Dark Horse

11

At midmorning, Nara appeared by Piers’s tent to fetch Gabria. Savaric decided for appearance as well as safety to let her ride the Hunnuli. The effect would be worth a thousand words when they came to the council.

When Gabria walked out with the healer, she saw Savaric, Athlone, several of the hearthguard warriors, and the four Oathbreakers already waiting for her. She was surprised by the presence of the men of the lash, but she only gave Seth and his companions a cursory glance. Seth, on the other hand, exchanged looks with his men, and, when Nara pranced to Gabria’s side, he gave his brother an appreciative shake of his head.

Athlone helped the girl mount Nara’s broad back. He looked into her drawn face and recognized the fires burning her within. He squeezed her knee. When she glanced down at him, her eyes were bright and distant.

“Keep a guard on your tongue. Do not do anything to risk the lives of this parry. Do you hear me?” Athlone demanded.

His emphatic tone drew her back to the present. She nodded with some surprise.

The Hunnuli nudged her thoughts. He is right, Gabria. Do not challenge the man yet. You are not ready.

Gabria was watching Athlone talk to his father. “I am more than ready. My sword thirsts for his blood,” she snapped.

I do not mean swordplay.

Gabria was jolted. “What do you mean?”

But the mare said nothing more, for Savaric was gesturing at them to lead the group. Gabria did not pursue the answer. Her mind was already set on her course of action and she did not want Nara dissuading her for any reason.

The Hunnuli tilted her nose down, arching her neck into curved ebony. She snorted.

“Are you ready, Gabran? It is time,” Savaric said.

In answer for her rider, Nara threw her head high and neighed a challenge that reverberated through the camps. Boreas answered her from a distant meadow, and other horses neighed in return until the meadow echoed. The mare pranced forward, and the men fell in behind her. Gabria straightened her back. The girl flipped the edges of her cloak back until it lay neatly over the Hunnuli’s haunches and flowed in a crimson tide to her boots. Behind her, the men walked, silently admiring the horse and her rider. Clan Khulinin gathered to watch them leave.

Gabria knew the effect the red cloak would have on people who did not know a Corin still existed, but she was not prepared for the impact her arrival made on the volatile atmosphere of the gathering. Nara’s neigh had stirred the camps like a stick in a wasp nest. Hundreds of people were crowding the riverbank, staring toward the Khulinin tents. The chieftains, who were waiting for Savaric at the council tent, went outside as word of the Corin’s coming spread through the gathering.

When the Hunnuli and her escort crossed the Isin, a babble of voices broke out. A wall of clansmen stood on the riverbank, blocking the way to the council tent. For a moment, Gabria wondered if they would let her pass. Confusion, fear, and amazement were on every face. The crowd shifted and grew.

There were many people she recognized, but they seemed like strangers to her. Several people shouted at her; a few cursed her. Everyone now realized one Corin still remained, and they were bitterly reminded of their own negligence in honoring the memory of Clan Corin. Gabria ignored them all and raised her eyes to the banners flying above the council tent.

They reached the edge of the crowd. For the space of a breath, no one moved. Then Nara neighed again, imperiously. Immediately, the mob’s attention focused on the mare, and a sigh drifted through the press. They moved aside, forming a corridor. Nara pranced forward, just as a short gust of wind unfurled Gabria’s scarlet cloak like a chieftain’s banner. Every eye followed the horse and her rider. Few noticed the Khulinin chieftain behind the Hunnuli, or the Oathbreakers who walked beside him. When Nara came to the council tent, Gabria dismounted. The chieftains met her at the entrance. Only Medb remained inside.

“My lords.” She bowed to the other nine chiefs as Savaric joined her. “You may not remember me; I am Gabran of the Clan Corin. I would like permission to attend the council.”

The nine looked at one another uneasily. Koshyn caught Savaric’s eye and smiled with a twist of irony.

Malech, the Shadedron chief, said dubiously, “No uninitiated warrior is permitted to enter without his chieftain.”

“I am the son of Dathlar and the only Corin, so by rights of the survival, I am chieftain,” Gabria said coolly.

Athlone choked at her audacity and looked away. The lords any talked among themselves for a moment, and Savaric held back to allow the chiefs to make their own choice. Around the tent, men from every clan watched and waited and held their own council.

Finally, Malech nodded and gestured to the tent. “You may join us, Gabran.”

Before anyone moved, Savaric stepped forward. “Lords, I have given permission for a high priest and three members of the Cult of the Lash to attend the council as my guests. They have several important matters to discuss with us.”

The chieftains suddenly noticed the four strangers with the Khulinin. Noise broke out anew as the men presented themselves. Several chiefs blanched and every clansman seemed to move back, away from the hated black whips.

“Treacherous filth,” Caurus, the red-haired chieftain of the Reidhar, snapped. “Leave this gathering at once.”

The others murmured in agreement. The members of the cult had forsaken their vows of fealty to the clans and the chiefs, rightly earning the title “Oathbreakers.” They were not specifically banned from the gathering, but they were certainly not welcome.

A dark cloak of fear hung on the Oathbreakers’ shoulders, a fear born of whispered rumors and stories of heinous deeds. Few men knew the secrets of Krath’s followers because few survived who broached the confines of the Citadel of Krath. Only the Oathbreakers’ reputation as highly trained killers and their aversion to metal were known to all. Because they used metal, their only weapons were their bodies, their whips, and their finely crafted killing instruments of leather or stone. It was said an Oathbreaker could snap a man’s neck with bare hands or remove a head with a flick of a vicious black whip. Their religious goal was to perform the perfect kill in the service of their demanding mistress.

But it was not the cult’s bloodlust the clansmen despised, it was the subterfuge its members practiced. The stealth in the dark night, the garrote in the throat, the subtle poisons, and furtive killings were incomprehensible to a clansman. No one knew when an Oathbreaker would strike. There was never warning.

And now they wanted to join the council.

Lord Branth pushed his way forward and stared down at Seth. “How dare you return here.”

Seth’s cold eyes shriveled Branth’s brashness to dust. “Medb dared us,” he said in a voice sharpened with malice.

Branth fell back a step, and the other chiefs looked upset. Medb’s involvement with the Cult of the Lash was something they had not considered. The tension built like a storm.

“You have my word that my brother and his men will not disrupt the council. They are here under my protection,” Savaric said soothingly.

Malech’s mouth tightened. “They must leave their weapons outside and may only speak on the matter that brought them here.”

Seth agreed, and the four men piled their whips by the entrance, knowing no man would dare touch them. The chiefs and their men filed into the council tent.

Nara nudged Gabria. Remember.

The girl nodded and moved numbly after Savaric. Inside, Medb was waiting for her. Her determination burned whiter; her fingers itched for the feel of a sword. She tried not to crowd Savaric through the entrance, but craned over his shoulder for her first glimpse of the Wylfling lord. Gabria had never seen’ him before, and her imagination had created many faces and forms for the man she knew only by reputation.

As the men sorted themselves and found their places, Gabria stared wildly about, trying to spot the murderer. He had to be there! Yet there was no one that fit her perception of an evil sorcerer. The only Wylfling she saw were sitting together near the head of the tent, and one she noticed with surprise, was seated on a litter with a brown blanket wrapped around his legs. She sat down by Athlone, her heart hammering. Maybe Medb was waiting to make an appearance. She clenched her hands and tried to still her trembling.

Lord Malech stood, his broad face sweating profusely, and held up his hand to quiet the talking. “Lord Medb, we have several strangers who have requested to join the council.”

Gabria froze. Her eyes raked the assembled Wylfling to find the chief who responded. On the litter, the man with the brown blanket idly waved away a fly and inclined his head.

“So I heard.” He turned to Gabria. “On behalf of the council, may I express our delight and relief in the survival of a son of Dathlar. Your father’s death was a blow to us all.”

Gabria’s mouth dropped open. She stared and stared until her head swam and the fury began to boil in her stomach. She had been cheated! The days of humiliation and grief and sweat had gone for nothing! She wanted to shriek at the injustice of it. The last, bitter, blood-soaked laugh had gone to Medb, for now her clan’s honor would have to be sacrificed to a cripple. She started to stand, not knowing what she would do, but Athlone slammed her down and gripped her arm like a vise.

“Don’t move,” he hissed. “Don’t say a word,”

Gabria could not have spoken if she wanted to. Her breath seemed to be strangling her.

The chieftains looked at her curiously, expecting a response. When she said nothing, Malech cleared his throat nervously and said, “The Corin massacre is a subject we have been avoiding . . . to our shame. Now we discover a Corin has survived. We cannot sidestep this hideous crime any longer. Boy, will you tell us what happened at your treld?” Malech averted his eyes from Medb and waved at Gabria to stand.

Athlone released the girl’s arm with a warning squeeze, and she slowly climbed to her feet. Over the heads of the men, she could see Medb clearly, and her hatred fumed. No one had told her the truth. They had let her run wildly into a trap where the only escape was to retreat. She could not duel with a crippled man in any way; there was no other avenue of revenge that would satisfy her weir-geld. She could hire the Oathbreakers to assassinate him, if they would, or she could attack him herself one dark night, but both thoughts were repugnant and would not honorably settle the debt of vengeance.

Gabria could think of nothing else to do. Perhaps, if she convinced the council that Medb was responsible for the heinous crime, they would discipline him. Unfortunately, she doubted the chieftains would do much. It was obvious, even in the first few minutes she had been with them, that the chiefs were afraid.

The realization startled her. As Gabria looked about her and saw the men’s grim mouths and tense postures, a small feeling of pride began to grow in her mind. These men who boasted so loudly around the fires at night quailed before a single chief, a man of their own standing, while she, a woman, was a rider of a great Hunnuli and had survived the worst doom a clansman could inflict on another. If she could survive that, she could endure this hideous disappointment.

Keeping her voice low and level, Gabria told the council everything she had told the Khulinin, as well as her vision of the massacre. She disregarded the growing agitation of the men and kept her eyes pinned on Lord Medb as she talked. Her gaze did not waver when she detailed her evidence of his guilt.

The Wylfling chief sat motionless through the telling, returning her silent challenge with his gray eyes narrowed like a wolf’s. Still, Gabria could see the angry glints in the gray of Medb’s eyes and a tic in the muscles of his rigid neck.

Despite his shattered legs, Medb was still a powerful, vibrant man. His energy pulsed in every muscle and made him look younger than his forty winters. He was very different from anything Gabria had imagined and, in other circumstances, she would have thought him handsome. His features were chiseled on a broad face and were framed by a short beard and curly brown hair. It was a face meant to be open and friendly, not twisted into a mask that hid malice and unconscionable deceit.

When Gabria finished speaking, an uproar erupted from the council. The men shouted and gestured angrily. Several leaped to their feet. In the deafening outbursts, it was difficult to understand their arguments. Lord Malech tried to quiet them, but his efforts were wasted in the chaos.

Savaric stood up. “Silence!” he bellowed, and the racket died down. “The Corin have been dead for four months. Why do you show your outrage only now?”

The men slowly quieted.

“Why do you just now bring forth this survivor?” Lord Branth asked, adding a sneer of disbelief to his last word.

“To guard against his untimely demise. He is, after all, the last of the Corin. Now that we all are witness to his existence, we cannot ignore the reasons for the annihilation of his entire clan.”

“The evidence I have heard condemns the greed and bloodlust in a few exiles who unlawfully banded together to harry our clans,” Branth retorted.

Shouts of agreement met Branth’s statement, and Lord Caurus of the Reidhar slammed a horn cup on the ground.

“Ten of my best mares were stolen by that pack of jackals and thirty sheep were slaughtered and left to rot.”

Lord Ferron of Clan Amnok said immediately, “This has never happened in the memory of our clans. We must deal with these marauders swiftly before they massacre another clan.”

“The Corin were not massacred for simple greed,” Savaric said.

Branth snorted. “Then why? Because the exiles did not like the color of their cloaks?”

“I should think that would be clear, especially to you, Branth, whose holdings lie next to Dathlar’s. And to all of you who have listened to Medb’s promises of wealth and power. There is only so much power to go around.”

Lord Jol, oldest of the chieftains, said fiercely, “I received no offer from Lord Medb. What is this?”

“Empire building, Jol,” Koshyn said.

The chief barked a laugh. “Absurd. No one man can rule the clans; they are too far apart. Mine is almost in the northern forests.”

Savaric turned to Medb. “But it is true, isn’t it, Medb? Why didn’t you negotiate with Jol’s Murjik? Are they too distant to be of use . . . or were they next for the sword?”

Jol paled, and the warriors began arguing heatedly about the exiles, Savaric’s accusations, Gabria’s evidence, suspicions of others—everything but Lord Medb’s complicity. Some wanted to believe Savaric was right. Despite Medb’s offers, most of the chieftains were appalled by the idea of the clans in the chains of an overlord. They knew in their hearts why Clan Corin had died, but they did not know what to do about it. One of their own had never turned on them in this manner.

Even if Medb did confess to ordering the exile band to massacre the clan, the chieftains were fearful of punishing him. His strength had grown beyond any imagining and, with his mercenaries, he outnumbered every individual clan. The chiefs were also afraid of knowing the truth about his sorcery. If Medb truly had reconstructed the ancient spells, the clans were doomed. There was no one left who could fight him.

But Savaric would not let the chieftains evade the truth forever. He strode to the center of the tent and glared at Medb. “My blood brother died at Lord Medb’s order. I cannot challenge him to a duel, but I demand the council take action to punish this most hideous crime.”

For the first time since his greeting to Gabria, Medb spoke. “Fools,” he hissed quietly. He held out his hand, palm up, and began to speak. His voice was gently compelling, as if he were speaking to a group of rebellious children.

Gabria looked at Medb in surprise as the noise ended abruptly and every man turned to listen. Their faces were blank and their eyes seemed to yearn toward him. The girl looked at Athlone and he, too, was staring at Medb with rapt attention. Even Medb’s own men were craning over his shoulder to hear what he would say next.

“Are you weak-kneed girls who must hang on every word mumbled by a simple boy? For reasons I cannot fathom, I am being unjustly charged with a crime that is most foul. I had no cause to slaughter the Corin. They were fellow clansmen, horsemen like myself. Would I cut off my own fingers?” He sounded aggrieved. “And to what purpose? Their lands lie far beyond the farthest hoof prints of my outriders. It is absurd.” He settled back on his litter and curled his lip in a smile. “Yet I can understand how you could be deceived by this boy’s fable. You are blinded by the red cloak and an earnest air. The boy was coached well by Savaric, was he not?”

The men murmured to themselves, their eyes still pinned on Medb. His words made sense to them. Gabria’s and Savaric’s arguments began to melt away like ice in the warmth of the sun. Medb’s voice was so pleasant, so logical. He could not have harmed the Corin; it had to have been the exiles acting on their own. Athlone, too, looked puzzled and wondered if maybe his father were wrong.

Gabria felt confused. She knew that Medb was lying, but his words were sensible and his tone was so sincere that she wanted to believe him. Something strange was happening in her mind, and she struggled to find the cause.

“I cannot help but wonder why Lord Savaric is trying to lay the blame at my feet. I have done nothing to him.” Medb paused as if in thought, letting the warriors feel his wounded innocence. “And yet if I were to be deposed by this illustrious council, who would care for the interest of my clan? I have no son. Would my considerate neighbor thus feel charitable and watch the Wylfling’s holdings while a new chief is chosen?”

Savaric struggled to utter a word, but his voice seemed to be lost. Furiously he stepped toward the Wylfling. Medb lifted his hand and the Khulinin stopped abruptly, as if walking into a wall.

Medb came to his point with slow relish. “I am not the only one who is threatened by Lord Savaric’s greed. Even the Turic may fall to his guile. Already he is making plans to overthrow the tribes and steal the southern foothills of the Darkhorns, lands that border mine!”

Suddenly, Gabria laughed. This man, perched on his litter, bloated with his own monstrous arrogance, was daring to sully another man with accusations of deceit and greed? And these warriors, taken in by Medb’s spells, were sitting like enchanted frogs, taking in every word. It was more than Gabria’s battered self-control could tolerate, The effects of Medb’s spell evaporated in Gabria’s mind, and she stared around her and laughed again.

The sound of her mockery was bare of humor and sharp with frustration, and it sliced through the clansmen’s stupor like a scythe. They started in surprise and looked at each other guiltily. Savaric’s body jerked as the spell broke and he nearly fell. Seth reached out and caught him by the arm.

Medb’s face tightened unpleasantly. He shot a considering look at Gabria. He gestured to two of his guards, whispered an order, and turned back to the chiefs to continue the thread of thought he had spun in their minds. This time, he set aside his spells and fanned the flames that he hoped would bring the council to his feet. His two guards slipped out of the tent.

“Corin,” Medb addressed Gabria. “There were valid reasons for forbidding uninitiated boys into the council; your outburst is one of them. Please contain yourself.”

“So, you do recognize my blood,” she replied, holding her cloak up in her fist. “And I shall soon know yours.” With the sorcerer beyond her reach, her obsession for revenge burned in her head. It warped her common sense into a blind carelessness.

Malech glanced apologetically at Savaric, missing the imperceptible movement of Medb’s hands. But Seth noticed it, and he recognized the forming of an arcane spell. He quickly leaned over to Gabria.

“Take this,” he whispered and thrust a small ball into her hand. “Keep it with you.”

Gabria opened her hand and found a white stone ball, intricately carved. Within its hollow core were three other balls of graduating sizes, one inside the other. It took a moment before she recognized the object and then she nearly dropped it. The Oathbreaker had given her an arcane ward. But when she raised her eyes, she too saw the strange movement of Medb’s hand. The air hummed briefly in the tent; one warrior slapped at an imagined fly, and Gabria felt a slight pressure in her head. Then it passed and she sighed in relief. She should have known better than to tamper with the anger of a sorcerer. Her carelessness had almost cost her. Gabria hid the arcane ward in her tunic and threw Medb a look of pure hatred.

Medb caught her look and pursed his lips in annoyance. He had seen Seth pass something to the boy, and now he knew what it was. He was not surprised the Oathbreakers still had a few of the relics left by the old sorcerers, but he was irritated to see that the priest had given one to an outsider-and that the I ward operated so well for the boy. There was something very curious here. The fact that the boy was alive was strange. The exiles had sworn they had killed Dathlar and all of his sons. Obviously they had been careless.

Malech interrupted his musings. “Savaric, keep the boy quiet or he’ll have to leave.”

The men were still considering Medb’s words, and Koshyn asked angrily, “Do you have proof of your ridiculous accusations against Savaric?”

Savaric crossed his arms. “Your arrogance astounds me, Medb.”

“Only when the cloak fits,” Medb replied. “Perhaps this will convince you.”

Suddenly there was a commotion outside the tent and Medb’s two guards came in, dragging a young warrior dressed in a tattered, filthy robe that had once been Turic. Athlone uttered an exclamation and jumped to his father’s side as the warrior was dumped unceremoniously at Malech’s feet. The other men strained to see who the man was. Only Medb watched Savaric to witness his reaction. The young man moved feebly on the carpets, his body twitching as if he were trying to avoid imaginary blows, his hands clenching spasmodically. Moaning, he rolled over and stared wildly at the roof of the tent.

“Pazric,” Savaric whispered sadly.

The warrior’s face was caked with dried blood and was bruised and haggard; his skin seemed shriveled around his bones. Athlone knelt by his side and tried to lift him to a sitting position. Pazric flinched in terror from the wer-tain’s touch and tried to scramble away, but his battered body failed him and he curled up, gibbering, by the fire pit.

Athlone stood up. “What have you done to him?”

“I?” Medb looked insulted. “My men found him like this, crawling in the desert and near death. The Turic left him to die.”

“And this is your proof?” Lord Ferron said. The Amnok’s face was as gray as his cloak. “This wreck you salvaged from the wasteland? Haven’t you a healer in the Wylfling?”

Medb shrugged off the last question. “Don’t you recognize him? This is the inestimable Pazric, second wer-tain of the Khulinin. Look at his neck. That is what they do to treacherous filth who are not worth the clean cut of a sword.”

Pazric raised his head for a moment and every man looked. A bloodied discoloration encircled his neck like a collar. Purplish flesh puffed out around the edges of the marking and oozing gouges covered his throat like claw marks.

“A leather strap soaked in water,” Medb said conversationally. “As the sun dries it, it slowly strangles its victims.”

“This proves nothing,” said Lord Koshyn.

Medb clapped his hands. “Dog! What was your mission with the Turic?”

Pazric cringed. His eyes bugged and rolled with terror. He forced his voice out of his ravaged throat. “To offer them a treaty.”

“What treaty?” Medb demanded.

The other warriors moved nervously, helplessly, and watched Medb, Savaric, and Pazric. The four Oathbreakers glanced at each other knowingly.

“To trade land,” Pazric croaked. He hid his head under his arms and cried with the effort of answering.

“What land?” Medb pushed relentlessly.

“Their holy land . . . southern foothills. . . for the Altai Basin.”

“That’s impossible.” Lord Quamar shouted. His clan knew the Turic well, for the Ferganan’s treld was in the south by the Altai River. “They would never accept a treaty like that.”

“The Altai Basin is Wylfling land,” Medb reminded them, knowing they were well aware of it. “Yet Savaric feels it is, or will be, open land for his unencumbered use.”

Savaric disregarded Medb’s insulting accusations and the growing dissension around him. Instead, he studied Pazric’s huddled body. The wer-tain would sooner die than intentionally lie about his honor, his lord, or his mission. It was true that he had been sent to deal with the Turic tribesmen, but only to arrange a mutually acceptable meeting place for livestock exchange, and Savaric doubted that the tribesmen had perpetrated any of the brutal injuries on Pazric. They had dealt with him before and respected his integrity. But Medb, also aware of Pazric’s honesty, must have captured him on his way home and warped his mind into a cringing mass of lies to sway the council. Looking at Pazric’s face, Savaric debated how much of the second wer-tain’s mind had been destroyed. The warrior’s sunken eyes seemed turned to an inner agony that was controlling his every word, an agony that almost certainly came from Medb.

Savaric swallowed. No man doubted the chieftain’s courage in battle, but sorcery was a fearsome mystery he had never faced. He shuddered at the recklessness of his idea to goad Medb, and he hated to use Pazric in his ruse, for there was an excellent chance that forcing Medb to expose his powers would result in someone’s death. Unfortunately, it was the only chance he saw to terrify the chiefs into uniting against Medb.

“Lord Savaric, did you send this man to the Turic with a treaty offer?” Lord Malech asked unhappily. He was rapidly losing control of the council and he knew it.

Giving his son a warning look, Savaric answered. “Certainly. It is no secret we deal with the Turic.”

“For livestock, but what about land?” Ferron asked.

Savaric shook his head. “The southern hills are not fit for a lizard, -let alone a horse.”

“Yet they have the Altai River and the sparse grass is excellent pasturage for goats like yours,” Branth pointed out. “You have not answered the charge. Did you offer to exchange the Altai Basin for the Turic’s land?”

“What does it matter if I had?” Savaric said with heavy scorn. He strode to Medb, ignoring the Wylfling guards, and pointed dramatically at the seated man. “Look at him. He is a useless hulk. If he lives to the next wintering, it will be an act of the gods. He cannot move without a litter or survive without aid. He is only a burden to his clan. And he is a chieftain! He must see to the welfare of the herds, the training of the werod, and the survival of his clan. No able-bodied warrior in his clan will tolerate his weakness for long, and before many days, there will be strife in his ranks. If he were truly concerned for the interests of his clan, he would step down and have a new chieftain chosen by the council.”

Several men loudly agreed, and Branth blew his nose with scornful rudeness. Patches of color flamed on Medb’s pale cheeks and his hands twitched on his lap.

Savaric pushed harder. Medb had been injured within the year, and Savaric sensed the mental wounds had not yet healed. Fighting down his anxiety, he rubbed the salt deeper. “Step down, Medb,” he sneered. “You’re a legless parasite on your clan. Not even the exiles want you.”

Athlone, watching Pazric, abruptly stepped back in alarm. The younger warrior’s eyes were filling with hate and his face contorted into bestial rage. He snarled, the sound bubbling and ragged. Savaric heard the warning and knew his ploy was working. Medb’s mental control on the man was slipping.

“Admit it, Medb. Give up your clan. They don’t want you. You’re not fit to rule a feeble clan like the Wylflings, let alone an empire.”

Savaric’s last word ignited the explosive atmosphere. The clansmen burst out into a tumult of violent shouting, abusive curses, and vehement repudiation.

Medb sat upright in his litter, his dark eyes boring into the Khulinin chieftain. Despite his crippled legs, he seemed to dominate the huge tent as he swept his arms in a command to his guards. Gabria and the Oathbreakers jumped to their feet to defend Savaric, and Athlone, reaching for his sword, leaped in front of his father.

Medb laughed in scorn. “You poor whining fools. You snap at my heels and never see the truth. I am tired . . .”

Medb got no farther. A maniacal scream rose above the noise. Pazric stumbled upright. His swollen lips were pulled” back over his teeth; his robe swayed madly around his bruised limbs. With unbelievable speed, he clambered over the fire pit and sprang for Medb.

Athlone grabbed for him. “Pazric, no!” But Pazric’s tattered robe fell apart in the wer-tain’s hands. The young warrior broke free and snatched at Medb’s throat.

Without warning, a brilliant blue light flared in the tent; it smashed into Pazric and slammed him to the floor. Gabria cried with dreadful recognition, for Medb had used the Trymian Force. Everything else came to a horrified stop.

Medb slowly leaned forward and spoke a strange command. A pale, coppery force field began to form around him. “Now you all know your fate,” he said. “The clans will be mine or I will unleash the power of the arcane and destroy every man, woman, and child that bears the name of a clan.”

“Gods,” Koshyn whispered.

“How?” Malech asked, his voice shaking.

Seth answered, speaking for the first time. It was too late to warn them now. It had been too late the moment they walked into the council tent. “He has the Book of Matrah.”

Medb turned his dark gaze on the Oathbreakers. “And despite your inconvenient refusal to translate the sections I requested, I have mastered more sorcery than your feeble minds can comprehend. And beware, whip lovers, soon I will have all your books in my possession and your citadel will be rubble.” The translucent dome around the sorcerer was almost finished, and Medb pointed to Pazric’s body. “Take your dog, Savaric. He served us both well. Then count your days. By the next gathering, I will be ruler of the clans. This council is over.” Medb gestured to his guards and four of them picked up the litter. The dome hovered around his body.

Imperiously, Medb ran his gaze over each man, as if pronouncing his fate with a single look. He gave a negligible nod to Branth. To Athlone and the Oathbreakers, he showed only contempt. At Medb’s order the bearers carried him toward the entrance. When he passed Gabria, he snarled, “You’re the last of the Corin, boy. Do not hope to continue the line.”

The Wylfling left the tent, and the council disintegrated. Lord Ferron left before anyone could stop him. Everyone else rushed to their feet.

“Is Medb serious?” Malech asked weakly.

Koshyn threw out his arms. “Gods, man. You saw him.”

Seth said without emotion, “He has gained control of the arcane. What do you think a man like that will do with that kind of power?”

Athlone knelt by Pazric and gently pressed his fingers beneath the fallen man’s jaw. “He’s dead,” he said dully.

Savaric shook his head. “He was already dead when Medb brought him in.”

Gabria removed her cloak and laid it over Pazric’s body. She was shaking badly, and the scarlet wool quivered in her hands when it settled over Pazric’s battered face. The memory of the blue flame burned in her mind. Before, the Trymian Force had only been a word on Piers’s lips and a nagging bad dream. Now she had seen it. It was a reality, a force that killed at a man’s calling.

Gabria paused. A tiny thought nudged into her despair. It was a wild, frightening grain of an idea, yet it stirred her dead hopes. Perhaps revenge was not totally beyond her grasp.

“You were right, Gabran, weren’t you?” Lord Jol said with bitterness. He appeared to have aged rapidly in that short afternoon. “Medb ordered the massacre of the Corin.”

Gabria nodded. The clansmen were suddenly subdued, as if they did not want to share each other’s despair.

“Yes, he did!” Savaric stated, turning to face them. “To make an example to all of us and to weaken our resolve. If he has succeeded in doing that, then the Corin died in dishonor.”

“What do you expect us to do? Fight the monster?” Lord Caurus demanded, his face as red as his hair.

“Yes!” Sha Umar shouted. He was chief of Clan Jehanan and he intended it to remain that way. He stood by Savaric and shook his fist at the other chiefs. “Our survival depends on it. Medb has not gathered his full strength yet. Now is the time to attack—before he marshals his forces.”

Branth laughed. “Attack? With what? Lord Medb would destroy you before the first bow was drawn. The only way the clans will survive is to swear fealty to him.”

“I will never allow a broken-kneed, murdering sorcerer to rule my clan!” Caurus threw his wine cup into the fire pit.

“Then we must join together. We must unite our werods to fight him or we are lost.” Savaric felt the chiefs’ unspoken resistance, and he fought down a rising sense of despair.

Branth curled his thin lips in a sneer. “And who will command this united rabble? You, Savaric? And after you have disposed of Medb, will you pick up his sword and take his place?”

The Shadedron chief stepped forward. “And what about that band of exiles? We don’t dare leave our clans undefended,” Lord Malech said.

Caurus agreed. “We do not have a chance against Medb here. I say we’d be safer defending our own holdings.”

“Better than putting ourselves between two greedy chieftains,” Lord Babur of the Bahedin said with a glare at Savaric. Babur was ill and had said very little at the council meetings.

“I still think it is impossible for him to succeed,” Jol said stubbornly. “The clans are too far apart.”

“This is getting us nowhere. The council is over.” Malech stalked out of the tent, trying not to hurry, followed by his wer-tain and advisors.

The remaining chiefs looked at each other unhappily. Branth strutted to the entrance. “If any of you wish to talk to me, I will be in my tent. Everyone knows where that is.” He too, left with his men.

Koshyn sighed and pulled his hood over his head. “There is little point staying here to argue with the wind, Savaric. The clans will never unite.”

“But he wants us to bolt for our holes so he can take us one by one. We must try to work together,” Savaric implored.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Good-bye, Corin. Take care of your Hunnuli.” Koshyn and his warriors filed out.

Without another word to each other, the remaining men left the council, propelled by shame and shock. They had not yet recovered from witnessing the blatant and heretical use of sorcery in the sanctuary of the council tent. After two hundred years of ingrained prejudice and hatred, they had seen the object of their scorn resurrected before their eyes. For the first time, they were witnessing the bitter folly of their ancestors. The men were also recoiling from the truth of the Corin massacre and Medb’s shocking declaration of his intention to rule the clans as overlord. The frightening possibilities of the arcane and the logic of Savaric’s arguments were lost in the morass of the chieftains’ fears for their clans.

In moments the tent was empty, save for the Oathbreakers and the Khulinin. Savaric stared at the entrance as though trying to draw the others back. His eyes were bleak and his lean body sagged with dismay. Gabria and Athlone carefully lifted Pazric’s body and carried it outside, where Nara consented to bear it back to the encampment. Savaric and the four cultists followed behind and stepped out into the hot afternoon sun.

Seth picked up his whip, coiling it carefully in his hands. “Our journey was for naught. It was too late to warn the council.”

“I thank you for trying,” Savaric replied. “Will your citadel be able to withstand Medb’s attack?”

“For a while. Some of the old wards still operate, but our numbers are dwindling. In the end, it will be the same for us as for you, and Medb will have free rein in the archives.”

“You could bum the books.”

Seth shook his head. “It is difficult to destroy a sorcerer’s tome, and we would not do it. Someone else may have need of them one day.”

“Then defend them well.” Savaric watched the people moving through the camps. Some word of the events of that afternoon had already spread, for no women were in sight and the men moved with nervous haste.

Seth spoke to his companions briefly and turned to his brother. “Take care of the Corin. And yourself.” The brothers clasped hands, then the Oathbreakers gathered their whips and disappeared among the tents.

The Khulinin and the Hunnuli silently bore Pazric back to camp.