“Thank you for the explanation, healer.” Cruk’s voice rumbled like an earthquake. “But shouldn’t you be doing something to save the boy?”
Karele refused to take offense. “I have been, Captain. Since Oorgat brought us out, I have not ceased to inquire of Aurae.”
“And?” Cruk prompted.
The solis gave a brief shake of his head. “I don’t know. Something here feels strange. I have striven to call Aurae and received no response, but the air feels odd, as if Deas is holding me back.”
“What happens if Oorgat convinces Owen to accept the spirit?”
Karele’s lips thinned, and his brown eyes darkened until they were almost black. “The malus will have him.”
Oorgat faced Owen, his gaze hot, intent. “Why did you dare the mountain passage, boy? Everyone knows the remnant lives in the cave.”
Owen shook his head. “Not anymore. We killed it.”
Oorgat laughed in derision, faced the men. “Do you hear him? They say they killed it. Don’t be ridiculous, boy. Its hide sheds spears and arrows like a mountain shedding snow in spring.”
Ablajin spoke. “Yet they are here, Oorgat. Who is to say they did not kill the beast?”
The theurgist reddened. “I say. Hold your tongue, Ablajin. This is the work of the holy.”
The chieftain shook his head. “I am jheng of the Wind Riders. It is my right to speak.”
“How did you kill this thing, boy?” Oorgat asked.
Owen shrugged his small shoulders in the oversized fur of his cloak. “We used bait to bring it out of the cave. The arrows and sword just bounced off of it, so I got it to chase me out onto the lake. The ice was thick enough to hold me but not the bezahl. It broke through. It was too heavy to swim.”
Oorgat’s face opened in astonishment as Ablajin translated Owen’s story to the horsemen around them. It was obvious he believed Owen’s story and just as plain he did not want to. Ablajin and the guards looked on the boy with respect bordering on admiration.
With a sneer, Oorgat leveled a finger at Ablajin. “Do not think this will save you.” He reached out with a thin, yellow-tinged arm and grabbed Owen, pulling him close. “What did you use for bait?”
The white showed around Owen’s eyes, and he struggled to break the theurgist’s grip. “We used one of the horses.”
Oorgat threw the boy to the ground. “Horse killers. What more do you need to hear?”
The looks the guards gave Martin carried death. On his right, Karele shuddered as if someone had taken his cloak. He stepped forward. “I would speak to the men of the steppes.”
“You will be silent, horse killer,” Oorgat said, “or I will slay you before your time.”
Karele ignored him, turned to the guards assembled there. “I am a master of horses.” He pushed back his sleeves to reveal the shape of a hoof print on the inside of each forearm. “Do men of the kingdom wear these?” He raised his arms as if he could defy the brunt of cold and judgment and turned a circle so the multitude clustered around could see the tattoos. A stream of Morgol flowed from him.
When he finished, he turned to Martin. “I may have just signed our death warrant.”
Rustling flowed through the crowd as one horseman after another placed a hand upon his sword. The faces, hundreds upon hundreds, remained as implacable as ever, but feet shifted and hands that weren’t holding weapons flexed as nervous tension moved through the Morgols.
Martin swallowed. A dozen different emotions crackled across his senses. “Deas have mercy, healer. Nerves were stretched taut already. What did you do?”
Karele squinted against a gust of wind, and for a moment he looked like one of the Morgols. “I demanded a vote of swords to determine whether or not I can speak on Owen’s behalf.” He turned to face Martin squarely. “The theurgists and the clan chiefs rule, but the power of the steppes lies in its horsemen. They all know this. I invoked an ancient tradition to bypass the theurgist’s power. He cannot deny me.
“Of course, if enough of them vote point down, they will kill us outright. We won’t be allowed to utter a word.”
Oorgat’s eyes bulged and streams of what sounded like Morgol curses echoed against the dying wind. More than one warrior’s gaze went flat, but Martin could not tell whether it was in agreement or offense. Something in his chest tightened, as if a fist had reached in to take hold of his heart.
When Oorgat paused, Ablajin stepped forward and proceeded to display a skill for speech and oration that rivaled Martin’s own. Though Martin couldn’t understand a word, he recognized a master at work. Ablajin’s cadence and tone rose and fell as he built to his conclusion. He paused from time to time, never so long as to lose his audience, only long enough to bind them closer to him. By the time he finished, most of the warriors were leaning toward him, awaiting his command.
Oorgat’s eyes raged with venom. The theurgist screamed.
Karele explained. “He demands a down vote. It would seem he believes having us killed outright is safer than letting me speak on Owen’s behalf.”
Ablajin stepped forward. His voice was raised, but it no longer resonated with persuasion. With an almost negligent wave of his hand he uttered a single phrase, then stepped back.
Karele chuckled. “That was brilliant. He told them he trusts his horsemen with his life, and a decision like this is a small thing compared to that.”
Martin nodded agreement. “I would like time to speak with your father, if we survive.”
Those assembled drew sabers, offered a salute to Karele that took in Martin, Cruk, and Luis, and then pointed with the tip, some up, some down.
Karele’s face knotted. “I didn’t expect that. It looks close. Oorgat’s influence in the clan runs deeper than I suspected.” He licked his lips. “They’ll have to count.”
The men divided themselves with the prisoners between them. One by one a man from each side came forward and the pair marched off to a separate area where they sheathed their weapons.
An hour passed, and the procession of men continued. Martin took the measure of the men remaining and turned to Karele with a smile. “We’ve won.”
Cruk’s voice rode across the chill. “Aye, but that only means the healer gets to speak. I don’t think Oorgat is going to let a temporary setback discourage him. The theurgist means for us to die, and he doesn’t look like the kind of fellow who changes his mind.”
Karele turned to him. “Captain, if there is treachery after the vote is decided, you must make sure no harm comes to Ablajin.”
“Why?” Cruk’s lumpy face twisted in unbelief. “I don’t like Morgols, and I know they don’t care for me. I’ve got a few scars I could show you to prove it.”
Martin took a small step to interpose himself between Cruk and Karele. The watchman’s dislike for Karele could threaten their alliance and even their survival. “Captain, the solis’s request is not lightly made. If Oorgat sees he cannot win, he will try to kill his most powerful adversary.” Martin’s gaze bored into Cruk’s as if he could dismantle his resistance. “If Ablajin dies, we die.”
Cruk’s mouth compressed. A moment later he nodded. “I have no weapon.”
Martin almost laughed. “You are more dangerous unarmed than most men would be with all the weapons they could carry.”
The watchman hissed. “Somebody’s going to try to stick me again. That kind of thing makes me irritable.”
The counting continued until the line of men with their swords held point down had been exhausted. With a snarl Oorgat stepped back, motioning for Karele to step forward and speak. Ablajin came to stand by Martin. “My son will speak in our language. Few warriors know the tongue of your kingdom. I thought you would like me to translate.”
Martin bowed. “I am honored, chieftain. I must confess that many of my preconceived notions were wrong.”
Ablajin smiled, conveying a wry sense of humor. “We are a people, much like any other, and a people must have traditions of courtesy, however different,
to govern their interactions.”
Martin felt his eyebrows creeping upward in surprise. He sensed in Ablajin an advanced intellect, despite the chieftain’s lack of formal education.
Karele bowed to each quarter of his audience and began.
Ablajin leaned in, pitching his voice so that Oorgat could not hear. “He begins by telling how the four of you came to find the boy Owen in a deserted village on the sunset side of the mountains.” He paused. “Now he is talking about how you planned to come to us through the passage my son used to leave us.”
A catch in Ablajin’s voice at this last broke yet another of Martin’s notions.
The chieftain’s face hardened, and he darted a grim look at Cruk. “He says the large one staked a horse as bait. That was poorly done. Horses are prized—better to use a goat.”
“There were none,” Martin said. “It was use a horse or use a man.”
After a moment Ablajin gave a terse nod. “Still, many of the warriors would have chosen to use a man.” He pointed. “Now he says . . .” Ablajin stopped, his mouth hanging open. When Martin moved to speak, the chieftain raised a hand for silence.
He spun to face Martin. “Is that true? Did the boy really risk himself for the horse?”
Martin nodded. From deep in his chest a thrill of pride in Owen spread warmth out to his chilled arms. Oddly, he thought also of Errol, and the warmth deepened.
Still speaking, Karele strode forward to draw Owen out from his guards so that the men could see him. Confused but compliant, Owen shuffled forward in his oversized fur boots. The lad looked ridiculous, but when Karele raised his arm, every warrior in the camp cheered. Ablajin joined them.
“You lie!” Oorgat spat. A ring of guards drifted forward to flank the theurgist.
Karele yelled above the din, and Ablajin’s voice whipped across Martin’s hearing as he translated. “He claims one of the men with him is a reader, a theurgist of the kingdom. My son says he can prove to any man that what he says is true.” Ablajin turned to face him, his expression a mixture of disbelief and amusement. “Do you really possess the talent?”
Martin shook his head. “Not me, him.” He sent a small gesture in Luis’s direction. Ablajin caught it, his eyes narrowing. “I know a little of the importance of such a one. Tell me, quietly, who you are.”
Martin paused. Cultured manners and intellect aside, this man was the kingdom’s enemy. In a matter of weeks he might lead one of the clans across the mountains to attack Illustra. But he could think of nothing to do but trust.
“The reader among us is secondus of the conclave. His name is Luis Montari. Cruk is the large fellow with the frown. He is a captain in the watch. The watch is—”
Ablajin waved. “My son has told me of your land and those who guard its king. Who are you?”
“My name is Martin Arwitten. I was once a benefice of the church.”
Karele’s father kneaded his cheek with one hand. “My son was ever impulsive. I almost had him killed once before he became my master of horses. Oorgat is desperate. If he finds out who you are, he will become more so.”
A change in the voices around them alerted Martin.
Oorgat shrieked a command, and the circle of men around him drew and charged.
“Down!” Cruk’s voice shattered the air.
Hands pushed Ablajin and Martin to the ground in a heap. Grunts and yells followed. Ablajin yelled and fought to push Martin off.
Martin rolled to see one of Oorgat’s men above him, sword raised. Ablajin’s kick took the man in the groin. A split second later a foot of steel erupted from the man’s chest. A hand grabbed the dying warrior as he fell, tossed him aside. Cruk’s bloody face appeared. He tossed them a pair of Morgol sabers even as he spun.
Ablajin grabbed one and whirled it twice around him in a blur while Martin levered himself to his feet. Three of Oorgat’s guards were down, but the rest were coming on, intent on reaching the chieftain. A pair of clansmen attacked the theurgist’s men from behind.
Martin spun with saber in hand, looking for attackers, but for the moment, the space around him cleared. Every Morgol held naked steel, but only Oorgat’s men fought Ablajin and a few of his men. The rest of the Morgols watched, wary and crouching.
Cruk stood like a boulder against the tide. Morgols flowed around him. Any who came too close were cut down.
Martin backed to Ablajin. “I can’t tell friend from foe.”
The chieftain parried a stroke that would have split his head and lunged. “Those with the red sash are Oorgat’s men.”
Martin ran in and cut one down from behind. He wound up next to Karele, his head swiveling, searching for the next threat. A man approached Ablajin from the rear, crouching, moving without a sound, his sword almost within reach.
Martin drew breath to yell, knowing he was too late. The saber rose.
A blur of arms and legs hit the man from the side, taking him down. Ablajin started in surprise and took the man through the throat. Owen, wearing blood and a smile, disentangled himself and stood.
Martin turned, searching for enemies, but the fight was over.
A pile of bodies surrounded Cruk, who stood eyes wild, as if he expected the entire Morgol nation to attack. He edged through the jumble of arms and legs to join Martin. “Where’s Oorgat?”
“And Luis.”
Ablajin stepped apart to address the massed horsemen who still stood with bared swords eyeing each other, unsure. “Would you follow a man who attacks during a vote of the Wind Riders? Put up your swords. Bring Oorgat to me.”
Karele’s translation was interrupted by a voice calling from the nearest tent. Luis stepped out and pointed inside. Ablajin said something crisp, and a pair of men entered the tent, dragged out an unconscious Oorgat, and dumped him at the chieftain’s feet.
Luis walked up wearing a sheepish grin. “I saw the theurgist slip away when the fight started to turn. I went after him and hit him over the head with a bronze urn.”
Ablajin snapped an order, and they dumped water on Oorgat. He woke sputtering threats. “What did you hope to gain, theurgist, by killing me?” Ablajin asked in Illustra’s tongue.
Oorgat spat. “Uluun promised me the Wind Rider clan if I could depose you. These pink-skinned foreigners offered an excuse as well as any other.”
“Who is Uluun?” Cruk asked.
Lines of worry creased Ablajin’s forehead. “Clan chief of the theurgists.” He put the edge of his sword to Oorgat’s throat. “Why would Uluun want me dead?”
Oorgat laughed. “Why should the Wind Riders be any different than the rest? All of the clans are now ruled by the holy.” He shook his head in derision. “You are the last of the clan chiefs, Ablajin. All have died at our hand, and there is nowhere for you to go. When winter breaks and we put the pink-skinned to the sword, Uluun will have the other clans kill you and your men.” His eyes grew cunning, and he pointed at Martin and the rest of them. “If you surrender to me, I will let you leave with these soft ones. Else, I will call the spawn to take you.”
Ablajin’s gaze grew thoughtful. “I would know why Uluun killed all the clan chiefs. We agreed to war.”
Oorgat laughed. “Uluun’s child saw betrayal. One of the chiefs will fight against him, but the child could not tell him which one.”
Luis nodded. “The theurgist’s art is murky. They seek answers to questions of the distant future. Even with the knowledge of the malus, the outcome is suspect.”
“Stupid kingdom man.” Oorgat’s face wrenched into a sneer of contempt. “Uluun saw your land overrun with the warriors of Merakh and the men of the steppes. There will be no escape for you.”
Ablajin pulled the edge of his sword from the theurgist’s throat, and Oorgat continued, “You show some sense at last, Ablaj—”
Oorgat’s last word changed to bubbling as Ablajin’s sword sliced through most of his neck. The theurgist tottered and fell into a puddle of his own blood, the look of surprise slowly fading from his ey
es.
The chieftain turned to Karele. “You are a son to make a father proud. Your unexpected arrival revealed Uluun’s plot against me.” He turned to address Martin and the rest. “Please join me and my companions in my tent. There is much that needs to be addressed.” He turned and called to the crowd of men. Twelve stepped forward. The rest milled for a moment, but it looked as if most of them were headed back to their dwellings.
“What does he want to discuss?” Martin asked Karele.
Ablajin turned at the question. “How to get my clan into your kingdom before the snow melts.”
Wild hope burned to life in Martin’s chest.
20
Toward the Defile
A RARE EAST WIND blew from the shadow lands and the foothills of the Sprata to fan the doubts Adora concealed with a straight back and a fierce smile. This far south the breeze carried as much threat of rain as it did snow.
She rode at the head of a contingent two hundred strong, Liam and Rokha on her right, Count Rula on her left, and Waterson out front. They all watched the cloud cover as if it had the power to bestow victory or defeat.
Liam and Rokha wore similar expressions; neither looked happy.
“Snow would be bad,” Liam said.
Rokha nodded. “Rain would be worse.”
“I don’t understand.” Adora hesitated to admit ignorance within Waterson’s hearing, but she required comprehension. “I thought snow or rain helped the smaller force.”
Liam chewed his lip, still staring in thought at the bank of clouds building like a wave to the east. “Normally you would be correct, Your Highness, but for the enemy we will face.”
Rokha’s expression became sharp, like a blade. “Those canis Waterson spoke of will hardly notice the poor footing caused by the weather. Horses’ hooves are clumsier in the mud than the pads and claws of the spawn.”
Adora followed their gaze skyward. “And we’re already outnumbered,” she said as a weight of stone settled in her stomach.
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