Winged Magic

by Mary H. Herbert

  She closed her eyes. She didn’t know if the clan gods would be present among a people who did not believe in them, but she prayed fervently that Amara could hear her plea. “Help me find the right moment,” she silently begged the mother goddess.

  Zukhara’s voice startled her out of her reverie. “Welcome, Shar-Ja. Come, sit on your throne.”

  Three men entered from the big double doors. Two were garbed in the black and gold of the Fel Azureth, the other was the Shar-Ja, struggling to stay on his feet. They hustled the old man up the steps of the dais, set him on the throne, and tied his arms to the armrests.

  The priests with Zukhara set quickly to work, lighting pots of incense and sprinkling the throne with water and sand to bless the proceedings in the name of Shahr, the Living God, and his prophet Sargun. Their chanting filled the room with their low pitched voices.

  A small crowd of servants, Fel Azureth, and spectators from the city began to gather in the throne room near the entrance to witness the ancient rites. No one paid any attention to the boy in the stolen shirt and baggy pants who slipped into the rear of the crowd to see what was happening.

  The priests ended their prayers and blessings for the throne and paused before beginning the next rite to purify the Shar-Ja for death. In that brief moment of aching silence, Kelene strained to hear something, anything, outside that could help her choose her moment to act. Her heart skipped a beat. She tried not to react, but her fingers tightened around Gabria’s arm. The chanting began again and drowned out anything she could have heard on the wind. But it had been there, she would swear to it. Faint and far away she had heard the unmistakable clarion call of the Clan horns.

  The horns sounded again, although Kelene did not hear it that time, on the heights of the caravan road above the valley. Pure and sweet and powerful as the north wind, their music rolled down the dale and washed over the city wall. Those on the battlements and in the towers heard the horns and hesitated. Those on the ground locked in the wild melee could not hear the song over the clash of weapons, the frenzied shouts of fighting men, and the screams of the dying.

  But Afer heard it. His great head went up and his ears swept forward. He neighed a trumpeting call over the noise of the fighting. They come! he cried to all who could understand.

  Sayyed and the warriors of the Clannad took heart and passed the word to the Turics. “The clans are coming!”

  High on the fortifying wall men shouted, and several horns blew a warning. Surprised, the Gryphon’s army hesitated and drew back a step to see what was causing the uproar. Nearly everyone who could snatched that pause to look out through the gaping holes in the wall.

  A dark line of horsemen stretched across the valley, coming at a breakneck gallop. The sun glittered on their spears. Their numbers were obscured by the dust that billowed up from the horses’ pounding hooves, but Zukhara’s forces did not need to count. The colourful banners of the clan chieftains in the forefront and the four black Hunnuli horses in the lead were enough to make them blanch.

  “Back!” bellowed Mohadan to his men. “Get out of the way!”

  Frantically the Kirmaz and the Clannad grabbed their horses and their wounded and scrambled to get out of the way of the charging clan werods. The Fel Azureth pulled back too, and rallied their men to barricade the streets.

  Abruptly the air reverberated with the heart-stopping war cries of all eleven clans. The ground trembled under the hooves of the horses. With lightning precision, the line lowered its spears and split into three groups, one for each breach, and pounded through the gaps in the city wall. Lord Athlone and Rafnir led the horsemen through the ruined gateway and smashed head-on into the defenders’ lines. The Fel Azureth could not hold. Although the clansmen were fewer in numbers and weary from days of relentless travel, their ferocity and momentum carried them irresistibly over the enemy. The spears gave way to swords and battle-axes, and the battle was joined.

  Mohadan gave a shout to his men, and the Kirmaz plunged back into the fight. The Clannad, weary from the magic they had wielded, followed close behind. Many of the Gryphon’s volunteers broke and ran under the combined assault of tribesmen and clansmen, but the trained fanatics of the Fel Azureth had their master’s orders: hold the city at all costs. They begrudgingly fell back before the werods and the Turic loyalists. They regrouped, fought, and regrouped again, struggling against every step they took backward. Yet even they could not withstand the power of the clan sorcerers for long. Backed by the riders of the Clannad, Lord Athlone, Rafnir, Gaalney, Morad, and Sayyed pounded their way slowly but steadily up the streets of Cangora toward the Shar-Ja’s palace.

  Helmar rode with the clan sorcerers for a short while as the fighting swept into the streets; then gradually she began to fall back. A strange sense of fear and urgency settled in the pit of her stomach. She shot a look up the broad avenue that she knew led toward the palace, Lady Gabria was up there — a woman she had never met, but the only woman left in the entire population of Clanspeople who was of direct lineage to the Corin Clan. She was also a link in the tragedy of the Purge that had massacred so many magic-wielders. To Helmar, that link was vitally important.

  She glanced up the road again. The clansmen were moving steadily closer to the palace, but not fast enough. Someone should get there faster in case Zukhara panicked and disposed of his prisoners. A shadow swept over the ground, and she saw the gryphon winging toward the upper levels of the city where the palace lolled at the feet of the massive stone bastion.

  Demira, Helmar remembered. Where is Demira?

  “Marron, can you call the winged mare? Is she close?”

  There. She is above the walls, responded the white mare. She follows the gryphon.

  Helmar followed Marron’s directions and saw Demira not too far away. “Call her! Tell her I need her! Please, my beauty. She can carry me above the fighting to Kelene and Gabria.”

  Marron understood and obeyed. She neighed a ringing call that reached over the battle and caught Demira’s ear.

  Helmar cast an apologetic glance at Sayyed, who was fighting by Lord Athlone’s side, and swiftly ducked Marron down a side alley that was momentarily clear.

  No one saw her go but Rapinor. Startled by the abrupt departure, he turned his horse to follow. From out of an open window, a man leaned out with a cocked crossbow and fired it wildly into the struggling men below. The swordsman, intent on following his chief, did not see the quarrel until it embedded in his chest. He looked down at it, feeling rather silly, and slowly toppled from his stricken Hunnuli.

  Helmar went on, unaware of Rapinor’s fate. She and Marron found an open square wide enough for Demira to land. As soon as the mare touched down, Helmar explained what she wanted. Demira’s reply was immediate. The chief climbed onto her back, grabbed a handful of mane, and held on while Demira cantered forward into her take-off.

  Marron watched the direction they went. Helmar had not told her to stay or go, so she scudded after them like a cloud blown on a stormy wind.

  In the celestial throne room of the Shar-Ja, the spectators were growing restive. The breeze that wafted in the open windows blew a faint clamour of war from the city below that disturbed the sacred dignity of the rites. Only the Shar-Ja and Zukhara seemed unaware of the increasing din.

  The ceremony had reached the moment that signalled the death of the current monarch. The sword for the beheading had been blessed, and the priests stood by with a basket for the head and wrappings for the body. A soldier stepped behind the Shar-Ja’s throne and pulled Rassidar’s head up and back to expose his neck. Zukhara grasped the hilt of the sword with both hands. It was a two-handed broadsword of great weight and antiquity, yet he handled it as skilfully as a master. His eyes on the Shar-Ja, he walked to the throne and raised the sword over his shoulder.

  A boy, of no more than thirteen years, darted around the crowd. He drew back his arm and, with the accuracy earned from months of practice, fired a rock from a slingshot at Zukhara’s head. The
missile missed the gryphon’s temple by a mere inch and hit instead just above his right eyebrow. The man staggered from the surprise and pain of the blow; the sword fell from his hand and clanged on the floor.

  Swift as a striking hawk, Kelene snatched the moment. She took two steps away from Gabria, gathered the magic around her, and aimed a sphere of energy at the ivory ward beneath Zukhara’s robes. The power hit him hard and knocked him into the dead guard by the throne, but it wasn’t quite enough to break the ward. Furiously he lashed back, sending a fistful of lightning blasts at Kelene and the boy. The people in the crowd screamed and ran for safety.

  The first blow took Kelene in the chest before she could defend herself and sent her spinning against the wall. She sagged to the floor, unconscious. Gabria choked on a cry and ran to her side. A second ball of energy caught Tassilio and threw him skidding across the floor.

  The priests and the guards looked at each other uneasily. Zukhara spat a curse. Blood dripped down his face from a cut on his forehead. He yanked out his dagger to stab the Shar-Ja, and another rock cracked into his arm.

  Tassilio knelt on the floor, looking very much alive and very aware of what he was doing. He pulled a knotted piece of rope out of his shirt and jiggled it tauntingly at the Gryphon.

  Zukhara recognized it for what it was. His face grew livid. “Sandrat!” hissed Zukhara.

  “That’s right!” Tassilio yelled fiercely, sliding another rock into his slingshot. “A bastard, just like you! But now I am Shar-Yon and that is my father, the rightful ordained ruler of the Turic. You are nothing but a traitor, Zukhara, and I will see you dead!”

  The Gryphon raised his hand to strike down the loathsome boy. With surprising strength, the Shar-Ja twisted his body and lashed out with his foot. He caught Zukhara on the back of the knee and knocked the leg out from under the usurper. The Gryphon fell heavily down the stairs. He pushed himself upright, shaken but uninjured, and glared malevolently at the old ruler.

  “They’re coming,” a hollow voice intoned close by.

  Zukhara spun around and saw Gabria standing upright and staring blankly at the large double doors. From somewhere in the corridors came the sounds of screams and the hard clatter of approaching hooves. He wasted no more time. He dashed to Kelene and lifted her over his shoulder. Gabria was too weakened by the poison to fight him off, and a backhanded blow knocked her to the floor. In a daze she watched him go behind the throne and disappear; then hoofbeats pounded outside the room and the doors crashed open.

  A red-haired woman in full battle dress and wearing a red cloak rode in on a black winged Hunnuli. Gabria smiled through her tears. The horse wasn’t white, but Demira was quite good enough.

  The remaining priests and Fel Azureth must have thought so, too, for they took one look at the furious sorceress and fled, leaving only Tassilio and the Shar-Ja with the two women. Tassilio ran to his father and used the dagger to cut him free. Demira skidded to a stop on the patterned floor and Helmar slid off.

  Her heart in her throat, the chief ran to Gabria’s prostrate form. The older sorceress stared at the stranger as if she were still a vision. Her hand grasped the red cloak. Helmar was shocked by Gabria’s thin body and shadowed face. Blood oozed from a cut on her cheek, and her hands trembled. But anger smouldered deep in Gabria’s jewel-green eyes, and she managed to push herself to a sitting position.

  “You,” Gabria gasped. “By Amara’s grace, where did you come from?”

  Helmar steadied her and helped her rise to her feet. “Out of the past, Lady Gabria.”

  Kelene! Where is Kelene? Demira neighed. She clattered around the room to look for her rider.

  Tassilio guessed what she wanted. “He took her out that way,” he cried and pointed to the hanging blue drapes behind the throne. He hurried around to show her the door and found it closed and locked.

  The Shar-Ja leaned his frail weight heavily on the throne and told them, “It leads to the courtyard outside and the path to the temple. He probably had horses waiting to take them up to the pinnacle.”

  Tassilio tried to work the lock; Demira tried to kick in the door. But it was wasted effort. The door was solidly barred. Frustrated, the mare took another circuit around the room and saw there were no more doors and the windows were too narrow for her bulky wings. Before anyone could gainsay her, she suddenly turned and cantered out the double doors to find another way to reach Kelene.

  “He’s taking her to the citadel,” Gabria said fiercely. “She needs more help than Demira can give her.”

  The sounds of fighting had grown nearer since Helmar’s arrival, yet it had not lessened in intensity. The Fel Azureth fought like wolves and still had the slight advantage of numbers and familiarity with the city streets. It could still be a while before Lord Athlone or Sayyed or Rafnir could subdue them enough to come and help, and that might be too late.

  “Take me up there,” Gabria pleaded.

  Helmar exhaled sharply. “But, Lady, you are too weak. If you tried to use magic—”

  “I am too weak to destroy him. Not to distract him.”

  More hooves pounded in the hallway, and Tassilio’s dog bounded into the room just ahead of Marron. Barking and wiggling, the dog leaped delightedly on the grinning boy.

  “Cal, I told you to stay outside,” the boy laughed.

  Well, you did not tell me to stay, Marron huffed to the chief. She was breathing heavily and hot with sweat.

  “And glad I am I didn’t,” exclaimed Helmar. “We must still try to free Kelene.”

  “A white Hunnuli,” Gabria breathed. She held her hands out to the mare and let Marron sniff her hands and face.

  Helmar snapped her fingers. “Nara! We need her. Is she still alive?”

  “Zukhara may be many things,” replied the Shar-Ja dryly, “but he is not wasteful of things that are valuable to him. I heard he has the black Hunnuli under guard in the palace stables.”

  Marron stamped a hoof. I will get her. I saw the stables on my way up here.

  “Pity the guards who stand in the way of that horse,” the Shar-Ja said in wonder as he watched her go.

  Tassilio ran out then and came back with a pitcher of water. “It was all I could find,” he said, offering some to the women and his father.

  The Shar-Ja took a sip of the proffered drink and smiled at his son. “By the Living God, where have you been? Zukhara told me you were dead, too.”

  Tassilio blushed at the warmth in his father’s voice, and for once the voluble boy was tongue-tied. He grinned and shifted from foot to foot. “I was helping my friends,” was all he could say.

  The Hunnuli mares came back, sooner than the women expected. The guards were gone, Marron explained. The palace is almost empty. Everyone has either left to fight or to hide.

  Nara said nothing but pushed close to Gabria, sniffing her all over and whickering her joy and relief. Whatever sedative Zukhara had given her had worn off, and she looked thin but fit. Gabria threw her arms around her mare’s neck, burying her face in the black mane. With Helmar’s help, she climbed onto Nara’s broad back.

  “When Sayyed and the others reach here, tell them where we went,” Helmar told Tassilio.

  The boy nodded fiercely. “Take the first left hallway, go to the end, and turn right. There are doors there that lead outside.”

  A quick salute and the sorceresses were gone, their Hunnuli’s hooves echoing away down the corridors. Tassilio softly closed and locked the doors behind them and returned to wait with his father.

  Helmar led the way along the opulent hallways. She noticed Marron was right — the palace seemed deserted. No one tried to stop them as they trotted the horses through the corridors.

  Tassilio’s directions proved accurate, and the women found themselves out in the bright sunlight on a broad, grassy esplanade. In front of them the towering bastion of stone soared high into the blue sky. On its top, like a red and green crown, sat the temple of the prophet Sargun.

  Built origi
nally as a citadel, the red stone buildings had been consecrated as a monastery and a temple a few generations after the death of the holy prophet. It housed a magnificent library, gardens, the royal crypt for the Turic Shar-jas and a population of perhaps one hundred contemplative monks and active priests. It was used by the Turics only in times of the most sacred rites. A narrow road rimmed by a stone fence zigzagged its way up the steep face to the top. There was no sign of Zukhara or Kelene anywhere, and nothing moved in the sky but a few wisps of clouds.

  Marron and Nara hurried off the esplanade and found the beginning of the temple road at the end of a long courtyard. Together they trotted up the steep way.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Kelene was too groggy to understand what was happening. All her whirling mind could recognize was the pain in her chest and stomach and the difficulty of breathing. She concentrated on her lungs and the effort of pulling in the air. Her chest seemed so sluggish, even heavy, as if something were pressing it down. Her stomach hurt from something that pushed into it, making her nauseated. She seemed to be moving by some outer volition, certainly not on her own feet, and her head felt strangely heavy and swollen.

  She opened her eyes and looked at something fuzzy and dark brown. Her vision rocked sickeningly, so she closed her eyes, took a slow breath, and tried again. This time her eyes focused a little better, and the brown, fuzzy blur became clearly a horse’s belly. With that understanding came full realization. Zukhara had thrown her over a saddled horse and was leading it somewhere uphill.

  Struggling did little good because he had tied her to the saddle. Those same Hunnuli hair ropes, Kelene thought sourly. She lay still and tried to soothe the pounding in her head while she waited to see what he would do. It wasn’t easy. Zukhara seemed to be in a desperate hurry. He rode a second horse and cantered the mounts as often as he dared up the steep grade. By the time they reached the top of the incline, both horses were blowing and lathered in sweat. He urged them through a strong-looking gate and brought them to a rough stop in the cloistered courtyard at the main entrance to the citadel buildings.