Winged Magic

by Mary H. Herbert

  At the sound of the horns, the men took their positions. The Fel Azureth, the fist of Zukhara, took the honoured place in the vanguard, their highly trained units riding like members of the Shar-Ja’s own cavalry on fleet horses. Behind them rolled the Shar-Ja’s wagon with its prisoner under tight guard. Then came the other combatants, some in orderly ranks on foot, some in mounted troops, still others — mostly rabble and hangers-on who had come for the loot, the thrill or motives of their own — marched in crowds at the rear. Behind them were the supply wagons, camp followers, and a unit of the Fel Azureth who kept vicious order on the trailing mobs.

  The army set out under Zukhara’s watchful scrutiny and soon reached the wreck of the Shar-Ja’s grand caravan. Several days in the late spring sun had wrought havoc on bodies already torn by weapons and the teeth of scavengers. The stench along that stretch of road was thick and cloying and as heavy as the clouds of flies that swarmed through the ruins. The men wrapped the ends of their burnooses over their mouths and noses and pushed on, paying little heed to the dead.

  Overhead, on the wings of the gryphon, Kelene tried not to look at the carnage below. She felt bad enough having to forward Zukhara’s cause with her presence, without witnessing the bloody results of his ambition. She prayed fervently he would not order her to use her magic against the Turics. So far, his own power had been enough to awe and terrify his people, and she hoped that his pride would prevent him from seeking overt aid from a woman. But who was to say? If the city of Cangora bolted its gates against him and his army had to lay siege to it, he might be angry enough to force her hand. His arcane prowess was growing by the day, but the power of a fully trained sorceress could open an unwarded city in short order.

  Kelene patted the gryphon’s neck. Rafnir, she silently cried, I need you. Where are you?

  She had no way of knowing that on that day Rafnir was far to the north, across the Altai with her father and the clan chiefs, preparing the werods for war.

  That same morning, leagues behind Zukhara’s army, the riders of the Clannad crested a high ridge and looked down on the dusty, beaten path of the Spice Road on the flatlands below.

  “This is as far as I can lead you. Lady,” the guide said gruffly. “I have never travelled beyond these hills.”

  Helmar studied the road from one horizon to the as far as she could see. At that moment it was empty. “You have done well, thank you. The trail is clear now for all to see.”

  Rapinor looked sceptical. “You want us to go down there?” All the warriors stared at the open road as if it was a poisonous snake.

  “Too long a solitude makes a heart of fear,” Helmar responded, and she urged her mare into a trot down the hillside. The warriors did not hesitate further but followed after her straight, unyielding back.

  They have been hiding for so long, it has become habit, Afer commented.

  “And how do you know that?” Sayyed inquired, still watching Helmar ride down the slope.

  Helmar told me. I like her. Most of the Clannad are magic-wielders, you know. But she became chief because she proved herself to be the most talented.

  “No,” Sayyed said, almost to himself. “I didn’t know. And did she also tell you how they came to be hidden away in the Turic mountains?”

  Not yet, the stallion nickered. But I could make a few guesses.

  “So could I,” Sayyed replied thoughtfully. “So could I.” He folded his golden cloak into a tight roll, tied it behind his saddle, and wrapped his burnoose around his head. If need be, he could pretend to be a Turic escorting new troops to Zukhara’s war. He didn’t know what they would find on the road ahead, and he did not want to give Zukhara any warning that more sorcerers were coming after him.

  He glanced critically at Demira shifting impatiently by his side, and he realized there was no possibility of disguising her long wings. There was only one thing he could think of that might explain her presence.

  A halter! she neighed. That is humiliating!

  No more than this saddle! If I can wear tack, so can you. For Kelene! Afer told her severely.

  So they left the mountains, a Turic on a big black horse, leading a winged Hunnuli mare. If anyone asked, Sayyed would tell them he had captured the mare and was taking her to the Gryphon.

  Strangely enough, no one did ask that day, for though the road soon became busy, no one dared stop the strange troop of hard-eyed warriors jogging purposefully along the side of the road. Other groups of mounted or marching men travelled south toward Cangora, and a few refugees fled north. But not one person tried to join the troop or talk to any of its riders. They only stared as the white horses trotted by.

  The sun was nearing its zenith when Afer, Demira, and the white horses flared their nostrils and began to toss their heads. An erratic breeze blew hot and dry from the desert, and on its skirts came the unmistakable smell of unburied dead.

  In the open, nearly treeless land the riders saw the scavenger birds and the remains of the massacred caravan for a long way before they reached the first burned wagon and decaying bodies. A few birds squawked at the intruders and flew farther down the road to settle on another spot. Some of the dead had already been claimed and taken away for burial, but many more still waited on the sandy ground among the dead horses and scattered debris.

  Helmar brought her troop to a stop. “We may not ever know if we do not look,” she said to Sayyed, who was grateful for her concern.

  They spread out in pairs along the long strip of road and carefully searched each wagon, body, and heap that belonged to the Shar-Ja’s caravan. No one had a real hope that they would find Hydan, Hajira, or Tassilio among the wreckage, but if they found the bodies, at least they would know. Sayyed worked tirelessly in the search, since he and Afer were the only ones who could recognize Hajira and Tassilio, and while he saw a few faces he vaguely recognized, he found no one to match the description of the boy and his black-clad guard.

  He reached the last cluster of wagons near what had been the front of the caravan and walked slowly among the ruined vehicles. Several of them had been stripped of anything usable by looters, but there was one on its side some distance from the others that looked familiar and still intact. He strode toward it, and suddenly two things happened at once. A horse neighed somewhere behind it, and a large dog leaped out of the interior and charged toward Sayyed. Its wild barking filled the quiet and drew everyone’s attention. A warrior nearby drew his bow, but Sayyed yelled at him to put it away, and he held out his hands to welcome the dog. The big animal, whining and barking in delight, planted his paws on the man’s chest and licked his face clean.

  “Sayyed!” cried a familiar voice. A lean young figure burst out of the wagon’s door and joyously flung himself in the embrace of the sorcerer. Between laughter and tears, Sayyed calmed down boy and dog enough to get a good look at them. They were both stretched tight with hunger and the shadows of fear, and Tassilio’s face had lost what was left of its boyish innocence. But, the god of all be praised, he was unharmed.

  He gazed up at the clansman with huge eyes, and every pent-up word came tumbling out. “Sayyed, you’re here! I prayed you would come. And look at the horse with wings! Is that Demira? Did you find Kelene and Gabria? Who are these people? Where is—”

  Sayyed raised a hand to stem his rush of wild words. “Tassilio, where is Hajira?”

  The boy led him to the wagon, talking rapidly as he went. “Hajira knew it would happen, you know. A strange man told him just before it started. Hajira stayed close to the Shar-Yon’s wagon, and the minute he realized we were under attack, he threw the driver off and drove as far as he could before we were hemmed in by the fighting; then he loosed the horses, tipped the wagon over, and forced me inside. He thought no one would bother the funeral wagon.”

  He scrambled inside. Sayyed stooped to look in the covered vehicle. The Shar-Yon’s sealed casket had been respectfully covered with the royal blue hangings and pushed to the side that had once been the roof, formi
ng a narrow space between the wagon floor and coffin. There on a makeshift bed lay his brother, a crude bandage on his shoulder, another tied to his thigh.

  “He was awake a while ago,” Tassilio said, his voice quivering. “But now he won’t wake up.” Despite his strength and growing maturity, tears filled his eyes, tears brought on by exhaustion, grief, and overwhelming relief. He swiped them away with a dirty sleeve.

  A grimace on his face, Sayyed stood to call Helmar and her healer. She was already there behind the wagon, standing with a crowd of her riders by a lone white horse and looking stricken. Something long and very still, wrapped in a shroud of royal blue, lay on the ground at the horse’s feet. Sayyed felt a hand on his arm, and he looked down at Tassilio’s unhappy face gazing at the mound.

  The boy cleared his throat and said, “I don’t know who he was. He came that morning, looking for Hajira. They were talking when the fighting started. He stayed with us and defended the wagon when some of the Fel Azureth came after us.” Tassilio paused to wipe his eyes again. Helmar and her warriors had turned to listen to him, and he met the chief’s regard directly as if he spoke only to her. “He was very brave. He fought beside Hajira, and he saved my life, you know. He took a sword thrust that was meant for me. When the attackers went away, they thought everyone was dead. I helped Hajira into the wagon, but I couldn’t help the stranger. I could only cover him and keep the vultures away. I don’t even know his name.” The tears suddenly me in earnest and slid unchecked down his cheeks.

  The lady chieftain knelt on one knee in front of Tassilio and offered a cloth for his face. “His name was Hydan,” she said softly. “He was my swordsman, and yes, he was very brave. Like you. I am glad to know he died well, and I thank you for taking care of him.”

  Her simple, direct words were what Tassilio needed to hear. He took the proffered cloth, giving her a tremulous smile in exchange, and vigorously scrubbed his face. When he emerged from behind the cloth, his tears were gone, and he looked closer to his normal self.

  Sadly the Clannad riders tied Hydan’s wrapped body onto the back of his horse. Helmar took the horse’s muzzle in her hands and leaned her forehead against his to say good-bye. “Take him home,” she murmured. The horse neighed once, a grief-filled, lonely call; then he trotted away with his heavy burden.

  “Where is he going?” exclaimed Tassilio, astonished.

  “He will take his rider home to be buried with honour,” the chief answered, distracted by her own thoughts.

  “How does he know where to go? Do you live close by? Who are you, anyway?” Tassilio was definitely returning to normal. He didn’t even wait for an answer but grabbed Helmar’s arm and pulled her to the wagon where Sayyed had returned to tend Hajira.

  The Clannad healer quickly answered Helmar’s summons, and willing hands moved Hajira out to a shelter rigged by the wagon box that gave the healer more room to tend the injured man.

  After a thorough examination, the healer told Sayyed and Tassilio the good news. “His wounds are not dangerous. The worst of his malady is dehydration. He needs liquids and plenty of them. If he can get through the next few hours and stave off infection, he should be fine.”

  Tassilio whooped and danced around the tent with his dog.

  True to the healer’s word, Hajira revived under a steady treatment of water, honeyed tea, and finally broth. In the late afternoon, he surprised everyone by sitting up and insisting rather forcefully that Sayyed take him and the boy out of this stinking, fly-infested, pestilential wreck. The healer agreed, and the riders very thankfully obliged. They built a makeshift cart for the guardsman out of several broken wagons, hitched it to a horse, and left the massacred caravan behind.

  Sayyed rode beside Hajira part of the way and told him what had been happening. The wounded man listened, his eyes half-closed, and when Sayyed completed the tale, his haggard face lit with amusement. “Only you, my brother, could go into those mountains to find two magic-wielders and come out with over seventy.”

  “Just not the right ones.”

  Hajira’s mirth fled. “No. Not yet. This is worse than we feared.” Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and leg, he pushed himself up against the back of the cart until he was propped upright. “Zukhara is using your women to help him fulfil an ancient prophecy from The Truth of Nine that he thinks applies to him.”

  “And you do not believe it?” Helmar asked.

  Hajira snorted. He knew enough Clannish to understand her. “Prophecies are not exact. They can be bent to fit any number of events.”

  “What then is the Lightning of the North?” asked Sayyed.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “From what little bit of news we have been able to gather. It is rumoured Zukhara carries the Lightning of North in his hand.”

  Hajira shrugged that away with one good shoulder. “It must be Kelene and Gabria’s sorcery.”

  Sayyed scratched his chin. That made sense, so he mentioned something else that had bothered him. “Did Fel Azureth kill the Shar-Ja?”

  “I doubt it. I saw them capture his wagon just before bolted for the funeral van.” He bowed his head to Helmar, who rode on his other side, Tassilio perched happily behind her. “Thank you for sending your man, Lady. He told me he had ridden day and night to reach us. I am sorry it was his doom to come at such an ill-timed moment.”

  She acknowledged his thanks and said, “There is one thing I would know. How have you two survived for two days?”

  The Turic pointed a finger at the boy. “He is a most ingenious scrounger.”

  Tassilio blushed beneath his dark tan and blurted, “You would have done the same for me.”

  “True.” Hajira’s eyes crinkled with a smile then slid closed, and the man drifted to sleep.

  Tassilio solemnly regarded his friend with something akin to adoration. “He wanted me to run away and leave him, but I couldn’t do that! And he was right, too. No one came near the Shar-Yon’s wagon after the battle. Many people came to loot or look for wounded for the dead, but no one dared approach a royal coffin defended by a large dog and a horse as white as a ghost.” The boy grinned at the memory and almost as quickly his smile slipped away. He sniffled, thankful that the worst part of his ordeal was over, and surreptitiously swiped a sleeve over his eyes.

  Then his quick mind found another thought, and he reached back and patted the mare’s white rump. “Hydan’s horse was something special, wasn’t he? He seemed so horribly sad at the death of his master, I could hardly bear it. I told him I was sorry and I thanked him, and you know the odd part, I think he understood.”

  “Most horses understand a kind heart,” Helmar replied.

  “Don’t try to get direct information from her, boy,” Sayyed warned him dryly. “She is as secretive as a clam.”

  “All secrets are revealed in good time,” Helmar retorted. “And the reasons for them.”

  Weary and safe for the first time in a long while, Tassilio leaned against Helmar’s strong back. “At least we’ll be in Cangora soon. I hope my father is there.”

  The adults made no answer. No one knew what they would find in Cangora, and no one wanted to hazard a guess.

  The Clannad rode for the rest of the daylight hours, following the beaten trail of Zukhara’s army. Although they saw other Turics along the way, most of the people looked too suspicious or frightened to offer any further news of the Gryphon. The riders came to the last oasis on the Spice Road near sunset, hoping to find the army camped there, but the oasis was empty, and the tiny settlement close by was deserted. The reason for that dangled in the few tall trees around the four walls. Ten men of various ages, their hands bound and their robes stripped away, had been hung not more than hours before. An edict nailed to a tree forbade any man from removing the bodies until they rotted off their nooses.

  “So the Gryphon deals with those who do not accept his will,” Hajira said in a voice heavy with scorn and disgust. “The families who lived at this oasis were Kirma
z tribe. Their leader did not travel with the Shar-Ja’s caravan. He is a stubborn man with a fierce sense tradition who did not get along well with Zukhara. Once he knows about this” — Hajira jerked a hand at hanging men — “he will be hard to hold back.” The guard’s words dropped off, and his face grew very thoughtful. “Cut them down,” he said abruptly.

  The lady chief started at his sharp voice. “What? Why? Would it not be better to let the families deal with the bodies? Do we risk the time?”

  “It is probably already too late to catch the Gryphon before he reaches Cangora,” Hajira replied, intent on his own thoughts. His piercing eyes swept the nearby foothills. The wells and springs of the Spice Road oases bubbled up from an intricate series of underground rivers and streams that flowed from the secret heart of the Absarotan Mountains. They were the lifeblood of the western half of the Turic realm and were granted for safekeeping — and often as favours — into the hands of the different western tribes. Even in times of drought, the oases usually had water. This particular set of wells was doubly important for its proximity to Cangora and its location along a prime road that led into high pastures in the mountains. It had been zealously tended by the Kirmaz tribe for several generations.

  Hajira was familiar with their leader and knew his reputation as a firebrand. If he could get the man’s attention, it could be worth the time spent. “The survivors are probably up there now watching us from that cover,” he told Helmar. “They don’t know who we are yet, but if we treat their dead with respect and leave a message for the Kirmaz-Ja, we just might earn a new ally.”

  Following Hajira’s advice, the riders cut down the ten men, laid them carefully in a row in the shadow of a mud-brick building, closed their bulging eyes, and covered their bodies with blankets and then stones to discourage scavengers.

  When the job was complete, Hajira hobbled to the mounds with Sayyed. “The families will return soon and bury these men as they see fit, and they will know the Raid are not afraid of the Gryphon.” The two men draped Sayyed’s coat over the first mound where anyone coming to investigate would see the Raid emblem and understand.