the dust, stirred the flies, and gave the promise of a hot day ahead. In the camps of the eleven clans, the people rose early to take advantage of the cool morning before the day turned uncomfortable.

  The food vendors selling meat pies and fruit rolls did a thriving business. The bazaar merchants pulled aside their curtains and opened their booths to the women who came early to haggle. Several bards in the camps brought out their instruments to practice for the storytelling competition to be held before the clans that evening. Children ran and played among the tents. Some of the older boys went out to hunt, while others rode their horses along the river. Five of the chieftains met under the trees by the council tent to enjoy a cup of ale and discuss the possibility of starting the council without Athlone.

  No one paid attention to the lone man, wearing a Bahedin cloak, who walked across the fields past the empty site where Clan Corin once camped, and sauntered into the market. For a while he walked aimlessly about, simply looking at the women and the booths. His hood was pul ed up to hide his face-a common enough practice on a hot, sunny day. He did not stop to talk to anyone, and no one bothered him.

  After a time, the stranger wandered over to the river. Every year the clansmen and the merchants erected a simple, temporary bridge across the shallows of the lower Goldrine River to simplify the crossing from many of the camps to the bazaar. The stranger crossed the bridge easily and walked up a path between the Bahedin and the Dangari camps, heading toward the shady point of land where the council tent stood.

  He was about to pass the Bahedin camp when he realized someone was behind him. He walked faster, but the clansman caught up with him and put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. The stranger's fingers curled in anger.

  "Excuse me,” a man's voice said. "Have you seen . . .” The speaker hesitated as the stranger turned and looked down at him. The man, an old weaver from the Bahedin, felt a strange shiver run down his back. "Oh, I thought you were someone else." He looked curiously at the tal , silent man, then took a closer look. His eyebrows drew together with consternation. "That cloak. Where did you get it? The embroidery on the hem looks like my son's."

  The stranger did not answer. He shoved off the weaver's arm and started to walk away.

  "Wait!" the Bahedin cal ed loudly. Alarmed now, he caught up again with the man and yanked him around. "Answer me! You're not Bahedin. Who are you?"

  The stranger clamped his hand around the weaver's neck and snarled, "The sorceress. Where is she?"

  The old man's eyes bugged out in fear. He tried to pull away, but the merciless grip only tightened around his neck.

  "Where is the sorceress?" the stranger hissed. He lifted the struggling weaver into the air with one hand. The Bahedin's face went red, then blue.

  Someone screamed close by. Al the people in the vicinity turned to stare and several came out of their tents. A short, elderly woman charged up the path, flung herself at the stranger's back, and pummeled him with her fists. She was screaming with fright and fury, and her cries brought people running.

  The gorthling cursed. He was not ready yet to draw so much attention to himself or his powers. He wanted to find the sorceress first. Annoyed, he threw the weaver to the ground and backhanded the woman with a stunning blow that sent her reeling into a wicker corral. His violent motion knocked his hood off, and the sun shone ful on his face. He paid no attention to the shocked clanspeople who gathered around the fal en couple. He ignored the shouts of the people behind him and continued walking down the path. Close by, a voice cried in stunned disbelief, "Branth! That's Lord Branth."

  Other clanspeople stared at the gorthling in open disbelief as he strode by. A loud, angry commotion was building in the two camps and spreading outward in ripples of outrage and disbelief as word of Branth's arrival flew from tent to tent.

  The gorthling's lips curled in a wicked grin. Let them yap, he thought. Perhaps the uproar would attract the sorceress and bring her to him. He was growing impatient. Although he studied every female he saw, he did not see any that matched the description of the clan's only magic-wielder. He passed the fringes of the Dangari camp and went down to the banks of the Goldrine.

  He glanced back and saw armed men advancing on him from the Dangari camp, sunlight glinting off their blades. Across the river, where the council tent stood in its grove of cottonwood trees, several clansmen were attracted by the loud commotion and gathered on the bank.

  Branth hesitated, looking up and down the river where other camps were clustered along the shores. Several women were standing in the shallows nearby, staring at him, their washing hanging from their hands. He was about to turn and head for another camp, when the armed warriors jumped him.

  Jubilantly they bound his hands behind his back and searched him for weapons. To their surprise, all they found was a heavy, leather-bound book in a pack slung on his shoulder. A huge crowd gathered, and many of the people shouted threats. Here at last was a scapegoat for some of their pent-up anger, grief, and resentment for the previous summer's bloodshed.

  The gorthling watched them with an ugly sneer on his face. He would go along with this farce for a little while longer, just to see if these noisy humans would take him to those who commanded their tribes. Their leaders might know where the sorceress was hiding.

  The Dangari warriors shoved Branth down the bank and hauled him across the river to where their chieftain stood, framed by the open entrance of the council tent. Much of the crowd fol owed, trampling through the water like a herd of horses. The Dangari brought their prisoner to stand before Lord Koshyn, Lord Sha Umar, Lord Wortan of the Geldring, old Lord Jol of the Murjik, and Wer-tain Guthlac. Together the men faced the bound prisoner while the crowd pushed around in a shouting, gesturing ring.

  Lord Koshyn held up his hand for silence. The onlookers gradually fell quiet as their curiosity got the better of their hostility.
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br />   Koshyn studied the man before him and tried to quel a growing uneasiness. He did not like Branth's strange arrival. No exiled man under penalty of death just wanders into a clan gathering without a powerful reason. Then, too, if Athlone went to Pra Desh to find Branth and Branth appeared at the Tic Samod---what did that say of Lord Athlone's fate? The Dangari narrowed his eyes. There was a strange aura of menace about the prisoner that made the hairs rise on Koshyn's neck. Something about Branth was very different.

  The chieftain turned to his men. "Was he armed?"

  "No, Lord. He only had this with him." One of the warriors handed the leather bag to the chief.

  Koshyn felt his hands grow cold when he looked in the bag. “The Book of Matrah," he said aloud.

  His uneasiness boiled into full alarm.

  Lord Jol drew a sharp breath and edged away from the book. The other chiefs looked at one another with mixed expressions of suspicion and confusion.

  After he handed the bag back to his warrior, Koshyn squared his shoulders. "You are under penalty of death,” he said to Branth. "Why did you come back?"

  The gorthling sneered. Death? That was a joke. He drew himself up to Branth's ful height and stared out over the crowd, looking for the sorceress. He still wanted to find her before he blasted these annoying mortals to burned bits.

  "Branth," Sha Umar said sharply, "you are condemned to die for conspiracy, treason, and murder.

  You can choose your own manner of death if you answer the question. Why are you here?"

  The gorthling had had enough of their questions. He turned his inhuman glance on the chieftains.

  "To be your master!" he said with cold, deliberate malice.

  The clanspeople reacted immediately. They surged closer, jostling and grabbing at the prisoner. The Dangari warriors struggled to keep them away until the chiefs could decide what to do.

  Koshyn's face flushed with rage. Yet even as his fury mounted, a warning cry sounded in his head.

  Branth had had the Book of Matrah in his possession for almost a year---plenty of time to learn sorcery.

  If that was the case, then the only way they could render him defenseless was to kill him, or at least knock him unconscious. While he could think, he could cast spel s; someone would have to deal with him, and quickly.

  Everyone's attention was on Branth, and the gorthling's attention appeared to be on the Dangari warriors that crowded around him. Without warning, Koshyn snatched a battle axe from the belt of a warrior beside him and brought it swinging toward Branth's head.

  It never landed.

  The gorthling saw the blurred movement out of the corner of his eye, then barked a spell that froze the chieftain in mid- motion. The clanspeople around them fell still, their eyes strained wide, their faces caught in expressions of disbelief and shock. The silence spread outward into the crowd until the entire council grove was quiet.

  The gorthling laughed and snapped the bonds around his wrists. "Now, worthless little man,” he hissed to Koshyn, "perhaps you can tel me where the sorceress is." He raised his hand and sent a powerful burst of energy sizzling into Koshyn's body.

  The excruciating pain ripped through the young Dangari. He screamed and fel to the ground in a writhing heap, unable to fight the torturous magic.

  The sight of the vicious arcane spell broke the crowded clanspeople's stunned lethargy. They backed away to put a wide space between themselves and Branth. The chieftains, even Lord Jol, drew their swords, and they and the Dangari warriors leaped in to try to save the young lord. The gorthling blasted them aside as easily as swatting flies, killing three of the warriors. He continued to torture Koshyn.

  "The sorceress!" Branth shouted furiously. "Where is she?"

  "She's not here,” Lord Sha Umar answered desperately. He picked himself up from the ground, his eyes pinned on Koshyn's writhing body.

  The gorthling's face twisted into a frightening mask of delight, hate, and rage that sickened the watchers. "Where is she?" He made a jabbing motion with his hand, and Koshyn screamed in agony.

  Sha Umar stepped forward, his hand raised in a pleading gesture. "We don't know. She went to look for you.”

  "She went to Pra Desh to find you,” Lord Jol cried. The old chief was on the verge of panic. "But she'll be here soon."

  Branth pounced on Jol's words. "Soon? When!"

  Wer-tain Guthlac spoke up. "No one knows."

  "Tell me, you worms, or this man dies!" Branth screamed. "I want the sorceress."

  "Then look behind you," a new voice cal ed from the edge of the grove.

  The men started in surprise.

  The gorthling whirled around and saw a young woman sitting astride a great black Hunnuli. He forgot about the men around him. His cruel mouth laughed in triumph, and his eyes began to glow red as the horse slowly paced toward him.

  Without hesitation Sha Umar and Guthlac grabbed Koshyn's arms and dragged the chieftain's body out of sight, behind the council tent. The other clanspeople fled hastily out of the way. In the chaos, no one remembered the ancient tome in its brown leather bag lying in front of the council tent among the fallen stools, the scattered personal belongings, and the three dead Dangari warriors.

  The gorthling sneered. "I've been looking for you, Sorceress.”

  "And I you,” Gabria replied. Nara stopped twenty paces away, and the woman and the gorthling studied each other. Even in the warm morning Gabria felt a chill. The man before her looked like Branth physically: tall, brown hair, muscular build, everything perfectly normal and human. Only his presence was different. There was a cold glint of merciless cruelty in his eyes and an aura of hostility in his every move.

  "We don't want you in this world,” Gabria said.

  The gorthling smirked. "Some people did."

  "Go back to your own realm,” she retorted. "You don't belong here."

  "It's too late, Sorceress. I am here to stay." Even as the words left his mouth, the gorthling fired a bolt of the Trymian Force at the woman.

  It came so fast Gabria was taken by surprise. However, the Hunnuli had been waiting for just such a move, and she reared high to protect her rider. The blue bolt struck her full on her chest, burst in a cloud of sparks, and evaporated harmlessly in the air.

  The mare snorted.

  Shaken, Gabria patted Nara in thanks and quickly formed an oblong clan battle shield with her arcane power. The magic shield was not as effective as a full force field, but it needed much less energy to maintain and would provide some protection. The gorthling came at her again and fired another bolt.

  This time she caught the force with the shield. Again and again Branth attacked, his barrage of sizzling blue blasts almost constant. He circled the Hunnuli to catch the woman from every angle, but either she or the mare blocked each blow.

  In the back of her mind Gabria prayed that a stray bolt would not hit some of the clanspeople hiding among the trees of the council grove or any of the onlookers across the rivers. The uproar of the battle had brought people running from all directions. They were crowding on the banks of both rivers and watching Gabria and the gorthling with mixed amazement and horror. Many of them had never seen an arcane battle before. Fortunately for Gabria, no one dared cross the river to the council grove, and those people who hid among the trees and around the tent stayed very low.

  Gabria made no move to take the offensive. She knew the gorthling's ability to enhance human powers would make him a formidable opponent, a sorcerer far stronger than Lord Medb. She hoped that by letting him expend his strength in this attack on her, she could wear him down enough so her powers would have an effect on him. Until then, she and Nara had to stay alert.

  Strangely, the gorthling had so far only used the Trymian Force against her. Either he was too arrogant to bother with other spel s, or he had not had enough time to study the more complicated spel s in the Book of Matrah. Gabria prayed his reason was the latter.

  The gorthling hurled bolts of the Trymian Force at Gabria an
d Nara, but he soon grew weary of the attack. He seemed to realize Gabria's intent was to simply avoid him, for he suddenly changed tactics.

  Instead of bolts that the woman could easily deflect with her shield, he threw balls of fire at the mare's feet that set the grass ablaze. Then he launched a spell that wrenched deep, wide cracks in the earth all around the horse.

  Nara was forced toward the gorthling while Gabria frantically tried to put out the fires and seal the cracks. Before she had time to snuff out all the flames, the gorthling fired at her again with the Trymian Force.

  Nara reared and caught one blast, barely avoiding a huge crack at her feet. The second hit Gabria's shield at a bad angle and nearly blew her off the mare.

  Out of desperation, the sorceress formed a complete protective shield around herself and Nara just long enough to recover her seat and get the mare away from the fires. To Gabria's relief, the gorthling did not try immediately to shatter her defense. He had hesitated and seemed to be breathing heavily.

  Gabria wondered if he was tiring at last.

  "What do I do?" she whispered frantically to Nara. "I can't hold this shield much longer."

  The big mare leaped over a crack in the ground and angled around Branth to safer ground. He is immortal, but his body is human. He is most vulnerable there, the mare suggested. He may not know all of his weaknesses.

  Gabria thought fast. Perhaps she could use his human frailties to destroy the gorthling's human body. If he was separated from Branth, it might be easier to trap or banish him. When the gorthling raised his arm to attack her again, she dissolved the arcane shield and formed her spel .

  Not knowing the intricacies of the human body, the gorthling had no defense against her magic.

  Black boils suddenly erupted on his flesh. The gorthling hesitated; a peculiar expression came over his face. His skin faded to a bilious yellow, and he doubled over in excruciating pain. "Sorceress,” he bellowed. "What is this?"

  Gabria did not answer. She breathed deeply to relax and regain her strength. Now it was her turn to use the Trymian Force. She drew the power from within herself and fired a searing blow at the gorthling.