Peoren smiled a slow, assured smile as the first Turics topped the rise. The scouts had reported the disposition of the raiders perfectly. Five point riders rode ahead of the main body of men. As if on cue, they reined their mounts to a halt and stared at the ten men, their tiny fires, and the ten clan horses. Peoren and his companions jumped to their feet, as if in alarm. The Turics whooped with glee. One yanked up a horn and blew a signal to the riders coming up behind.
With an appropriate display of fear, the clansmen scrambled wildly to their horses, mounted, and set along the side of the high hill to escape.
The troop of raiders was a big one, numbering over two hundred mounted fighters. Some brought up the rear with strings of stolen horses and laden pack animals, but the majority drew their weapons and followed the escapees at a rush. After all, ten men were easy prey, and ten clan horses were a prize worth pursuing.
Led by a Shadedron guide, the fleeing clansmen raced down the back slope to the mouth of a valley that plunged deep into a range of plateaus and towering hills. They paced their horses at a gallop just fast enough to stay ahead of the chasing band of marauders. Down they swept into the valley, swung right along the streambed, then cantered swiftly upstream toward the cover of the tree-clad hills. The Turics pushed their horses harder to catch the clansmen before they escaped into the night.
Twilight darkened to a dismal gloaming, obscuring detail and washing out colour in a thickening blue-grey haze. Mist rose from the creek in curling tendrils that gathered in the hollows and spread out over the low-lying patches of bog. Snow still lay piled in drifts in the colder shadows of the hills.
The clansmen pushed on behind the Shadedron, a hunter who knew the hills as well as he did his own tent. Peoren brought up the rear and lagged slightly behind to taunt the Turic into continuing the chase over the poorly lit trail. The hillsides climbed higher above the stream, and the remaining snow grew deeper.
The clansmen were almost in range of the Turics’ crossbows when the valley curved sharply to the left and widened to form a fairly level open space devoid of trees and lightly drifted with snow. In the dense twilight the flat ground looked safe enough, and the Shadedron led his companions across to the foot of a high embankment. The Turics, coming past the curve, saw their prey’s escape apparently blocked by a high bank and yelled their battle cries while they spurred their horses directly toward the milling clansmen.
In their excitement, the Turics did not notice a pale, luminous glow on the ground beneath their horses’ feet. Camouflaged by the snow and the indigo twilight, the glow covered the entire level up to the base of the high bank where the clansmen waited with drawn swords. Atop the embankment in a cluster of brush and rocks. Lord Athlone watched the raiders and gauged his time. Gaalney and Morad, across the valley, watched too, and waited for the chieftain’s signal.
The charging Turics raised their tulwars and prepared to overwhelm the small band of clansmen. In the blink of an eye, the earth sagged beneath their horses. The pale fluorescence they had never noticed flicked out with a wave of Lord Athlone’s hand, and the hard crust the Turics mistook for soil dissolved into a quaking bog. The galloping charge turned into a thrashing, struggling, screaming quagmire of men, mud, and horses.
A few riders at the rear of the troop had not yet ridden onto the bog, but when they tried to turn around, a bright red wall of magic energy slammed into existence across the valley, blocking their way out. They reined to a stunned halt and watched over one hundred fully armed and vengeful clansmen silently rise from their hiding places and encircle the marauders.
The tribesmen still on firm ground guessed what their fate might be in the hands of the furious clans and chose to attack. They charged the nearest group of warriors and were brought down by arrows before they reached the first man. Another bunch at the front of the charge struggled toward Peoren and his men to cut them down. The Shadedron, sick with rage, met them hand-to-hand and killed several before Peoren stopped them. He looked into a square-jawed face with a scimitar nose and a killer’s eyes, and he recognized the leader of the band that had attacked Ferganan Treld.
This was a prize too good to lose. Peoren bellowed to Lord Athlone and stood back from his opponent as the sorcerer lord dropped down from his vantage point and fired a burst of magic at the Turic commander. The blue force laid the man unconscious. Twenty more Turics were hauled from the mud and taken prisoner. The rest either drowned in the black, clutching bog, were crushed by the terrified horses, or were killed by the clansmen.
By the time night was full, the ambush was over. The clansmen rescued what horses they could, patched the injured Turics, and left the dead to the scavengers. They returned back up the valley, gathering the stolen horses and plunder-laden pack animals as they went. They set up camp by the stream and ate a robust dinner. They were tired and saddened by the tragedies that had forced their assault, but they had been victorious, and one band of vicious marauders had been destroyed without the loss of a single clansman.
After their meal, the men sat by their fires to sing and tell tales and celebrate their success, while their chiefs looked over the prisoners. Two guards brought the Turic leader first, his hands and arms bound and his dark eyes furious, to stand before the clan lords.
Peoren nodded once. “This is the man who killed my father.”
“He was at Shadedron Treld, too,” said young Hazeth.
The Turic stiffened defiantly and glared at his captors.
“I have seen the horses they stole and the goods they plundered,” said Lord Wendern. “There is no doubt.”
Lord Fiergan, the red-haired Reidhar, growled, “Who are you? Why did you attack our trelds?”
There came no reply. The prisoner shifted on his feet, his expression sullen and determined.
Lord Athlone rose to his feet with the slow, deliberate intent of a stalking lion. No hint of emotion altered his cold features; nothing distracted his merciless stare from the prisoner.
The Turic’s eyes snapped to the sorcerer; he recognized the chieftain and knew his power. His swarthy face turned noticeably paler.
Wordlessly the chieftains watched Athlone walk to stand in front of the Turic. The guards moved away, leaving the prisoner alone with the Khulinin lord.
“You know the punishments we can mete out to vermin like you,” Athlone said in a voice as smooth and penetrating as steel. “You will wish for any one of those to end your agony if I am forced to deal with you.”
The Turic, who was nearly as tall as Athlone, tried to meet his gaze and failed. He edged back from the chieftain and looked wildly around to see if anyone was going to intervene, but the clansmen stayed where they were, mercy long gone from their thoughts. The Turic began to sweat in the chilly night air.
Athlone raised his right hand, his fingers inches from the man’s face. The Turic stared in growing fear. “Now,” the sorcerer continued, “who are you? And what can you tell us about the Fel Azureth?”
The Turic visibly blanched. Athlone’s fingers dropped until they lightly touched the prisoner’s forehead. “Talk!” he commanded.
By dawn Kelene and Gabria were wan and sore. It had been a miserable night, and the coming day that softened the black shadows and sent delicate beams of light dancing through the chinks in the wagon wall did little to lighten the gloom in the women’s hearts.
Still dozing, they were startled alert when the door slammed open and Zukhara strode in. His features looked thunderous but, without a word, he laid out their breakfast, freed their hands, and stood aside as they climbed stiffly to their feet. Kelene was ravenous and ate well. Gabria only picked at her food. Her jaw-was swollen and discoloured purple and blue; her skin was terribly pale. Only her green eyes blazed defiantly at Zukhara as she sipped the wine he had brought her.
No sooner had they finished than the counsellor replaced their bonds, tying their hands loosely in front of them. Kelene had little time to wonder why before he pulled a strange vial from the pocket
of his robe. Striking like an adder, he gripped Gabria’s injured face and turned it upward. He forced the vial into her mouth and poured its contents down her throat before she could overcome her pain and spit it out. Terror crossed her face.
“What have you done?” Kelene cried.
Satisfied, Zukhara replaced the stopper in the vial. “I have had enough of your disobedience. You would not take me seriously, so I offer you a new bargain. I have given Lady Gabria a slow-acting poison. If you obey me in all things, in ten days’ time I will give her the antidote. If you do not, she will die a long and painful death.” He paused and smiled a slow, malevolent smile. “Do not think to escape me and seek the antidote on your own. The poison is of my own making, and only I hold its cure.”
Indifferently he turned to the Hunnuli and slathered more of the thick sedative on their rumps. Giving the women a slight bow, he left them and locked the door behind him.
Even as the lock clicked into place, Kelene climbed to her feet. Her ankles were still tied, but the ropes had loosened enough to enable her to shuffle the short distance to Demira’s side. She grasped the hem of her tunic and tore a long, narrow strip off the bottom where it would not be immediately noticed. Bunching it in her hand, she rubbed the place on Demira’s hip where Zukhara had smeared his potion. To her relief, a thin film of greenish liquid came off on her cloth. She knew she had not removed all the sedative and that it would be a while before Demira revived, but this was a start. She carefully wrapped the fabric in a wad, the green stain hidden in the folds, and tucked it in her waistband.
She turned slowly and faced Gabria. “I do not trust Zukhara to keep his word. If Demira can escape, she can find Father, Sayyed, or Rafnir,” she said almost apologetically. She knew she was taking a big chance with Gabria’s life.
The sorceress nodded, her resolution clear. “This man must be stopped,” she said simply.
There fell a silence neither woman wanted to break. Gabria lay down on the pallet, too weary to stay upright. Kelene braced herself on the little bench and kept watch through the hours of morning as the wagon lurched and rumbled its way south in the wake of the caravan. The dust grew thick in the little room, and the air turned warmer.
It was noon, judging by the grumblings in her belly, when Kelene realized the van had noticeably slowed. The sorceress waited, scarcely breathing the dusty air. A moment later the van made a sharp turn to the right and dropped onto a rougher road. Kelene had to grab the small table for support, and the mares lurched sideways in their stall. Kelene noticed a ripple run through Demira’s hide from neck to tail, and the mare stirred her head before slipping back into her stupor.
The van stopped. In the quiet that followed, Kelene could hear the distant sounds of the caravan, and she was not surprised that the noises were dwindling away. Zukhara had said they would leave the caravan. Several voices murmured quietly outside, their tones too soft to identify.
Kelene glanced at her mother. Gabria appeared to be sleeping, so she decided not to waken her. But looking at her mother reminded her of Gabria’s conviction that someone had come after them. Kelene’s heart sank. If that were true, if Athlone or Sayyed or Rafnir had followed the caravan to find them, how would the me know where this wagon had gone? They could follow the Shar-Ja all the way to Cangora, hoping to find Gabria and her.
She would have to leave some sign and hope, slim as the possibility was, that someone would find it and recognize it. But what? If she left something of magic, Zukhara could see it and know her intent. It could not be anything large either, since she had no way to get a big object out of the van.
The wagon jerked and started forward along the rougher trail. Kelene’s hands flew to her braid and her red ribbon. It hung limp in her hands, bedraggled and dirty, but it was all she had. On her hands and knees she searched the floor of the wagon for a crack wide enough to push the ribbon through. Unfortunately, someone had rebuilt the bed of the old wagon, perhaps to hold the weight of the Hunnuli. There was not so much as a seam. She finally resorted to a fingernail crack in the wall beside the door. It was painstaking work to feed the limp ribbon through the crevice, and she prayed no one was riding behind the wagon. At last the red strip fell away and vanished to fall somewhere on the trail. Kelene’s prayers went with it.
They camped that night along the trail, and Zukhara brought their food and drink as usual. He spoke not a word to them, but roused Gabria, watched them eat, and swiftly returned outside.
As soon as she was finished, Gabria went back to sleep. Kelene lay beside her, worried at her mother’s lethargy. Sometime during the night, Gabria tossed in her sleep in the throes of a powerful dream. Kelene woke to her mother’s voice calling low and insistently, “Sayyed!”
The dream faded away, and Gabria lay still, her breathing so shallow Kelene had to strain to hear it. Was this another of her mother’s visions? Was it Sayyed who had come after them? That made sense to Kelene. He had the best chance of making his way through Turic territory. She dozed again, thinking of Sayyed and, most of all, his handsome, dark-haired son.
Zukhara’s entrance startled Kelene awake, and she lay blinking in the morning light that streamed through the open door while he laid out their food, dosed the mares, and departed, all without a word spoken. As soon as the door closed behind him, Kelene worked her way to Demira’s stall, and again she wiped off the thick sedative onto her rag. She put her hand on Demira’s warm hide. Her probing mind immediately touched the mare’s consciousness straining against the drug that imprisoned her body.
Ever so gently Kelene formed a spell that loosened the fabric confining Demira’s wings. The Hunnuli, sensing Kelene’s closeness, shifted restlessly.
Be easy, Kelene soothed. Wait and be patient. When you are alert enough, fly and escape.
No! Demira’s resistance rang in Kelene’s head. The mare was fighting the sedative with every ounce of her will. I will not leave you!
Please, Demira, you must! Mother has been poisoned. She will die if we do not have help. I think Sayyed has come to look for us. Find him! Bring him to us! You are the only one who can.
I cannot leave you, Demira repeated, but her thoughts were weak and confused.
Kelene leaned her head on the mare’s rump. “Please try,” she whispered. She returned to their table, roused Gabria, and tried to eat some food. Their breakfast that morning was simple—trail bread, dates, a wedge of. cheese, and mugs of a sweet, red juice Kelene had never tried before. She eyed the juice suspiciously, wondering if Zukhara had slipped a poison or sedative into her drink. Thirst finally won over, and she drained the drink to the dregs. It was overly sweet but had a rich, fruity taste.
Gabria merely sipped hers and lay back on the pallet. Zukhara returned to gather the mugs and plates. He smiled his cream-eating leer when he saw Kelene’s empty mug. “Did you enjoy the juice, my lady?” he asked pleasantly.
A warning buzzed in Kelene’s mind; her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“It contained a mixture I prepared especially for you.” He moved close to her, trapping her against the wagon’s wall. “If you are to be my chosen handmaiden, you must be receptive to my seed. I intend to father a dynasty of sorcerers with you.” He brushed a strand of hair away from her face and softly kissed her forehead.
Kelene froze. The mingled smells of his clothes and the warmth of his body enveloped her; his tall weight pressed against her. She tried to struggle, but the ropes held her hands, and his strength trapped her helplessly against the wooden wall. “I can’t have babies,” she ground out between clenched teeth.
“You will,” he chuckled close to her ear. “This is an old Turic midwives’ remedy. It works well to light a fire in a barren womb.”
“The better to burn your seed,” she hissed.
Zukhara laughed outright. He stepped back and picked up the mugs. “Today we reach my fortress, where my last weapon awaits. There your work will begin... and our pleasure.” Still chuckling, he left, and in moments the v
an jerked forward on its last leg of the journey.
Kelene could keep her anger down no longer. A raging scream tore from her throat, and she picked up the small bench and smashed it against the table. Both table and bench cracked and splintered into pieces. Outside, Zukhara’s voice rose in derisive laughter.
The travel that day was long and difficult as the wagon lurched and bumped along a poor, unkempt road. Although Kelene had no idea where they were, the wagon seemed to be climbing ever higher. Hours passed. She felt the electrical energies of the coming storm long before she heard the muted rumble of the thunder.
The light in the wagon’s interior dimmed to a greyish pallor. The wind began to pummel the vehicle’s sides. Kelene could hear the crack of the driver’s whip and the nervous neighs of the team. Voices shouted on both sides, and the thunder boomed closer.
In her stall Demira lifted her head. Her nostrils flared at the smell of the coming storm. “Patience,” Kelene said to the mare.
The light was nearly gone by the time the wagon rumbled off the dirt road and clattered onto a stone-paved surface. The van made one final rush upward, then came to a stop. New voices called, orders were shouted, and Kelene heard the creak and thud of what sounded like a large door being opened. The wagon rolled forward a short distance.
Abruptly the door opened, and Zukhara climbed in. He untied their ropes and hurried both women outside. Gabria was hollow-eyed and groggy and had to lean on Kelene’s arm. Kelene glanced quickly around. The storm was almost overhead, and the lightning cracked around them. She could barely make out a high stone wall with several dark squat towers, and to her left a long hall and a high keep.
“Bring the Hunnuli!” Zukhara shouted, turning to hustle his prisoners out of the storm. Rain splattered on the stone paving.
Winged Magic Page 15