Winged Magic (4 page)

Casually she wheeled overhead, waiting for the others to reach the lower trail. When the three stallions broke into a gallop on level ground, the winged mare turned south and led the way with the north wind at her tail.

They reached the Goldrine River three days later, after an uneventful though wet journey. Under a clearing sky, twilight deepened into night and a full moon sailed into the east.

Although the moon was full, Demira did not like to fly at night, so as soon as she spotted the fires of the Khulinin camp on the southern bank of the river and located a passable ford nearby, she joined the others on the ground.

Warm weather had begun melting snows in the Darkhorn Mountains, but the high waters and the swelling rains of late spring had not yet affected the Goldrine. Its waters ran shallow in the ford, making it easy for the four Hunnuli to cross. They trotted up the southern bank, swung left, and broke into a trot along the grassy, rolling valley toward the horseshoe-shaped bend in the river where the Khulinin camped.

They had not gone far when all four Hunnuli perked their ears forward. Soon, everyone could see the glow of the cooking fires and the solid shapes of the clan’s small traveling tents.

Kelene tensed and leaned forward. Even from this distance out in the night, she could see the camp was an uproar. Men ran back and forth, dark shapes darting through the dancing firelight. Horses neighed, and the harsh sound of raised voices mingled with the quieter noises of the river and the night insects.

Kelene heard a pounding of heavy hooves, and two more Hunnuli galloped out of the darkness to meet them. Nara, Gabria’s beloved mare, and Eurus, Lord Athlone’s proud stallion, neighed a strident call of both welcome and urgency then turned on their heels and escorted the newcomers rapidly into camp. Activity, light, and noise surrounded them as they rode in among the tents.

Kelene noticed the unexpected haste was not confused chaos, but alarmed organization as people moved rapidly to tear down the camp. Tents collapsed around her, packhorses were loaded, and supplies were repacked as quickly as possible.

In the midst of the frantic labour stood Lord Athlone, rigid with fury, a rolled scroll in one hand, a tattered scrap of fabric in the other. His dark hair was grizzled now, and deep lines etched his weathered face. Tall, strong of body and mind, he wore the authority of a clan chieftain with ease and passionate ability. Although forty-nine years of life and a close brush with the plague had slowed his endurance and stiffened his joints, his strength of command was unabated, and his eyes still studied the world like those of a vigilant hawk. He spotted Kelene and her companions, and his anger receded before his pleasure when he came to greet them.

Sayyed dismounted and, as senior clansman, saluted the chieftain. “Hail, Lord Athlone, we of Moy Tura answer your summons.”

A smile broke over Athlone’s face, warming his eyes from stone to brown earth. He returned the salutation and embraced his friend, his son-in-law, and last of all his only surviving daughter. Kelene returned his hug fiercely and let it linger for a moment longer before she let him go.

Like most magic-wielders, Kelene had certain abilities that were more developed than others. Her talent for healing came not only from a natural desire to ease pain, but also from a unique ability to sense other people’s feelings. While she could not understand their thoughts, she could feel their emotions through the touch of her skin on theirs. During the past few years she had learned to control this gift until she could use it at will.

In the grip of her father’s embrace, she opened her mind to his emotions for just one beat of her heart and felt his fury and sense of injustice. To her silent relief, there was no personal grief or the stunned shock of loss. “What happened. Father?” she asked worriedly.

Athlone stepped back, his hands clenched around the objects he carried. He lifted the scrap of fabric in one fist. In the firelight, they could all see the cloth was a piece of a light blue cloak splattered with darker smears and spots.

“This was brought to me just before you arrived,” he said, darkly smouldering. “A large force of Turics attacked Ferganan Treld five days ago. Lord Tirek was killed, along with twenty-eight of his hearthguard and warriors, when he tried to protect the fleeing women and children. The raiders devastated the treld.”

Kelene, Rafnir, Sayyed, and Gaalney stood shocked by the ghastly news. The Hunnuli gathered around them, still and silent. Ferganan Treld, the winter camp of Clan Ferganan, sat in the fertile valley of the Altai River just north of the Turic realm. Of all the eleven clans, the Ferganan had the most amiable relationship with their Turic neighbours—in part because the Raid tribe that lived in the vicinity was ruled by Sayyed’s father, the man who had married a Ferganan woman. That the raiders had turned so viciously on Lord Tirek’s people was a betrayal of the worst sort to the generous, proud clanspeople. The rage on Lord Athlone’s face was mirrored in the expressions of every chieftain in the clans when they heard the news.

At that moment Gabria and Savaron hurried through the fevered activity to the small group by the fire. The sorceress’s face was troubled, yet she welcomed he friends with genuine delight and gathered her daughter close.

Kelene smiled, silently pleased to see how little mother had changed the past few years. Gabria was still lithe and straight-backed, with clear green eyes and the hands of a young woman. True, the lines were etched deeper on her forehead and around her mouth, and the braided hair was more grey than gold, but what did the matter when the spirit was still resilient and the head still sang with gratitude to Amara, the mother of all and the source of all bounty?

“What about me?” chided Kelene’s brother.

Savaron, wearing the gold belt of a wer-tain, hugged her too. Tall, muscular, dark-haired and, to Kelene’s eyes, handsome, her older brother had been leader of the clan warriors, the werod, since the plague when Wer-tain Rajanir had died. Savaron was married now, with two little boys and a wife he adored. Kelene marvelled how much he had come to resemble their father as the years passed.

He held her out at arm’s length. “Mother told me you had healed your ankle, but she failed to mention how beautiful you’ve become.” He let her go and playfully punched his friend, Rafnir, on the arm. “You two had better quit playing in your ruins and get to work on a family.”

Kelene bit her lower lip to stifle a retort that she knew in her heart to be unnecessary. Savaron was always teasing her, but he would never deliberately hurt her if he knew the extent of her concern.

She was relieved when the levity in Savaron’s eyes died, and he returned to the subject at hand. “The riders are ready to return to the treld,” he informed the chieftain. “We leave at your command.” He spoke reluctantly, plainly showing he was not happy with the decision.

Lord Athlone nodded once and turned to Sayyed. “You gave up your place in my hearthguard, but will you accept it again for as long as I need you? After this raid, I have decided to send Savaron back to reinforce the guard on the clan and the treld. I still need a strong arm by my side and a translator I can trust. We heard this morning the Shar-Ja has accepted our invitation to meet at Council Rock in ten days’ time.”

Sayyed’s eyes glittered. His grim expression was yellow-lined in the firelight. Half Turic though he was, the Ferganan were his mother’s kin, and many of them had become his friends over the years. His hand tightened on the hilt of his curved tulwar, a prize won during his rites of manhood in the Turic tribes. He bowed before the Khulinin. “I accept with honour,” he said.

Rafnir, too, grasped his sword. “Lord Athlone, I have never taken the rites of the hearthguard, but I ask to be allowed to join your guard while you attend the council.”

His request pleased the chieftain. “Granted,” said Athlone with the hint of a smile. “And you may start tonight. We ride to meet the Dangari. Lord Bendinor
passed us yesterday, but he is waiting for us so we may ride to Council Rock together. I intend to be there before the Turics, so they cannot have any nasty surprises ready for us.”

The last of the tents had been packed already, and the warriors doused and buried the fires. In moments Savaron and half the troop of mounted warriors — eighty in all — cantered west toward Khulinin Treld, their pack animals and supplies close behind. In the darkness the magic-wielders mounted their Hunnuli and joined the remaining guard of clan warriors. At Athlone’s quiet command, the Khulinin delegation set out, riding south and east to meet the contingent from Clan Dangari.

The Dangari chief, a middle-aged warrior of courage and sense, had sent the messenger bearing the news of the Ferganan attack to Lord Athlone. He had also suggested they travel together to Council Rock. Athlone readily agreed under the premise that no Turic, no matter how greedy, well armed, and vicious, would dare attack a large troop of clan warriors containing several trained magic-wielders. The addition of Lord Bendinor’s men gave him the excuse he needed to send Savaron and half the werod guard back to the clan despite his son’s arguments. The safety of the Khulinin was more important than a show of strength at the peace council.

The Khulinin met Lord Bendinor near dawn after a long, chilly, damp night. He led them to his temporary camp, fed them well, provided a tent for Lord Athlone, Gabria, and Kelene, and patiently waited while the Khulinin rested and cared for their horses.

Bendinor was a quiet man, capable, efficient, and well liked by his people. He had little of the charm and charisma of his predecessor, Lord Koshyn, but he and Lord Athlone respected each other, and even if friendship had not come yet, they had a useful working relationship. “With unspoken consent, they had their clans ready to leave shortly after noon. Beneath their blue and gold banners, the two chiefs led their warriors south toward the Altai River and the meeting with the Turic tribes.

Council Rock had earned its name nearly two hundred years before when the chieftains of the Dark Horse Clans and the tribesmen of the Turics met to establish the Altai River as the formal boundary between the two nations. Since then it had been used occasionally as a meeting place between clan and tribe to solve minor disputes, trade negotiations, and border clashes.

Although its name was simple and obvious to the casual observer, the landmark was not so much a rock as an island in the middle of the river. Clanspeople who were curious about such things sometimes wondered where such an enormous chunk of rock had come from, but no one really knew. It had always been there, as far as anyone remembered, a tall, rounded boulder surrounded by water. Over the years a gravel bar had formed around the base of the rock. The gravel had caught more debris through seasons of flood and drought until a long, low island built up like a skirt around the massive rock. Local tales called it Altari’s Throne, after the beautiful water maiden who was believed to be the soul and spirit of the stately Altai River.

The maiden’s namesake, the Altai, was an old water-course, running deep and staid through gently rolling hills. Over time it had formed a wide, fertile valley where groves of trees, lush meadows, and broad sweeps of marsh grew like a wide green ribbon across an otherwise semi-arid plain.

While early spring barely touched the northern grasslands, it spread its warm breath over the Altai valley. A pale green glowed along the riverbanks and meadows where the grass was sprouting in thick layers; the damp
curves of abandoned river bends sparkled with the delicate whites, pinks, and blues of early wildflowers; and a haze of misty green buds spread through the scattered groves of trees.

Kelene drew a pleased breath when she saw the tranquil river from the air. She had not been this far south and had never learned to appreciate the beauty or the importance of the Altai valley. She turned her gaze farther south to the Turic lands that rolled away beyond her view. The landscape appeared much like the plains on the northern side of the river, but farther away the green faded to tan and eventually vanished in a brown-gold haze.

The sorceress and her Hunnuli completed their duty as scouts, and when Kelene reported to her father that the valley and the Council Rock were empty. Lord Athlone said with satisfaction, “We’re first.”

He and Lord Bendinor established their camp on level rise across from the island, far enough removed to be out of arrow range from the ford, yet close enough that they could easily survey the island as well as the opposite bank. Guard posts were organized, and outriders were sent on patrols to watch for the approach of the other chieftains.

With Sayyed and Rafnir’s help, and under the fascinated gaze of the Dangari men. Lord Athlone drew on the magic power steeped in the world around him and enlarged a traveling tent to resemble the large council tent that was used every year at the summer clan gathering. Willing hands raised the huge shelter on Council Rock and made it comfortable in preparation for the Shar-Ja’s arrival.

Two days after their arrival at Council Rock, the Khulinin and Dangari welcomed three more clans. Lord Jamas brought a small contingent of brown-cloaked Wylfling. His treld to the west was the other clan whose lands bordered the Altai River. He had left most of his werod with the clan and brought only his hearthguard and an unabated anger at the depredations suffered by his clan during the winter. Lord Wendern of Clan Shadedron arrived next with a young, shattered-looking man barely out of boyhood, who looked as if he had aged years in the past few days. One Ferganan warrior stood with him.

Carrying his light blue cloak and weaponless, the young man bowed before the chieftains. “Hail, lords,” he saluted them. Bruises discoloured his face, and his arm hung in a crude sling. But the surface pain of his wounds was nothing to the grief that burned in his face. “I am Peoren, youngest son of Lord Tirek. I come to represent the Ferganan and to demand the weir-geld that is due us.”