Winged Magic

by Mary H. Herbert

  Athlone, Sayyed, and Rafnir looked at one another, their minds coursing along the same track. Other chiefs and clansmen clustered around the roaring fire, but to the three men they seemed only a distant, murmuring part of the background. For the sorcerers there was only their common anger and burning anxiety for their wives and kinswomen.

  Sayyed spoke first, his dark eyes glittering in the shifting light of the fire. “The Turics had some hand in this.”

  There was no firm evidence to back him up, and yet Athlone nodded in agreement. “None of the clans could profit by their capture.”

  “What about exiles or even strangers on our land?” Rafnir ventured.

  Athlone pondered those possibilities, then shook his head. “It would have taken a fair number of men to capture and hide two Hunnuli, Gabria, and Kelene. They must have been taken by surprise. I don’t think a large group could have slipped past all our outriders without leaving some trail. Whoever it was struck fast from close by and fled where we can’t follow.”

  “What if they weren’t captured? What if they’re dead?” Rafnir said miserably.

  The stallion Tibor laid his muzzle gently against the young man’s chest. I do not believe they are dead. I would surely know if Demira had left this world.

  And Eurus, who had run with Nara for twenty-six years, nickered his agreement. Hunnuli had the capacity to make powerful mental and emotional connections with their riders, so powerful that many Hunnuli sought death on their own if their rider died before them. This deep mental attachment was often extended to each other as well. Hunnuli such as Eurus and Nara, Tibor and Demira, whose riders were passionately in love, mated for life.

  If Tibor said Demira was still alive, then Kelene must be, too, and Rafnir accepted his word wholeheartedly. He rested his brow on the stallion’s wide forehead. “We will go after them,” he declared.

  “The council is over,” Athlone said, sweeping his hand in a sharp gesture. “Pack your gear. We’ll leave—”

  Lord Fiergan bullied his way into their midst, and his commanding voice rang over the snap and crackle of the fire. “Don’t be a fool, Athlone. You can’t just ride into Turic territory and demand your women back. They’d either laugh at you or kill you. You don’t even know who took them. Could have been the Shar-Ja, those crazy fanatics, or even that cold fish, Zukhara. Maybe the women were taken to lure you over the Altai and into a trap.”

  “Lord, he’s right,” Gaalney put in fervently. “And if you crossed the river and tried to pass yourself off as a Turic, you wouldn’t get far! You don’t look enough like one. Please listen! You’re too important to us to lose. You can’t leave the clan for a venture this dangerous.”

  “Venture!” exploded Athlone. For once his temper got the best of him, and he turned on both men with fury raw on his face. But before he could vent his anger, another sound reached the ears of the clansmen, a sound that froze them where they stood and turned every eye to the east. Beyond the edge of the fire, in the swirling darkness, the dull drumming of hoofbeats pounded closer and closer.

  “Lord Wendern!” wailed a frantic voice.

  The Shadedron chief lunged forward several paces. “Here! I’m here. Is that you, Hazeth?”

  “Lord Wendern!” the voice cried again, and out of the night, guided by the bright beacon of the fire, came a dark horse carrying an apparition of ice and snow and blood. The exhausted horse staggered into the firelight, its sides heaving and its nostrils red as flame. Steam poured from its drenched hide, and its legs shook from its effort.

  The figure on its back, swathed in a snow-blanketed black cloak, slid sideways and fell into the arms of his chief. Blood from a head wound had frozen in rivulets down the young rider’s face, and another wound on his shoulder had left a hard, icy crust on his cloak. Even so, in spite of his injuries and exhaustion, the boy struggled to remain on his feet.

  “The treld has been attacked, my lord,” he panted. “By Turic raiders!”

  This time, the bad news had come in a set of four.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Lord Athlone, please!” Wendern pleaded. “Please see reason. Hazeth says the raiders attacked yesterday before the weather turned foul. They could not have made it to the river yet. In this snow they’ll be holed up somewhere, ready to bolt as soon as the sky clears. If we leave now, we can cut them off. We have a chance to put an end to this raiding for good!”

  “Your logic is persuasive, Wendern, but you don’t need me. I have to go seek my wife!” responded Athlone adamantly, and he squared his shoulders as if to fend off further argument. He turned his back on the Shadedron chief and continued to pack his gear with an urgency bordering on frenzy. The other chiefs had returned to their own parts of the camp to organize their men and prepare to leave at first light, but Wendern had followed Athlone to his own tent and stood shifting from foot to foot, the blood of his youngest warrior still staining his hands.

  Wendern was one of the new chiefs, a robust, middle-aged man who had won his torque three years ago when the previous chief died in the plague. He was a strong, capable leader, but he had no experience in warfare and little idea how his clan had fared in the attack. He truly did need help, Athlone acknowledged, help that would have to come from someone else, Gabria and Kelene were more important.

  Athlone slammed a waterskin onto his pile of gear and had just reached for the bag containing his flint and firestone when a sound at his tent flap interrupted him.

  “What is it?” he growled, barely pausing in his activity.

  A choked gasp from Wendern brought Athlone around, hand on dagger hilt, to see two Turics standing in the entrance. Their long-sleeved brown robes were starred with snow, and their burnooses gleamed white as the moon. They appeared to be unarmed. The first man stepped quietly into the tent, the second close on his heels. Because the ends of their burnooses were wrapped across the lower halves of their faces to protect them from the stinging wind, only the Turics’ dark eyes could be seen. The first Turic’s eyes seemed to crinkle in some sort of amusement.

  He touched his fingers to his forehead and his chest in the Turic form of salute and greeted Athlone in the tribal language.

  Athlone’s hand dropped. If the garb wasn’t familiar, the voice was. “Sayyed,” he said, exasperated, “don’t you think that’s rather dangerous at the moment? Someone could take offence and put an arrow through you.”

  Sayyed chuckled as he pulled the cloth away from his face. “It proves my point though.”

  “Which is?”

  “That I should seek Gabria and Kelene beyond the Altai, while you go after the marauders with Lord Wendern.”

  “No. I am going to find Gabria.”

  “Athlone, listen!”

  The chieftain hesitated, his attention caught by the intensity of his friend’s voice.

  Sayyed crossed his arms and said, “Gaalney had a point. You do not look like a Turic, nor act like a Turic, nor have any hope of ever speaking like a Turic. If you go over the river, you will be an invader, and no one will help you. Fiergan was right, too. We have no proof who took Gabria and Kelene. We need someone on this side of the border to eliminate other possibilities.”

  Athlone was still, his face unreadable, his big body held with such tight control that the knuckles of his hands were white. Wendern stayed wisely silent, leaving the arguments to a stronger voice than his. The second Turic, too, was quiet and watchful.

  “I propose you go with Wendern and cut off the escape of the raiders. There are not enough warriors close enough to help. The Ferganan have their own troubles; the Wylflings and the Khulinin are too far away. There are only the chiefs and their men. They need a sorcerer to help.”

  “Gaalney and Morad can go,” Athlone said forcefully.

  “Gaalney and Morad are not leaders! They are not even wer-tains. They’ve never fought in battle. They are not Lord Athlone! If Lord Athlone, the renowned sorcerer lord of the Clans of Valorian, moves against the invaders of the Ramthar
in Plains it will send a message to others who consider our people too weak to fight.” He raised a finger and shook it at the chief. “And don’t forget the Shar-Yon. Other Turics may want revenge against us for killing Bashan. If you are here defending the borders, the Turics may think twice about attacking us in force.”

  Athlone grunted. “You give me too much credit.”

  “That’s dung and you know it. Wendern needs you. Not Morad or Gaalney. Of course, if you capture those raiders, you might have a bargaining chip to ransom in exchange for Gabria and Kelene. Whoever took them took pains to remove even the Hunnuli. They wanted the women alive.”

  Athlone’s expression lost a little of its ferociousness as Sayyed’s words sank in. His friend’s arguments made sense to Athlone’s mind; it was just his heart that had to be convinced. “And what are you going to do if I go haring off after brigands and thieves?”

  Sayyed bowed slightly. “My companion and I intend to infiltrate the Shar-Ja’s caravan, learn of the women’s whereabouts, and free them at our earliest opportunity.”

  “Your companion?” Athlone asked dryly.

  The second Turic tugged his burnoose free and smiled wanly at his father-in-law. “Father thought it was time I learned more about the other side of the family,” replied Rafnir.

  Athlone’s knees seemed to collapse, for he sat down abruptly on the cushions in the centre of the tent. Gabria’s teapot and the two cups were still on the low table where she had left them, and the coals in the brazier were still warm. The chief’s gaze went from one man to another in a long, pondering stare, while his mind struggled to choose the best path.

  “Eurus!” he suddenly bellowed. When the Hunnuli poked his head in the flap, Athlone jabbed a finger at Sayyed. “Did you hear what he said?”

  The stallion’s head bobbed yes.

  “We must also consider Nara and Demira, so I ask you, what do you suggest?”

  Eurus, one of the oldest Hunnuli in the clans and one of the few horses to have run wild with the King Hunnuli, had grown wise during his years with humans. He replied simply, Sayyed has a better chance to find Gabria and Kelene. You would have a stronger hand against the Turics if the raiders are stopped.

  “And you’re willing to let Afer and Tibor go without you?”

  I would hardly tell you to go somewhere if I were not willing to follow.

  “But,” Wendern offered almost apologetically, “they can’t take the Hunnuli into the Turic realm. The horses would be recognized immediately.”

  Rafnir gestured outside. “Come see. We’ve already taken care of it.”

  The men trooped out into the night. The wind had slowed a little, and the snowfall was lighter. With the help of the gods, Athlone thought, the storm would blow over by the next day. He patted Euras and glanced around, expecting to see Afer and Tibor. All he saw were two large horses bridled, saddled with deep-seated Turic saddles, and tethered to the tent peg.

  The horses seemed to be black, although in the darkness it was hard to tell. One had a small star on his forehead, and the other had two white socks on his forelegs. There was no sign of the Hunnuli’s usual white lightning mark on their shoulders or any of the breed’s power and grace. The two stood, noses down against the wind, looking anything but regal.

  “Nice animals,” Wendern commented. “Where did you find mounts so big?” Then to his amazement, one of the horses lifted its head and nickered at him. His jaw dropped.

  “You can’t be serious,” Athlone chuckled. “How did you get Hunnuli to wear tack?”

  It was Afer’s idea, Tibor complained, shaking the saddle on his back. Only for Gabria and Kelene would I do is.

  Sayyed laughed. “They even suggested the dye to hide their shoulder marks and the white paint to decorate their coats. If no one looks too carefully, and they keep their wits, they’ll pass.”

  Athlone decided he could hardly fight such a united front. He embraced his friend and his son-in-law in gratitude. “You have my permission to go,” he said, too overcome with sudden emotion to say all that he felt he should tell them. But he did add one more admonition. “If I don’t receive a message from you in the next fifteen days, I will gather the clans and march south after you!”

  A pale glow softly tinted the eastern horizon by the time the clansmen discovered the Shar-Ja’s entourage had already left. A heavy guard still patrolled the southern bank, but only a small camp remained where the day before the entire meadow was filled with the rounded Turic tents. Most of the wagons were gone, too, including the Shar-Ja’s elaborate, covered vehicle.

  Sayyed shrugged when he heard the news. “They can’t have gone far in this weather. We’ll find them.”

  The clan camp quickly disappeared as well, the traveling tents and supplies loaded in wagons or on pack animals. The snow still fell in fitful showers through air damp and cold, but it was the last gasp of a storm already dying. That morning the sky looked dove grey instead of the steely blue of the day before, and the wind had left to blow its mischief elsewhere.

  As soon as it was light enough to distinguish detail and colour, Sayyed brought his prayer rug out of his pack and laid it carefully on the bare patch of ground left by Gabria’s tent. He knelt in the time-honoured tradition of the Turic to pay homage to his god at sunrise. Twice a day he prayed, bowing to the south where his fathers believed the sacred city of Sargun Shahr was located. Although he had lived with the clans for twenty-six years and participated in some of their festivals, Sayyed still practiced the religious beliefs of the Turics and still carried the love of his god deep in his heart. He was grateful the clanspeople were not fanatical about their religion and had not tried to convert him. In respect to clan ways, he had allowed Rafnir to be raised in the traditions of Amara, Lord Sorh, Surgart, and Krath, telling his son only the meanings behind the different beliefs.

  That morning, though, as he knelt in the cold light, he slanted a glance over his shoulder and saw Rafnir watching him. “Get a rug,” he ordered. “You don’t have to believe, but if you’re going to be a Turic for a while, you need to pretend.”

  Rafnir gladly obliged. He spread out a horse blanket, knelt beside his father, and bowed his head. Wordless and attentive, he listened to the lines of his father’s prayers. The words were ones he had heard as far back as he could remember. They were songs really, songs of praise and gratitude and hope for a new day, and they rolled off Sayyed’s tongue with salutary humbleness and joy. There was comfort to be found in the phrases, and Rafnir found himself repeating them after his father. The deities addressed may have been different, but the heartfelt sentiments of each man’s prayers were the same.

  By the time they were finished, the chiefs had gathered their men to leave. Sayyed and Rafnir rolled their rugs, loaded their bags behind their saddles, and threw clan cloaks over their Turic garb. They joined the mounted warriors and rode with them toward the rising sun. On Council Rock, the huge tent sat empty and abandoned, its task unfulfilled. Across the Altai, the Turic rearguard watched the clans ride away.

  The chiefs were forced to set a slow pace for the morning because of the drifted snow and the snow-encrusted ice beneath the horses’ hooves. The warriors rode carefully, paralleling the Altai River toward the ruins of Ferganan Treld. If all went well, they would reach the sand hills south of Shadedron Treld in time to cut off the Turic raiders’ retreat over the border river.

  Sayyed and Rafnir rode with the clans for nearly an hour until they reached the next passable ford on the swollen river. On a small knoll overlooking the Altai, they stopped with Lords Athlone, Wendern, and Bendinor.

  Sayyed pulled off his cloak. He felt a genuine sadness when he passed it over to Athlone, a tug of regret he had not expected. True, he was secretly excited about returning to the Turic lands, but he had lived with the clans longer than the tribes, and he realized the Ramtharin Plains were now and forever his home. He grinned at Athlone, lively mischief suddenly glinting in his eyes, and he saluted his lord as a clansma
n. “Until we ride together again, Athlone.” He waved, then urged Afer into a canter down the slope to the river. His voice, lifted in the wild, high-pitched ululation of the Turics, sounded eerily on the still morning air.

  Rafnir tossed his cloak to Bendinor, sketched a salute to Athlone, and turned Tibor after Afer. The lords watched as the two black horses ploughed across the river and emerged dripping on the other side. In a moment the two were gone, lost to sight beyond a belt of trees.

  For a while Athlone sat rigid on his stallion, his gaze lost on the southern horizon. It took all of his strength to sit still and not send Eurus galloping after Afer and Tibor. Fear for Gabria clung to the Khulinin Lord like a wet cloak, and he wanted to challenge it directly, not delegate such vital responsibility to someone else. But Athlone was shrewd enough to accept the truth: he would be more effective north of the border in his own territory.

  Silently he breathed a prayer, to Amara rather than Surgart, that the gods keep watch over his wife, his daughter, and the two men who risked so much to find them. At last he nodded to his companions and turned Eurus east, his thoughts already ranging ahead to Shadedron Treld and the hunt for the killers of his people.

  It was midafternoon by the time Sayyed and Rafnir caught up with the Shar-Ja’s caravan. Sayyed had been right; it had not moved far in the snowy night, only going a few leagues deeper into tribal territory before stopping again. The huge cavalcade had been underway since early morning, traveling slowly along a beaten caravan road toward Angora, apparently in no hurry to reach its destination.

  A large covered wagon, draped in black and royal blue, carried the coffin of the dead Shar-Yon at the head of the caravan, and a procession of priests and royal guards surrounded it. Word of the death had already passed ahead, for the road was lined with mourners and spectators who came from nearby settlements to pay their respects to the royal dead.

  The weather seemed to reflect the sad occasion with a low roof of clouds and a faint mist that teared everything in drops of glistening dew. As so often happened in spring storms, this one lost its ferocity on the northern plains. By the time it crossed the Altai and hit the arid, warm winds of the desert realm, its teeth were gone. The icy snow lasted barely five leagues into the Turic lands before it turned to mud and melted away. Only the clouds and the mist remained of the storm that had swept the Ramtharin Plains.