Lightning's Daughter

13

Two days later the travelers rode with Khan’di and an escort through Pra Desh to the outskirts of the city. They passed the guardpost at the city limits just after daybreak and stopped in front of an inn to make a final check of their baggage and to bid farewell to Khan’di.

Everyone was rested and ready to go. The packhorses were fully laden, and all of the gear had been retrieved, cleaned, and repaired.

When Piers dismounted to tighten his saddle girth, Khan’di approached him.

The new Fon looked ill-at-ease, but he came straight to the point. “I should have asked you this before, Piers. Now is my last chance. I would like you to stay in Pra Desh. I need a healer in the palace. Please come back,”

Gabria and Athlone, overhearing the Fon, looked at one another and held their breath.

The healer did not answer immediately. He was startled by Khan’di’s offer and, for just a moment, he was tempted. He had spent his three days in Pra Desh in the houses of healing, help.ing with the wounded from the fighting and the injured survivors from the fire. In that time he realized he missed the big city and all it had to offer. He had much to learn of the new medical advances the Pra Deshian healers had made in the past eleven years.

Then he thought of the clan that had become his family, of the lovely valley where his own tent overlooked a shining river, and of the sorceress who had helped fill the aching loss left in his heart by his daughter’s death. He settled his clan cloak over his shoulders and shook his head. “I can’t.”

Khan’di gripped his arm. “Piers, I know you’re angry with me, but I did not know what the old Fon’s wife was planning that night. Please believe me! I found out later that the woman had given me something to make me ill in order to get you out of the way. By the time I learned of this, you were already gone from the city. I’m sorry!”

Piers clasped his old friend’s hand in his own. For eleven years he had been plagued by uncertainties about Khan’di’s deliberate involvement with the old Fon’s murder. Hearing the truth at last healed a few more of his lingering scars. “It’s not that,” he said, his thin mouth smiling. “I have finally put my daughter to rest. It’s just that I have made a new home with the Khulinin. I want to go back.”

Khan’di searched the healer’s face, judging the sincerity of his words, then he nodded. “A few years ago I would have called you a fool to leave Pra Desh for the barbarian outlands.” He shot a glance at Gabria and Athlone mounted on their Hunnuli. “Now I know better. Long life, my friend. Come visit when you can.”

The nobleman stood back as the healer mounted. The clan horses shifted restlessly, pawing and sidestepping with excitement. They knew it was time to go.

Khan’di strode over to Gabria. He laced his hands behind his back and looked up at the woman with fondness. “I promised you a reward. Are you sure you won’t take it?”

“We have no need of it. Your generous supplies are enough.” She gestured to the hills beyond the city. “Just watch over Bregan’s mound, will you?”

“With pleasure, and thank you, Sorceress. May Elaja go with you.”

The woman nodded sadly. In spite of her earlier reservations, she had come to know and like this man in the two months they had traveled together. She would miss him. “And with you, Fon Kadoa.”

Khan’di went to stand with his escort. “Don’t forget,” he called. “Take the north fork two leagues from here. My scouts said Branth is following the river,”

Athlone raised his fist in salute to the Fon, then he waved his arm to his own party. Eurus half-reared and leaped forward. His huge hooves pounded the paving stones. Nara and the other horses fell in behind, following the stallion down the caravan road. Khan’di raised his hand in farewell and watched until the horses disappeared.

From the shadows of a deep copse of trees, the gorthling watched the farm through Branth’s eyes, his anticipation growing with each passing moment. It was one of the large communal farms that were common throughout the Five Kingdoms.

Early morning sunlight washed the three white-walled cottages and their outbuildings in a pale golden light. Smoke rose from the chimneys, and chickens clucked around the yard.

As far as the gorthling could see, all of the men had gone to the fields, leaving four women, a girl, and several children in the houses. He licked his lips. For five days now he had avoided human contact while he learned the uses of his new body and studied the basic spells in the Book of Matrah. His ruined hand still bothered him, but it was healing well. Now he was ready to try out his new skills.

The door opened in one of the cottages, and a slender young woman walked out, carrying a bucket. The gorthling felt the bloodlust stir his thoughts and his body. He avidly watched the woman carry her bucket to the well and lower it down to fill it. The stirring grew to an urgent desire, and he stepped out of the shadows. His eyes began to glow with a vicious red gleam as he slid his dagger into his sleeve and began to walk toward the farm.

Gabria watched the plumes of smoke rise from the smoldering ruins of the farmhouse and tried not to look at the scorched bodies lying in a row under the apple tree. She was horribly shaken by this destruction. This was the third communal farm along the river that she and her companions had found in this state. The first farm in Calah had been appalling. There had been four men and a boy murdered by what Gabria immediately recognized was the Trymian Force. The horribly mutilated body of a woman was dumped in a wagon, and neighbors located the remains of the rest of the three families in the burned and gutted cottages. Even the outbuildings had been put to the torch.

Since that afternoon six days ago, the travelers had tracked Branth out of Calah and through neighboring Portane from one destroyed farm to another. They had ridden as fast as possible, but Branth stayed tantalizingly out of reach. Secen, one of the best trackers in the Khulinin, estimated the exile was only a day in front of them. However, Branth stole a horse whenever he needed a fresh one, and he never stopped long enough for anyone to catch up with him.

Gabria leaned forward to rest her arms on Nara’s mane and let her head drop. She was tired and felt wretched. She could hear Athlone nearby, talking to the farmers who had found the smoking ruin earlier that morning. Piers and Tam were waiting by the road, while Sayyed, Treader, and the warriors searched the surrounding fields for some sign of Branth.

The woman let her eyes wander toward the charred cottage. It looked so hideously incongruous against the backdrop of the flowering orchard and the warm, bright spring day.

Athlone returned to her side. “It’s the same as the first two,” he said grimly. “No one saw anything. They think it happened late last night, but they don’t know how or why. There is sign of only one man, and no one can believe only one man could do all this.” The chief began to pace angrily between the two Hunnuli. “That’s what I don’t understand. I can believe Branth would steal a horse, food, or gold, and he would kill a man or two who stood in his way. He is a vindictive, arrogant brute, but he never did anything violent that did not serve his own ambitions.” Athlone gestured at the ruins. “This kind of cruel, senseless destruction is not like him.”

Gabria agreed. “Something happened to him in Pra Desh,” she said. “Something changed him,”

“Any ideas?”

“I wish I knew.”

Athlone turned on his heel and mounted Eurus. “We’d better find him before he burns every farm in Portane,”

Just then they heard a shout, and Secen came running toward them from the fields north of the burned barn. “Lord Athlone,” he yelled, “we found his trail.”

“Still heading for Rivenforge?”

“No, he’s turned west. He’s going toward the river.”

“Sacred gods,” Athlone cried, “please lead him to the plains!”

Branth’s move away from the heavily populated farmlands was what the chieftain had been hoping for. Branth was exiled from his people and condemned to death for the murder of Lord Savaric and the part he had played in Medb’s war. Nevertheless, Athlone thought the familiarity of the plains and the lure of home would lead Branth away from the Five Kingdoms. Athlone had no authority in the kingdoms or any experience with their laws and customs. He would prefer to be in clan territory when they caught up with the renegade.

Gabria, however, accepted Branth’s move west with mixed feelings. She wanted him out of the Five Kingdoms, but if he entered the Ramtharin Plains and clan jurisdiction, her use of her arcane powers would again be problematic. She could not use her sorcery without breaking her vow to the clan chiefs. If she and her companions caught up with Branth and he fought them with his magic, she would have to dishonor her vow and face the wrath of the clan chieftains. It was not a pleasant prospect. With a sigh, she grasped Nara’s mane and sat back while the big mare trotted after Eurus to find the other riders.

The travelers found Branth’s trail and followed it across the farmlands and vineyards of Portane. The trail remained clear—Branth was making no effort to hide his tracks—and it continued west to the Serentine River. At the riverbank, the tracks turned north, parallel to the river, then, at the first ford, the tracks vanished into the water. Secen checked and found the trail on the far bank. Branth had crossed the river into the plains.

The travelers forded the wide, muddy river easily, struck the trail, and hurried on. Gabria looked out over the rippling plains with pleasure. The season was ripening to summer, the time when the plains were the most beautiful. The grass that clothed the treeless hills grew thick and green. Wildflowers of yellow, red, and white bloomed on every slope and in every hollow. The few trees close to the creeks that wandered here and there were in full leaf, and arching above it all was a clear, glorious dome of azure.

For five days Gabria and her companions trailed Branth, drawing no closer to the elusive exile. To Secen’s annoyance, the trail remained clear, but it meandered all over the region.

Branth backtracked, circled around, and wandered back and forth as if looking for something.

At one point he skirted very close to Bahedin Treld before turning northwest, Most of the Bahedin would have left for the gathering at the Tir Samod by this time of year, but the elderly and the very young often remained behind. Athlone pushed his party on without rest; they could not afford to lose Branth’s trail.

After a day of running west, Branth angled north. His trail did not falter from that path, as if he had finally decided on a destination. The pursuers followed, but the farther north they rode, the more nervous they became.

“I don’t like this, Lord Athlone,” Secen said as he knelt to study the tracks left by Branth’s horse. “If he keeps on this way, he’ll ride straight into—”

“I know what lies to the north,” Athlone interrupted sharply. “Moy Tura.”

Just the name of the infamous ruined city sent a shudder down the chieftain’s back. He looked north over the open plains, as if he could see across the leagues of grass to the ancient city of the sorcerers. He had heard many tales of the fabulous metropolis, and those tales were enough to keep the heartiest of clan warriors away from the place.

“How far is Moy Tura?” Sayyed asked uneasily.

“Seven leagues, perhaps. Enough distance that Branth might veer off and miss the ruins,” Secen replied.

“I hope so,” said Keth. “I don’t want to find out if the tales about that place are true.”

“Maybe we’ll be lucky, Lord,” Secen said as he remounted. “Maybe one of those legends will eat Branth for an evening meal.”

The others laughed, and they set off again on the exile’s trail, everyone hoping that the man would go anywhere but Moy Tura.

Far to the north of the Khulinin hunting party, a lone rider kicked his weary horse into a trot and rode up the slope of a high tableland. “It has to be here somewhere,” the gorthling hissed. He had been searching for days for the sorcerers’ city and so far, had not even seen a road that might lead to it.

He cursed his vague memory. The gorthling knew Moy Tura was the center of arcane learning. All of the clan magic-wielders went there to study their craft. If any man knew who and where all the magic-wielders were, he would be in Moy Tura. The only problem was the gorthling did not know exactly where the city was located, and Branth’s memories strangely did not include anything about Moy Tura.

The gorthling curled a lip. He was growing tired of this fruitless search over empty land. He wanted to find Moy Tura and its sorcerers and destroy everyone who could possibly ruin his plans. He still wanted to locate those clans who had exiled his host’s body—there would be perverse pleasure in wreaking revenge on them—and there was also the mysterious magic-wielder who had kindled such hatred in Branth’s memory. It would be interesting to track that one down, too. But first, he wanted to find Moy Tura.

The gorthling urged his horse on, faster and faster, until it finally reached a decent vantage point. He reined the animal to a stop and sat looking at the view before him. There was not much to see. The huge, treeless plateau stretched away for leagues without features or landmarks to break its level expanse. The gorthling rode on. His instincts told him the city was dose by, but he could see nothing that looked like a well populated metropolis. There was only grass and sky.

A little while later the gorthling rose in his stirrups and caught sight of something rising out of the plain far ahead. He rode toward it. As he drew closer, he saw more details and features. There was a high, crumbling wall, and behind it he could see buildings, towers, and parapets, but they were all in ruins. What was this place?

It was not-until he rode to the enormous entrance and saw the two huge stone lions laying in the rubble that he realized where he was. They had guarded the city since its birth, or so the stories said.

Viciously he reined his horse to a stop. What had happened? The gorthling could see now that Moy Tura had been destroyed. The entrance gates had been shattered by a tremendous explosion and most of the buildings had been razed. The streets were full of rubble, wind-blown debris, and weeds. As far as he could see the only life here was a rat, some magpies, and a swarm of flies. Even the land around the city was empty and barren. Where were all of the magic-wielders?

The gorthling cursed and urged his reluctant horse into the ruins. There was still time to search the place before dark. Perhaps he could find some clue to the whereabouts of the sorcerers. There had to be a few left to pass on the inherited talent or his host body could never have summoned him. The gorthling rode forward and disappeared into the dead city.

“Are you sure he went in there?” Gabria asked as she stared at the broken walls casting shadows in the early morning light.

Secen nodded, his face pale under its tan.

The travelers were silent as they gazed about them in nervous curiosity. They had arrived at the plateau late the night before, but they had not tried to enter the city for fear of losing Branth’s trail in the dark. Now it was the dawn of a warm, breathless day, and Branth’s tracks led directly into the old ruin.

Just in front of the riders, the entrance lay open, its gates in pieces. A stone lion crouched nearby, cracked in two, resting on the rubble.

Piers studied the lion curiously. “I thought there used to be two,” he muttered. “The stories always mentioned a pair.”

Athlone took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” he called. Eurus, his ears pricked and his nostrils flared, walked warily into the city. The others came behind, keeping dose together as they passed the fallen lion and the piles of rubble at the gateway. The ruins closed in around them.

The party silently followed the tracks of Branth’s horse through weed-choked streets, around crumbling houses and wind-torn towers, past empty shops and decaying walls. Grass grew in every available chink, and piles of broken stone lay everywhere. Here and there a few fallen statues or shattered fountains could be seen in the ruins, attesting to the grandeur of the once-proud city.

Gabria was amazed by the remnants of beauty that still survived in the desolation. Moy Tura had not been a large city, even by the standards of two hundred years ago. It had been a close community of people dedicated to the art of sorcery. They had built what they thought was the greatest, most magnificent city in the known world.

That was the tragedy, Gabria thought to herself. All of their beauty, wisdom, and power had not protected their homes from the jealousy, greed, and anger of the outside world. The sorcerers who had lived here had been too isolated from their their kin. They had put themselves on a pedestal and had ignored the warning signs when the pedestal started to crack.

According to legend, the city was betrayed by a sorcerer, a bitter man who had told the clans of the secret ways into the city—ways that skirted Moy Tura’s deadly magical defenses. The man was, in turn, betrayed by a chieftain. He, along with all the other sorcerers, were massacred. It took the gathered clans only one day to destroy the city. For two hundred years it had lain, slowly sinking into dust, hidden behind a shroud of fear and terrifying legends.

Gabria’s thoughts were still on the past when Sayyed rode close beside her and drew her out of her reverie.

“I hope all the tales about this place aren’t true,” he said. His horse snorted at a rat that scurried past.

Gabria shivered and watched Treader chase the rat into a pile of stones. “So do I. There are some particularly nasty’ ones: ghosts, a guardian, a sorcerer’s curse, hidden traps for unwary looters, and evil beings that lurk in the city at night.”

“That guardian,” the Turic said, looking nervously around. “Even the Turic tell the story of Moy Tura’s guardian.”

“The Korg?” Piers said behind them. “No one has proven that it exists.”

“What’s the Korg supposed to be? Doesn’t that word mean lion?” Gabria asked.

“Yes, it was an ancient breed of large lions that once lived on the plains. That lion at the front gate was supposed to be a korg, one of two that guard the gates,” Piers explained. “But the guardian of the legends was a sorcerer originally—a shapechanger. He altered his shape to avoid the massacre and remained here after the city was destroyed. It is said he went mad and lost the power to revert to human form.”

Gabria thought of the desperate sorcerer and stared sadly over the ruins around her. Living here would drive anyone mad. Even in the sunlight the shattered city was bleak and desolate. So much wisdom gone to waste.

The riders fell quiet again. Their voices seemed jarring and unnatural in the dead city. It was better to ride in wordless haste and get through there as fast as possible.

Before long they found the remains of Branth’s night camp in an empty house. His tracks, still clear in the dust, continued from there deeper into the city.

The travelers were over halfway through the ruins when Nara and Eurus threw up their muzzles and tested the air.

Branth is close, the mare told Gabria, and so is something else. She sprang forward.

“What is it?” Gabria cried. All the horses broke into a canter along the road.

I do not know. It is strange. It is near Branth.

Treader suddenly erupted into a furious barking, Ahead! The man is close. He bolted into the arched entrance of a courtyard. The riders followed him at a run. They burst through one of four gateways into what had once been a spacious, stone-paved courtyard in front of a multi-columned temple. Now the court was full of debris and the temple was a pile of collapsed walls and shattered columns.

“There!” Athlone shouted, pointing toward a horse and rider in the shadow of the temple.

The rider glanced back at them in surprise, then he whipped his head around and stared at something in the temple ruins. His horse reared violently.

The travelers raced across the courtyard, led by Treader and those riding the Hunnuli. They saw Branth more clearly now. He was trying to regain control of his terrified horse. He savagely yanked its head around and whipped it forward into a frantic lunge just as a strange, fearsome beast sprang out from the fallen stones of the temple. A huge paw swiped at the horse’s rump and missed. Branth wheeled his horse around a pile of stones, screeched in triumph, and sent his mount bolting out of the courtyard through another gate.

Snarling with rage, the beast turned to face the oncoming riders. Its body was half again as large as a Hunnuli’s, but it had teeth like curved daggers and a great, tangled mane rumbling about its hideous face.

“The Korg!” Piers cried. “It’s the missing stone lion.”

Athlone reacted instantly. “Split up! Get out of here!”

The riders obeyed, for everyone could see that no weapon of theirs would make a dent on the stone flanks of the huge lion that faced them. They turned and rode desperately for the several gateways behind them. The beast roared in fury; its eyes glowed with an uncanny yellow light as it raced after the fleeing horses.

Before Gabria realized what he was doing, Sayyed slowed his horse and turned in the saddle. His hand raised, he fired a very pale blue bolt of Trymian Force at the lion. The feeble energy bounced off the beast’s face, stinging it into a greater frenzy. It leaped forward faster.

“Sayyed, get out of here!” Gabria screamed.

The Turic’s expression turned to horror, and he fled after the others. The warriors and Piers were already riding through the entrances. Gabria and Tam on Nara, Athlone on Eurus, Treader, and the colt were together in the courtyard when the lion finally caught them.

Gabria immediately created a wall of magic around her companions. The lion slammed into the invisible barrier and rocked back on its haunches. For just a moment, its yellow eyes blinked in stunned surprise, then it roared and paced along the front of the barrier, looking for a break in the wall.

In the brief respite provided by the shield, they made a dash for the gateway from the courtyard. In that time, Gabria also made up her mind to stop the creature, but without endangering Athlone. Quickly she told Nara what to do. “Hang on!” she yelled to Tam. The girl’s arms tightened around Gabria’s waist.

Just as Eurus reached the edge of the courtyard, Gabria dissolved the wall of force. Nara swerved sideways with Treader and the colt beside her, and Eurus galloped through the arch before Athlone realized what had happened.

The stone lion did not hesitate. It turned after the mare and followed her as she galloped back toward the temple. Gabria fired a powerful blast of Trymian Force that exploded on the lion’s chest. The energy knocked the beast back, but it did no real damage. The lion was up and after the horse in a heartbeat.

Nara lured him on. She dashed out of the courtyard through the arch where Branth had gone and led the stone lion on a frantic chase through the ruined city, farther and farther away from their companions. Gabria kept the beast enraged with arcane blasts, but she could not kill it.

At last, the colt and Treader began to tire, and Nara looked for a place where they could hide and rest. They ran faster to put more distance between themselves and the lion, then they ducked into a maze of tumbled buildings and clogged streets. , They lost sight of the lion for a moment, but its roar of frustration echoed behind them. Nara kept going until they saw another, smaller temple. The place was half-buried in the rubble of the fallen building beside it.

“In there!” Gabria cried. “The gods will protect us.”

Nara stopped at the entrance to let her riders dismount, and the little group hurried into the cool shadows of the temple’s interior just as the lion bounded into the street behind them. It snarled furiously, a grating sound that overwhelmed the silence of the ruins.

Tam and Gabria held their breath. They and the animals pressed back into the shadows of the small room while the hideous lion stalked by. The beast’s weight made the stones of the temple tremble. It hesitated near the entrance to the ruined building, yellow eyes staring malevolently, then passed on down the street. The thud of its footfalls slowly faded out of earshot.

Gabria threw her arms around Tam and hugged her tightly. They settled back into the dim, dusty temple, their eats straining to hear any more noise from the Korg. Time passed slowly. Now and then Gabria heard the lion roar in the distance, and she prayed to Amara that her companions had made it out of the city safely.

While they rested, Gabria had a chance to look around their little shelter. The temple was bigger than the one in which she had spent the winter, but it, too, was simple and unadorned. The only real difference between the houses of worship—apart from then state of repair—was a magnificently carved stone altar. Even under the din and cobwebs, Gabria could see the detailed design. One large figure on the front of the altar caught her eye in the pale light filtering through the doorway.

She scraped off the dirt from the stone and smiled to herself.

“Look at this,” she whispered to Tam and Nara. The girl and the mare picked their way to her side. She showed them her find—a large relief of a man mounted on a Hunnuli stallion. From the lightning bolt in his hand, Gabria knew the man was supposed to be Valorian. The clans’ Hero-Warrior had used the power of the lightning to give the Hunnuli their remarkable resistance to magic.

Nara moved around Tam to get a better look. As the mare did so, her hind hoof slipped on a loose slab of rock. She lost her balance, fell sideways, and crashed into the altar.

“Nara!” Gabria cried in alarm. To her immense relief, the mare staggered to her feet and shook herself ruefully.

I am bruised but unhurt, the mare reassured her. I should watch where I am stepping.

Tam grabbed Gabria’s sleeve and pointed to the altar. The big stone altar had appeared to be a solid chunk of white marble, but the Hunnuli had knocked one side loose. With an exclamation, Gabria scrambled over to look. The whole side of the altar was a cleverly hinged door.

Gabria pulled the door open and peered inside. At first she saw nothing but dust in the dark interior. She reached gingerly into the cavity, feeling the cold stone and dirt beneath her fingers. She lifted the only thing hidden in the altar’s interior with great care and laid the object on the floor. Whatever it was, it was heavy and wrapped in a stained piece of fine linen.

Gabria looked at Tam and the two grinned at each other like children with a present. The colt pushed close for a look.

Nara snorted. Are you going to unwrap it?

Her fingers trembling slightly, Gabria pulled back the fabric to reveal a mask of solid gold. She dropped the linen and stared. It was the face of a man, beautifully wrought and polished to a brilliant shine. In wonder she reached out to touch it. A strange tingling tickled her fingers, and she froze, her fingertips still resting on the golden surface. A faint pulse of power vibrated out of the mask into her hand. She had sensed power like that in the healing stone Piers sometimes used and in a brooch Lord Medb had once given Lord Savaric. It was the power of magic.

Without a second thought, she wrapped the mask back to its linen cover and tied it to her belt. “It’s time to go,” she said.

Do you know what the mask is? Nara asked as the little group moved to the door.

The sorceress shook her head. “No. But it is a prize too precious to leave here.”

They slipped outside, and, after Treader and Nara made sure the area was safe, Gabria and Tam remounted. They tried to head back the way they had come. It was not long, though, before Gabria realized they were completely lost.

Gabria glanced worriedly at the sun. The day had passed to late afternoon. She did not relish spending the night in the old city with a living stone lion, Branth, or any other evil creature that might be loose.

She was lost in thought, pondering their unsettling situation, when Tam tapped on her shoulder. The little girl pointed to a magpie flapping overhead. She closed her eyes and raised her hand toward the bird.

To Gabria’s amazement, the magpie fluttered down to Tam’s hand. It squawked loudly. Go to the next street. Turn at the broken statue, the bird said in her mind. The sorceress turned to the little girl and grinned proudly before she passed the information on to Nara.

They followed the magpie’s instructions and wound through the ruins to a broad avenue. Far ahead they saw a high wall with an open arch. There was no sign of the Korg or Branth, but to Gabria’s endless relief, she heard a shout and saw two riders come out of the shadow of the wall. A few moments later, three more riders, Athlone among them, came out of the ruins and galloped toward the mare, whooping with relief. The entire party met near the wall and greeted one another in joy.

Secen, who had been scouting the area, came riding in through the open arch. The warrior beamed with pleasure when he saw Gabria. “You’re safe! Praise Surgart.” He turned to Athlone. “I’ve found him, Lord Branth left the ruins through another gate. The trail leads west.”

“Let’s be after him,” Athlone said. “I have no desire to stay and see that Korg again.”

The others wholeheartedly agreed, and they thankfully rode out of Moy Tura behind Secen. Somewhere in the ancient ruins, the lion roared a cry of anger and hopelessness. Gabria glanced back in sadness for the magic-wielders who had been lost in blood and violence. She prayed that such a thing would never happen again. Tightening the knot that held the mask to her belt, she followed her companions as they resumed their hunt for the renegade chieftain.