Winged Magic (19 page)

Kelene sighed and closed her eyes. She was so tired, and there was nothing left she could say.

Gabria’s questions passed into silence unanswered.

Zukhara slammed his hand on the rough table. “What tripe are you showing me? Why will it not work?” he demanded. Stewing in frustration, he tried again to form a simple transformation spell to change a cluster of grapes into a handful of plums. He focused on the grapes and spoke the words of the spell for the third time.

On the bunk behind him, Gabria wordlessly moved her fingers and used her own will to throw his magic astray. The grapes on the table wavered a few times, then burst under the pressure of the vying sorcery.

The Turic spat a curse.

“Be patient,” Kelene told him coolly. “Concentrate on what you want. You have to know exactly what you intend to create or the spell will go awry.”

“I know what I want,” he ground out.

“Then perhaps you are not trying hard enough to control the magic. If you cannot master these simple spells, you will never be able to control the more complex sorcery.”

They eyed each other across the table, Kelene stiff and her head thrown back; Zukhara tense and angry, the lines pulled tight around his mouth and across his brow. In the flickering lamplight, he reminded Kelene of a black-and-gold adder, its large, dark eyes glittering, its lean head poised to strike.

“All right, try something a little simpler,” she suggested, pushing the dripping grapes aside and picking up a flask of water. She poured a small amount of water into a dish and placed it before the Turic. “With a minor spell you can turn this water to ice,” she said and showed him how to do it.

Zukhara tried the spell and managed to create a film of ice on the water before the pottery dish shattered and spilled water across the table. Kelene watched him impassively, like a teacher helping a pupil who cannot quite grasp an easy concept. He tried spell after spell, and no matter how hard he tried, everything went wrong.

An hour later he was struggling to create a flame on a candle when Kelene suddenly lifted her head. From somewhere nearby came the sounds of boots scuffling on the ground, several soft thuds, and the mutter of muted voices. Gabria didn’t have to break the spell that time, for the disruption caused Zukhara to jerk his hand, and the candle sagged into a pool of melted wax. Muttering under his breath, Zukhara strode to the door, unlocked it, and stepped out.

Kelene followed him with her eyes and saw a dark-clothed man meet him just outside the door. “Counsellor, we have found two more pilferers in the wagons,” she heard the man say.

Zukhara looked at something out of Kelene’s sight. “Get rid of them,” he ordered. “But not here. More deaths will draw attention. Take them out past the oasis.”

The callousness in his voice chilled Kelene with a hollow foreboding. It could so easily be herself or Gabria he so casually disposed of. The counsellor climbed back into the wagon, dusting his hands as if ridding his palms of some dirty annoyance. He settled on his stool across from Kelene and almost negligently flicked his hand and set the wick of the melted candle burning. He stared at the tiny flame for a long time, his volatile expression lost in thought. The silence built around him, thick as walls.

In one sudden movement and without warning, he sprang from his seat and delivered a stunning blow to Gabria’s jaw. The fury of the assault snapped back her head, with an audible crack, against the wooden wall.

“Get back!” he roared at Kelene when she jumped to help her mother. With fierce deftness, he retied Gabria’s hands and stuffed the gag back in her mouth. Mute with suspicion, he sat down and repeated the transformation spell Kelene had tried to teach him. The cluster of split grapes turned into a heap of delicate purple plums. He tried every spell they had practiced that had gone wrong, and each one worked perfectly. Kelene watched him, too terrified for Gabria to intervene.

“So,” he hissed. “You thought to dissuade me from my goal by ruining my magic.” He turned his baleful glare on Gabria. She lay half-stunned, her face white and her body limp. Blood ran down her chin from a cut on her mouth. She attempted to focus on him, her frustration and anger almost as potent as his. “You cannot stop me. Understand, fools, magic is part of my destiny. It is one of the weapons foretold in the prophecy.”

There was that allusion to a prophecy again, Kelene realized. “What are you talking about? How can a clan power be any part of a Turic prophecy?” she snapped,
her tone made sharp by her nervousness.

Zukhara seemed to swell before her eyes. Tall as he was, he straightened his spine, threw back his long shoulders, and jutted his chin forward arrogantly. “Five hundred years ago when your paltry horse clans were still settling the plains, the Prophet Sargun wrote
The Truth of Nine
from his prison in the dungeons of Sarcithia, while it was still part of the Tarnish Empire. When he escaped and returned over the mountains to his homeland, he founded the city of Sargun Shahr and gave his book to his younger brother. The city has since vanished. We still seek it today, but
The Truth of Nine
is in Cangora in the keeping of the Holy Order in the great temple of Sargun.”

Kelene felt her mouth drop open, not at the lecture, for most clanspeople knew the generalities of Turic history, but at the conclusion she drew from his rhetoric. “Are you saying there is a prophecy about you in that book?”

He leaned forward, his hands on the table, and his daunting figure cast shadows over her still form, “The sixth,” he said as cold as winter, “‘And the Gryphon shall rise to lay flame to the desert and feed on the blood of the unbelievers. Tyrants shall bow before him and nations shall fall at his feet.’” Zukhara’s voice dropped to a low intonation, reciting the words of the prophecy as if breathing a prayer. “‘By these signs will you know him. In his hand shall be the lightning of the north, and the wind of the Living God shall uphold him. Drought, pestilence, and famine will open his way, and the copper gate will fall before his mighty strength. Before the eye of his chosen handmaiden, he will stand in the light of the golden sun, and a bastard will sit on the throne of Shahr.’” His words dropped away, and he stood poised, his thoughts running ahead to the future and the fulfilment of his dreams.

For once Kelene could think of nothing to say. His audacity and conviction stunned her. The Gryphon. By the gods, she knew that name. “Fel Azureth,” she whispered, unaware she had spoken loud enough to be heard.

Zukhara’s head jerked up; his eyes glittered. “Yes, my lady. I am Fel Karak, the Gryphon, and the Fel Azureth is my sword. Already my plans are falling into place. There is but one weapon left to collect, and for that we shall leave the caravan tomorrow.” He picked up the hair ropes, tied her hands behind her back, and steered her to the bed.

“Be glad, clanswoman, that you are here with me,” he said softly. He touched her cheek, his fingers gently caressing. “Already the Gryphon sinks his claws into the north. When I gain the throne, I will claim the rich pastures north of the Altai for my own empire. With the lightning in my fingertips, your people will not withstand me. By year’s end I will make
you
my queen and will lay the plains of Ramtharin at your feet as my wedding gift to you.”

Kelene stared at him, her dark eyes enormous pools in her face. Although she could sense the stark power of his convictions through the touch of his skin on hers, she did not need her talent to grasp the reality of what she was hearing. “But I already have a husband,” she said, too shaken to say anything more perceptive.

Zukhara’s teeth flashed white against his black beard. “There is no law that says I cannot marry a widow.”

With swift, sure movements he replaced Kelene’s gag, cleaned the table, put out the light, and bid the women a good night.

Kelene listened to his footsteps pass away. Anger roared like a caged beast in her head, and she stared helplessly at the dark door, trying to bring her fear and rage under control. She wanted to shriek, to strike out at the man and his unshakable arrogance. She vowed to Amara, Sorh, Surgart, and Krath that she would find a way to stop him. There had to be something to thwart his plans. Not all prophecies come to pass as one would believe they should.

She turned her head to check her mother and saw tears leaking down Gabria’s face. The sorceress had her eyes screwed shut and her pale face turned toward the ceiling.

Worry doused Kelene’s anger as surely as icy water. As carefully as she could manage with her hands tied, Kelene used her long sleeve to mop away the blood on Gabria’s swelling jaw and the tears that dampened her fair hair. Gabria forced a wan smile. Unable to talk, the two women pressed close and took solace in each other’s company. Neither slept well that long, bitter night.

To young Peoren, the clatter of horses’ hooves sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed twilight. He sat taller in his borrowed black cloak and tilted his head so he could hear the approaching troop. Beside him, his picked men — two Dangari, Dos his guard, and six Shadedron — stiffened like alert hounds, their attention pricked to the approaching sounds of horses, hushed voices, and the softer chink and rattle of arms.

To all appearances the ten clansmen appeared to take no notice of the troop approaching them up the long hillside. They had built their fires with care and set them so the vanguard of the Turic raiding party could see them and identify them at a distance that would still allow the clansmen time to run.

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.