Winged Magic (12 page)

Sayyed and Rafnir watched the oasis from a vantage point on a nearby rise. The caravan’s setup was quick and organized in spite of the confusion from the additional oasis people, but the two clansmen were pleased to see the Turics set few guards around the perimeter of the camp. Only the Shar-Ja’s tent was under a very tight and heavily armed guard.

Just as the sun touched the tops of the distant range of mountains, the clouds opened a window in the west, and slanting rays of golden light swept across the basin and gilded the trees of the oasis. At that instant a horn sounded a long, sonorous call to prayer.

To Rafnir’s astonishment, the entire bustling population of the Shar-Ja’s camp, the oasis, and the village fell silent, turned to the south, and stood motionless, their heads bowed in prayer. Some kneeled, and a few lay prostrate on the ground. The young sorcerer stared, awed at the scene. He felt his father kneel beside him and heard him murmur the evening prayer. Slowly Rafnir sank down beside him and turned his thoughts to the gods in a wordless supplication for strength and wisdom.

The sun dipped lower; the golden light faded. A moment later the horn blew again, and the Turics bustled back into activity. Rafnir rose, feeling strangely comforted.

“Let’s go,” Sayyed said softly. They turned to the Hunnuli and removed their saddles and bridles. “I don’t want to take the chance of leaving you two in the picket lines tonight. You’ll be safer with the herds or on your own,” he informed the stallions.

Thank you,
Afer sent, grunting with relief as the tight cinch was unbuckled.

“But,” Sayyed said, pulling two leather halters from his saddle pack, “you’d better wear these.”

Why!
snorted Tibor.
Those are humiliating.

“Exactly. Even the Turic know Hunnuli will not wear tack. If you are seen, no one will suspect you are Hunnuli if you are wearing a halter.”

Afer sighed gustily.
He is right, Tibor. Be grateful he did not suggest hobbles.

Chuckling, Sayyed buckled the halters on their heads and sent them out to graze with the caravan herds; then he and Rafnir shouldered their saddles and gear. They decided to make their way down the back side of the hill and work their way around the base to the outskirts of the camp through a shallow gully lined with shrubs and high weeds.

They had covered barely half the distance through the gully when the first small sounds reached them through the quiet backdrop of evening noises. The two men halted and stood listening intently. One sound came again, a single metallic clink, like a blade hitting a rock, then a rustle of bushes, and the unmistakable mutter of subdued voices from somewhere in front of them.

Sayyed nodded to Rafnir and eased his load to the ground. They padded forward as quietly as possible through the undergrowth to the edge of an open space between several tall clumps of brush. Sayyed froze, his hand raised to warn Rafnir.

Dusk pooled in the shadows of the gully, but there was still enough daylight left in the clearing to see five men hunched together, speaking softly among themselves. They were dressed in the dark robes, high boots, and warm wool knee-length coats the tribesmen preferred for travel, and they were heavily armed with tulwars, knives, and hand axes. One man was busy sewing something to the front of his coat.

Sayyed jerked his hand back, and he and Rafnir retreated up the hillside where they could watch the clearing undetected.

“Now why were five tribesmen lurking in the bushes?” Rafnir whispered.

“Look!” Sayyed hissed in reply, and he pointed to the gully they had just left. One by one, the five men slipped out of their hiding place and split off in five different directions. In just a few minutes, all five had nonchalantly disappeared into the crowded camp.

“Who were they?” wondered Rafnir.

“Of that I’m not certain, but did you see the man sewing? He was tacking a tribal patch on his robe.” Sayyed pointed to the embroidered lion of the Raid on his own chest. “Every tribesman wears his emblem on his clothes, so why was that man adding one at the last minute?”

Neither man had an answer to that puzzle, so they put it aside for the time being and proceeded back down the hill to the borders of the camp. Following the lead of the others, the two men casually walked out of the deepening twilight and into the Shar-Ja’s camp. They left their gear beside a pile of other saddles near the picket lines where some of the horses were kept close by for quick use. The smell of roasting meat led them to a cook tent, where they got a meal of bread, cheese, meat, and dates.

When they were finished, they meandered around the enormous camp to see what they could find. They stopped to chat now and then with other tribesmen, shared a cup of wine beside a fire with some villagers from the settlement, and exchanged pleasantries with them. They stopped to admire the Shar-Ja’s elaborate wagon, and they paid their respects to the dead Shar-Yon in his draped coffin. When they tried to get close to the Shar-Ja’s tent, however, several guards blocked their path and suggested forcefully they go elsewhere. They caught a brief glimpse of the Shar-Ja’s son, Tassilio, playing with his dog, and once they saw Zukhara striding purposefully through the camp.

They had heard the counsellor had taken charge of the caravan in place of the Shar-Ja and that no one had seen the Turic overlord since the debacle at Council Rock. A few rumours circulating the camp whispered the Shar-Ja was dead, but nothing had happened to confirm that.

Sayyed observed how people fell back from Zukhara and how all but the royal guards warily saluted him. To Rafnir’s shock, Sayyed called out a greeting and saluted, but the counsellor barely acknowledged him and continued on his way, his tall form lance-straight, his face dark and resolute.

By dawn the clansmen were weary and disappointed. They had found nothing to indicate Kelene and Gabria were in the caravan, nor had they heard anything even remotely connected to sorcery or the kidnapped women. All the talk in the camp had been about the religious zealots in the north, the Shar-Ja’s ill-health, and the growing unrest in various areas of the realm.

At sunrise, after the morning prayers to the Living God, the Turics broke camp to continue the journey to Cangora. Sayyed and Rafnir retrieved their saddles and whistled in the Hunnuli. Afer and Tibor reported they had been unable to scent or even sense the presence of the mares. Unhappily the sorcerers and the Hunnuli joined the groups of tribesmen riding in the caravan. No one commented on their presence or questioned their right to be there. A few eyebrows were raised at the size of the black stallions, but Sayyed explained they were crossbreeds from a certain breed of ploughhorse. He suppressed a laugh when Afer whipped his head around to snap at a ‘fly’ on Sayyed’s leg.

The caravan wound onward at the slow pace of the funeral cortege toward the next oasis on the trail. The Spice Road ran due south for a few leagues, then curved southwest toward the high foothills of the Absarotan Mountains.

Although Rafnir was not familiar with this territory, Sayyed had travelled this road several times in his youth with his father, the Raid-Ja, and he saw with deep misgivings that the tales he’d heard of the drought were painfully true. The area they rode through was still open range and usually rich enough to support sheep, cattle, goats, and the Turics’ tough desert horses. In most years, spring rains refreshed this land, replenishing the stock ponds, bringing wildflowers to bloom, and enriching the tall, thin grass that would cure to a golden brown by summer.

But this year the green that should have carpeted the broad hills had already faded to a dull, wilted tan. The grass was sparse, and the stock ponds, man-made ponds dug to catch the spring rains, were mere mud holes. The herds Sayyed spotted were thin and far between.

When he mentioned this to a man riding beside him, the man’s expression turned mournful, “Aye, we’ve had to sell or eat almost everything. My family has only our breeding stock left. If we don’t get rain soon, we will have famine by the Feast of the Prophets.”

Sayyed glanced at the man’s emblem and recognized him as a member of the Mira tribe that had its hereditary demesne to the northeast. He frowned in sympathy. The Feast of the Prophets was in nine months, in the cool season of winter. Not much time to save a population from starvation. “Haven’t the priests stockpiled grain in settlements as they are supposed to do?” he asked curiously.

At that his companion turned red with ill-concealed irritation. “Perhaps the Raid have honest officials and no dealings with the Fel Azureth. But the priests of our lands have had to pay grain for taxes to the Shar-Ja’s collectors, and what is left has been
claimed
by the Gryphon to feed his army of zealots.”

Sayyed slouched in his saddle and tried not to look too interested. He had heard that name from Athlone as the title of the unknown leader of the Fel Azureth. Gryphon seemed an appropriate title for such a man, Sayyed mused. Real gryphons had once existed in the Absarotan Mountains and were known to be cunning, secretive, and fiercely loyal to their mates. “Have you seen the Gryphon?” he asked casually.

“Not face-to-face,” the tribesman said glumly. “He sends his commanders to tithe the settlements and towns in the name of the Living God and the Prophet Sargun.” The man suddenly realized his voice was growing louder with his anger, and he bit off his words with a harsh laugh. “Shahr keep the Gryphon in the palm of his hand, and,” he tacked on in an undertone, “keep him away from my family.” He clucked to his horse and rode forward, away from the curious strangers.

“That was interesting,” Rafnir said. “Not all tribesmen are happy with the Fel Azureth either.”

Sayyed stared thoughtfully ahead, far beyond the caravan, beyond the horizon, to things only his mind’s eye could see. There was so much to consider, so many facts he did not yet have, so many nuances he could not put into place. He needed to talk to someone who knew the current news around the entire realm, someone who would not inquire in turn about his big horse or his lack of knowledge or his curiosity. But there was not one person he could think of, or anyone he could trust. He and Rafnir would have to continue their blind search without drawing the attention of those who might have Kelene and Gabria in their control. One slip could prove deadly for them all.

The sorcerer stifled a yawn. Time was precious, but he and Rafnir could not function much longer without sleep. They had spent three anxious days and two nights with virtually no rest, and the effects were wearing them down. Sayyed yawned again. His head felt heavy and ached behind his eyes.

He glanced at Rafnir and saw the same weariness dragging on his son’s features. There was more there, too, a brittleness of worry and a tight-jawed self-control. Rafnir had said little of his fear for Kelene, but it was there to read in the banked fires of his dark brown eyes.

That night at the second oasis, called the Tears of Al Masra, the evening was much the same. The caravan halted in a level field and set up camp beside the string of shallow pools that formed the oasis. After prayers, food was prepared, the horses were herded out to graze under the watchful eye of mounted herders, and the travellers relaxed. Sayyed and Rafnir walked about, observing the activity and looking for something that would lead them to the missing women.

They saw little to help them. The Shar-Ja remained in seclusion. The counsellors kept to themselves, and the tribesmen ate and rested. Tassilio seemed to be the only one in camp with a light heart. He ran with his dog, laughing and barking and chasing imaginary prey.

As night settled on the oasis, Sayyed saw seven more men slip out of the darkness and mingle in with the camp’s inhabitants. They were like the first group, totally unremarkable except for their full complement of weapons. When Sayyed tried to approach one, a lean wolf of a man with a mole on his cheek, the tribesman glared at him and hurried away.

At last, exhausted, Sayyed and Rafnir sought shelter in a quiet place under the tall, slim trunk of an oasis willow. They slept undisturbed until morning, when they woke to horns calling the faithful to prayer.

That day followed much like the last. Three days were gone, and there was still no word or clue as to the whereabouts of Kelene and Gabria. That evening the caravan travelled late into dusk to reach the next oasis on the Spice Road, one unimaginatively called Oasis Three.

“There’s one place we haven’t tried yet,” Sayyed told his son as they ate their meal. “The baggage train. We’ll take a look in some of the bigger vans and wagons.”

They waited until the night was late and the camp had settled into subdued nocturnal peace. The enormous dome of the sky arched over their heads, clear and afire with countless stars. In the pale starlight, the sorcerers crept to the supply wagons and began a slow, methodical search of the interiors of each one, large or small. Soft-stepping, they checked the first row then
moved to the next.

Sayyed put his foot on the wheel of a large covered vehicle and was about to lift himself up to see inside when he heard the faint crunch of soft boots on sandy soil. He turned to warn Rafnir and glimpsed several shadows spring around the corner of the wagon. Balanced on one foot and with his hands on the wagon sides, he could not react fast enough to defend himself. He fell sideways, hoping to throw off the attackers long enough to form a defensive spell. Something flashed in the starlight, and a brilliant pain exploded in his head. He heard a muffled thud beside him, and as he collapsed he felt the body of his son fall silently on top of him.