Dark Horse (22 page)

"If that conniving snake thinks he can do this . . ."

"Obviously, he already has,” the emissary interrupted, trying to hide his amusement.

Athlone drew his sword and crowded near the Wylfling. "One more word, and I will relieve you of your duties as the Mouth of Medb."

The emissary shrank away from the sword poised near his throat and glared fearfully at the wer-tain. "My master will hear of this." Savaric glanced down at the brooch on his cloak. "He probably already has,” he said resignedly.

The emissary froze. His eyes narrowed to slashes, and his face seemed to shrink around his skull as he analyzed the meaning of Savaric's remark. He was shaken, but he rearranged his demeanor and hoped he had misunderstood the chieftain. "I am sure word has already reached my master of Lord Branth's petty attempt at insult. However, it appears it is too late to do anything but accept the situation. The council must convene."

Athlone slammed his sword back into its scabbard. "I will see Branth dead before he gets away with this."

Savaric shook his head. His initial wrath was cooling and tempering into a more devious anger. "He will not get away with anything. But now we have to move carefully. He is testing us. Somehow, we need to draw his teeth without drawing our swords."

Gabria smiled to herself. She had misjudged Savaric. She knew that she should stay behind the men and out of sight, but she was curious to see the camps. She wriggled past a guard's horse and stood by Athlone's heel, where Boreas's bulk hid her from the emissary.

Gabria looked down at the two rivers, where the tents of the four clans lay stretched out like dark birds. To the north of the island, in a wide, quiet bend of the Isin, was the ground where her clan would settle. The area was far from the bazaar and the council tent, and rather isolated from the rest of the encampments, but the Corin had always used it, preferring the convenience of water and pasture. Now it was empty, and Gabria knew that the other clans would avoid it like a curse. If the Khulinin took it, they would pay an honor to the dead clan as well as irritate Medb's faction. She grinned at her idea.

The Khulinin men were deep in consideration of their next move. No one knew she was there. "You could camp on the Corin's land,” Gabria suggested into the tense quiet.

Athlone turned furiously, taken by surprise. "Get back to the caravan. Now!" The emissary was looking curiously over his shoulder so Athlone nudged Boreas into his way.

"What did you say, boy?" Savaric was more startled by her suggestion than her presence.

"Why don't you camp in the Corin's place?" Gabria repeated.

A slow, devious smile curled Savaric's mouth, and he chuckled appreciatively at the thought of the other chiefs' reactions. He said, as if to himself, "Dathlar would be pleased."

The wer-tain leaned over and hissed at Gabria, "Get out of sight, you fool!" She ducked behind a guard's horse just as the emissary pushed around Boreas.

"Who was that boy?" the agent asked suspiciously.

Savaric replied blandly, "My brother's son. He sometimes forgets his place. Athlone, what do you think of his suggestion?"

"It has merit,” the wer-tain said, studiously ignoring the emissary's frown.

"I agree." Savaric turned to his men. "Jorlan, we will camp by the Isin where the Corin once camped." The chieftain disregarded the astonished looks of the riders and added, "There will be no reprisals against the Geldring. We will behave as if nothing has happened. Is that understood?"

Jorlan and the warriors saluted. They were appalled at the whole notion, but their lord's word was law. Jorlan, who was filling in as second wer-tain, gave the necessary orders, and the caravan began to move reluctantly down the hill. Gabria ran back to Nara and returned to the end of the procession. It had been foolish to risk exposing herself to the emissary, but it had been worth it. She released Nara to run with the other horses and went to hide in Piers's wagon until the clan was settled.

The outriders moved the herds to the distant pastures while the wagons rumbled down the hil . A few shouts of welcome met the caravan, and clansmen rode out to escort them. Yet few of the greeters showed their usual excitement. They were waiting nervously to witness the Khulinin's reply to the Geldring's insolence. A few Geldring, too, were watching from the edge of their camp; the rest were out of sight.

Then the clansmen stil ed and gazed at the Khulinin, astounded at what they were seeing. The wagons turned off the main path and crossed the Isin, coming to a stop at the wide, grassy bend everyone had hitherto fearfully ignored. The other clans had expected anything but this. Savaric, as he watched the carts unloaded and the tents lovingly constructed, smiled to himself. He wished that he could see the look on Medb's face when the Wylfling saw the Khulinin camp on the Corin's land.

The Shadedron and the Ferganan clans arrived that evening amid shouts of welcome and a flurry of speculations. The clansmen were stunned by Savaric's move to the Corin's ground. The Khulinin were intentionally reminding the other clans of the massacre and were honoring the dead clan at the same time. The WyIfling had not yet come, and the chieftains wondered how Medb would react to Savaric's taunt. They were also taken aback by the Khulinin's disregard of the Geldring's insult.

Normally such a flagrant offense would precipitate a challenge or a violent protest at the very least.

But the Khulinin merely set up their tents by the river and mingled with the other people, blatantly ignoring the Geldring. No one could decide if Savaric was bowing to Branth, and therefore Medb's superiority, or if he just felt that Branth was beneath his notice. Savaric gave no indication of his feelings.

Intrigue and gossip spread like wildfire through the camps. Rumors blossomed everywhere. The chieftains, when they were not puzzling over the Khulinin, studied each other warily, guessing who supported Medb. Branth strutted through the bazaar like a mating grouse in full feather, secure in his coming authority and power. Tensions, worries, and whispers spread through the encampments like smoke.

When the clanspeople discovered the Khulinin had a
second
Hunnuli, the smoke thickened. They tried every means to discover the rider, but no one could find the mysterious man who had tamed the spectacular mare, and the Khulinin were surprisingly tight-lipped about the horse and her rider. The black mare remained grazing with Athlone's stallion, unconcerned by the people who came to stare at her and the conjectures that crowded around her. Meanwhile, her rider stayed out of sight in the healer's tent.

Late that evening, three chiefs came to give Savaric the customary welcome, then declined his hospitality and quickly left, for they were uncomfortable on the Corin land. Lord Branth avoided Savaric altogether. Only Lord Koshyn, chieftain of Clan Dangari, stayed to share a cup of wine.

The young chief wore his light hair short in the manner of his clan and had a pattern of blue dots tattooed on his forehead. His eyes matched the indigo of his cloak.

Koshyn smiled infectiously and made himself comfortable on the cushions. "You certainly know how to make an impression." He accepted the cup Tungoli handed him and saluted his companion.

Savaric returned his toast. He liked the younger man and hoped the Dangari would not accept Medb's bribes. "Dathlar was my friend," he said simply.

"Yes. I think Branth was secretly relieved to find that you did not make an issue of his choice of camping places."

"I doubt it was his idea."

Koshyn stared out the open tent flap for a while, tasting his wine. "Care to make a wager?" he asked, his face crinkling in humor.

"What sort of wager?"

"I'd bet five mares that Medb leaves this gathering with the council in his complete control."

"Cynical, aren't you?" Savaric replied.

"I was offered a rich prize if I aided his bid for power. I am not the only one."

"I know. But what will be stronger: greed, fear, or independence?" Savaric paused. "All right, I accept." He looked frankly at the Dangari. "Are you going to ally with the WyIfling?"

Koshyn laughed. "That might give away the wager." He drained his cup, held it up for more, and gave Savaric a long look while the Khulinin refilled the cup. "Was there any truth to the rumor that someone survived the Corin massacre?"

Savaric only lifted an eyebrow and repeated, "That might give away the wager."

* * * * *

By the next afternoon, three other clans, the Reidhar, the Murjik, and the Bahedin from the north, had set up their camps along the rivers. The gathering went into ful swing, and everyone tried to pretend this year was like every other. But the atmosphere among the camps was electric. Although the clansmen tried to appear casual, details, barely noticeable, gave away every person's true feelings.

Hands stayed close to dagger or sword, faces strained into smiles, and chieftains were quick to break up arguments. The women, who knew everything despite the men's efforts to keep the problems quiet, remained closer to their tents. Even the merchants were nervous and kept most of their goods packed.

Two days had passed and the Wylfling stil had not arrived. They were the last. Every eye surreptitiously watched the south for any sign of the late clan.

Medb, it seemed, was delaying his arrival to let the clans stew. When the huge caravan of the Wylfling was finally spotted early that evening, every man ran or rode out to witness Medb's coming. It was exactly what he wanted. The Wylfling were the largest and wealthiest clan; they claimed the best land at the gathering for their camp and the richest pasture for their herds. When his caravan rolled into the valley, Medb arrayed his people to remind the clans of his power and might.

Wearing his long, brown cloak to hide his crippled legs and the rope that held him in the saddle, Medb rode at the head of his werod like a monarch. The warriors, over fifteen hundred strong, rode with their lances pointed to the sky and the chain mail of their long-coats polished to a bronze gleam.

Their brown hoods covered their leather helmets, and the long, tasseled ends draped over their shoulders. Behind them were the wagons. Countless carts, wagons, animals, and people moved in an orderly procession toward encampments. Another troop of warriors followed, and a vast herd of horses and livestock took up the rear.

The clans greeted the Wylfling with none of their usual enthusiasm. They watched warily as each cart rolled by, and they silently counted each warrior. In a short year's time, Medb's clan had ceased to be a part of the whole. It was now a threatening force that loomed over them all and foreboded changes that few welcomed.

Savaric and Athlone stood at the edge of the encampment and nodded civil y when Medb rode by.

"Medb has had a most prosperous year,” Koshyn said, coming up beside them.

Savaric nodded, his face bleak. "The Wylfling women have been most prolific. His werod has increased by several hundreds in a mere winter."

"The sun must be hotter in the south this summer, too. Did you observe a few of his outriders?"

Athlone remarked.

"Even dust and distance cannot hide dark skins,” Koshyn said.

Athlone shaded his eyes against the sinking sun and watched the riders maneuver the Wylfling herds to pastures across the Goldrine. "Turic mercenaries. I've seen one of them before."

Savaric fol owed his son's gaze and studied the distant horsemen. "Interesting."

"Care to increase the wager?" Koshyn suggested.

"Seven mares,” Savaric replied.

Koshyn grinned. "Savaric, I believe you are hiding something."

The Khulinin chief tried to look astonished. "What have I got to hide?" he asked.

"How about a rider for that Hunnuli mare?"

"Oh, him,” Savaric said casually, scratching his head. "He's ill."

Koshyn did not believe him for a moment. "How sad. May he recover soon."

"He will."

"I'm sure. Wel , whoever he is, this unknown man cannot be the rumored Corin survivor. None of them had a Hunnuli. If there was a survivor, he was probably lost in that spring blizzard."

"Probably," Athlone said blandly. He was finding it difficult to keep his expression innocent.

Koshyn shot him a quick look, then shrugged. "Seven mares it is. I’ll be Interested to see who wins.

Medb is going to move fast, so if you're going to pull the rug out from under him, you had better start soon." He walked off.

"Seven mares?" Athlone asked.

Savaric clapped the wer-tain on the shoulder. "The Dangari have the swiftest horses in the clans.

Our stock needs new blood."

"What if you lose?"

The chief smiled, a slow lift of his mouth that belied the sadness in his eyes. "If I lose, I doubt I will live long enough to regret my debt."

Athlone chose not to comment on that. Instead he said, "I had heard recently that Medb was injured by a Hunnuli. Did you notice he was tied to his saddle?"

“Hmmm. Medb's injuries must have been crippling," Savaric noted. “That puts a different slant on things."

"I was glad to see it.”

The chief knew what his son meant. "Yes. Gabran's duel becomes impossible now."

They walked back toward their own camp, keeping their I heads close and their voices low.

"Why hasn't Medb tried to heal himself?" Athlone asked. "I thought sorcery could change anything."

"I doubt he has reached his ful strength yet, so he may not I want to reveal his power." Savaric slapped his scabbard. "And that, my boy, is our hope. Most of the clansmen do not know for certain that Medb has resurrected sorcery. This is his one chance to gain control of the council, so we must stop him while we can."

"But even with the mercenaries and the Geldring he does not have enough men to overpower the rest of us."

Savaric jabbed a finger in the air. "He does as long as we stay separated.

"You mean unite the clans?" Athlone was skeptical. "Has it ever been done?"

"Not to my knowledge." "How are you going to pul them together? It would take nothing short of a cataclysm to make these chiefs unite against Medb.