Valorian

18

A hideous cackle of glee from the gorthling startled everyone, including Valorian, who had forgotten it was there. It crawled out onto his shoulder again and curled its lips in a sneer. The Tarnish officers stared in revulsion at the ugly little creature and in bald amazement at the man who controlled such a thing.

“What are you waiting for?” the gorthling hissed in Valorian’s ear. “Destroy them! Sear them to ashes! They don’t deserve to live after what they did to your people.” The insidious voice touched the rawest nerve in Valorian’s self-control. Suddenly he wanted to blast the Tarns where they stood, to slaughter every single man as they had tried to do to the Clan. It was the least they deserved for the eighty years of misery, poverty, and murder they had inflicted on his people-and for this last atrocity, the unprovoked attack on an inoffensive caravan. His hatred, contained for so many years, boiled up like acid, and the tension became a visible pain on his face.

“Do it!” prodded the gorthling again. “It would be so easy.

You have the power. Kill them all!” Imperceptively Valorian’s hand began to lift; the magic seethed within him. He saw the faces of the officers in front of him staring at him in increasing alarm and fear. He saw the legionnaires gathering nearby, laying down their weapons. It would be so easy to kill every one of them. All he had to do was. . .

The gorthling chuckled in anticipation.

Suddenly Valorian’s hand clamped down on his knee. He shoved his sword back in the scabbard, and with every ounce of his willpower forced his hatred deep down out of sight in the most hidden chambers of his heart. How could he even think of abusing Amara’s gift by slaughtering men who had already surrendered? Or breaking his vow before his people? It would have been a heinous thing to do, something better suited to a gorthling.

He cast a speculative look at the little beast on his shoulder. Valorian knew he wasn’t so easily overcome by his own emotions. Could this creature somehow be influencing his thoughts? If that was so, he thought, he had better get rid of it as soon as possible.

“Keep quiet,” he told the gorthling harshly. It subsided temporarily and hid behind Valorian’s back again.

The chieftain spoke another command, and the clansmen around the Tarnish prisoners lowered their swords. Hunnul walked over to the small group where Lord Valorian relieved the standard bearer of the XIIth Legion’s gilded eagle standard. He turned to face the Clan and held the tall standard high to catch the afternoon sun.

A loud cheer rose from the gathered Clan. It grew louder as the people began to realize that the danger from the Tarns was over and, in a stunning victory that boggled the imagination, the soldiers had become their prisoners.

General Sarjas glanced at the noisy caravan and back to the silent ranks of warriors behind the Clan chieftain. His brows knotted together. “Lord Valorian,” he finally asked, puzzled, “where were your other men hiding? We saw no sign of another troop of warriors before the battle.”

Valorian’s face slowly broke open in a wide grin. With a dramatic snap of his fingers and a muttered command, the images of the warriors vanished, leaving the chieftain with only his battered, smiling rear guard. “What men?” he asked.

The Tarns stared, unbelieving, at the empty field. General Sarjas swallowed hard. How was he going to explain this to the emperor?

Valorian’s grin faded and he turned brusque. It was time to get back to the Clan. “General, we are going to Ramtharin Plains as we had planned. If you leave your weapons and horses here, you and your men may leave I peacefully. If you do not, we will keep this man as a hostage,” and he pointed to Antonine. He still wasn’t certain who the soft-looking young official was, but he recognized the man’s ultimate authority over Sarjas.

The commander hesitated. To abandon their weapons and horses to the clanspeople was almost more than he could bear, but once again Antonine stepped in. “Do it, Sarjas! I’ll buy you new horses when we get out of this!”

Sarjas’s rough-hewn face was abruptly frozen by a powerful self-control. Tight-lipped, he dismounted and gestured to his men to do likewise. A Clan warrior came forward to take the reins of the seven horses.

Valorian was satisfied. He turned to Karez nearby and said, “Make sure the word is spread. Have them leave their weapons here and picket their horses by the river. They can take their dead and wounded if they like.”

Karez nodded, rather surprised and pleased that Valorian would give him such an important task.

Then the chieftain turned back to the legion general and saluted him. “It is on your honor that the legion obeys the terms of surrender. Good day, sir.”

Sarjas returned his salute reluctantly, but with a measure of respect in the crispness of his motion. .

At Valorian’s touch, Hunnul trotted back across the field of grass toward the caravan. The chieftain groaned when he finally took a good look at the mass of carts, wagons, people, and animals. It was a shambles. There was so much to do he hardly knew where to begin. Wagons were tipped over, damaged, or jammed together; horses ran loose everywhere, and the herds of livestock were scattered all over the fields and slopes. Gear and belongings were strewn over the ground. People were milling around in confusion, and frantic children and dogs were scampering underfoot.

Worst of all were the dead and wounded lying scattered along the trail, in the grass, and among the wagons. Many of them were clanspeople, but they had defended themselves fiercely against the Tarns, leaving quite a few soldiers among the numbers of the dead. They would all have to be dealt with: the dead buried and the wounded tended. Valorian could see it was going to be a long and difficult task to get the Clan back on its feet.

He began at the first group of people he reached, where he found the survivors of the vanguard trying to help the wounded around them. The retreating Tarns had actually saved the remnants of the vanguard when they rushed through the head of the caravan by throwing the remaining Tarnish forces into chaos and distracting the vanguard’s attackers.

A jolt of relief hit Valorian when he saw Aiden sitting on a rock, feebly wrapping a rag around a bad slash on his leg. “Thank the gods,” Valorian muttered fervently. His parents would have to wait awhile longer to see either one of them in the realm of the dead. He slid off Hunnul to help.

Aiden’s normally cheerful grin and snapping eyes were dulled with pain and exhaustion, but the spark wasn’t out entirely. The corners of his mouth turned up to greet Valorian, and his grip was strong on his brother’s arm. He was about to say something when he saw the gorthling peeking over Valorian’s shoulder and recoiled in disgust.

The creature snarled at him.

“Ignore it. It will be leaving soon,” Valorian said.

“That’s what you think,” hissed the gorthling.

Aiden looked disgusted and puzzled, but then a comprehending light came over his expression. “Is that how you did it? You used a gorthling to enhance your power?” Valorian nodded. “Gods above! You’ll have to tell me how you pulled that one off.”

“Another time,” the chieftain said, taking the rags from Aiden’s fingers, transforming them to clean strips, and wrapping them carefully around the wound. “You rest now.”

Aiden pulled himself to his feet. “Oh, no. There’s work to be done. I’ll rest later.”

“You need a healer,” Valorian protested.

“Then find one. And while you’re looking, I’ll get the wounded set up over there.” He pointed to a fairly smooth place under a cluster of trees by the river.

The chieftain frowned at his brother and reluctantly acquiesced. Short of tying Aiden down, there would be no stopping him, and. the Clan needed all the help it could get.

“What do we do about the Tarnish wounded?” Aiden asked, looking at the bodies lying around them.

Valorian felt the gorthling stir and its claws pinch at his skin through the fabric of his tunic. It hissed softly in his ear. The hatred he thought he had buried suddenly rose again to choke him in thick, viscid clots, and he almost told Aiden to slit their throats. The intensity of the feeling shook him badly—he wasn’t used to such powerful emotions. Was the gorthling doing this to him? He fought the feeling down again and said instead, “Take them to their officers. They can take care of their own better than we can.”

Before he could go on, a strange voice said bitterly behind him, “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

Valorian whirled, drawing his sword, and scanned the people nearby. At first glance, he saw only the Clan warriors moving around to check the bodies. Then a Tarnish soldier lying close by moved in the dust. Painfully the man hauled himself to a sitting position and glared at the two clansmen. It took Valorian only a moment to see through the blood and the dirt to the man’s face and insignia. He recalled the night a year ago when he had last seen this man in a wet, dark clearing with four other hungry Tarns.

“Sarturian,” he said, sheathing his sword, “your chance is gone, but all of you seemed to enjoy the deer.” He knelt down beside the older man and examined the bloody wound beneath the soldier’s ribs.

The sarturian glared helplessly at him. Although he had been struck by a Clan arrow in the side and suffered cuts and bruises, he didn’t appear to be in danger of dying. He was panting, though, and in great pain.

Valorian cautiously touched the arrow shaft and turned it to mist before the sarturian’s astonished eyes. “That’s for the reprieve you gave me that night.” He twisted his mouth into a wry smile. “And for the information.”

The soldier grimaced at the memory. “If you’re still going to the Ramtharin Plains, you’re making a mistake. Your people will probably starve by winter.”

“It couldn’t be any worse than the Bloodiron Hills,” Valorian replied. He helped the sarturian to his feet and gestured to two other Tarns who were shuffling down toward the river. “Take him with you,” he ordered.

Aiden tilted his head to watch the Tarns hobble away. “He’ll never take a meal from a clansman again.”

“Not if I can help it,” Valorian said with hearty satisfaction. He was turning to mount Hunnul again when Aiden put a hand on his arm.

“Please, when you have a chance, will you find Linna and tell her I am well?”

The raw note of worry in his voice matched the same concern in Valorian. As chieftain, Valorian’s first responsibility was to his people. He knew, though, that he couldn’t give them his full effort until he had learned the fate of the rest of his family. He returned his brother’s clasp and jumped onto Hunnul to go on with his difficult duties.

He left Aiden busily organizing the able-bodied to bring in the wounded, find the Clan healers, and set up a makeshift shelter. Slowly he made his way down the jumbled line answering a myriad of questions, organizing people to help with the most pressing problems, finding boys to round up the livestock, and helping the wounded whenever he could.

He found Mordan still in the wagon, half-buried under the body of a dead Tarn. He despaired for the warrior’s life, until he hauled the body off and saw Mordan clutching his bloody dagger. The guardsman gave him a grateful smile.

“Have you been busy?” Valorian asked, relieved.

Mordan nodded once. “That Tarn thought I looked like easy prey. But even wounded, I’m still a match for one of them,” he replied hoarsely.

Valorian gestured to several men who came and lifted Mordan out of the wagon and carried him to the grove of trees.

The chief hurried on from one emergency or disaster to the next, lending his calm strength, optimism, and his enhanced magic wherever he could. There were many wounded among the clanspeople and more dead than he wanted to find. No age or group had been spared; men, women, and children had fallen to the merciless attack.

All of the Clan families had suffered casualties, but it wasn’t until Valorian reached the section of the caravan where his own family had been traveling that the toll of the dead sank in hard. Quiet, loyal Ranulf would never go beyond the pass he had found, for he had died defending his sisters. Other relatives were also dead or dying, and more were hurt. They cried out to him as he approached, and even though he wanted to help, his eyes could only search the wreckage of carts and the confusion of horses and people for the four faces he desperately wanted to see most.

Then a voice called out to him over the hubbub. “Valorian! We’re over here!”

He nearly threw himself off Hunnul to reach the speaker. Kierla ran through the carts to meet him, her dark hair loose and flying, her body sound and strong. She flung her arms around him, buried her face in his neck, and cried in joy.

Valorian was beyond words. He merely held her tightly while his heart sang a prayer of gratitude.

“We saw you go by,” Kierla said between tears and laughter. “That was quite a cavalry you found. ”

“Not bad for a thick-witted mortal,” the gorthling said, sneering. “Wait till you see what he can do when I give him some real training.”

Kierla sucked in a sharp breath and stepped back; her eyebrows shot up over her widened eyes. She hadn’t seen the gorthling until that moment.

“I’ll tell you later,” Valorian said hastily. “Are Linna, Mother Willa, and the baby safe?”

Kierla looked dubiously at the gorthling before answering. “Yes, they’re all right. Mother Willa made us cut the traces and turn our cart over. We crawled underneath it just before the soldiers reached us.”

“And that’s not all,” Mother Willa added. Valorian’s grandmother and Linna, carrying the baby, came up to them. Mother Willa went on. “Kierla stabbed a Tarn in the leg when he tried to push the cart over.”

The chief smiled at his wife. “The four of you seem to have handled things well.”

“We were lucky,” she answered and pushed her hair back out of her eyes with a sharp, tense gesture. “If you hadn’t come when you did, there wouldn’t have been much left.”

Linna agreed, her fair face still shadowed with the memory of fear. Then she added, “I didn’t see Aiden with you. Is he. . .” She couldn’t finish the words.

“He’s alive. He has a wounded leg, but it’s nothing serious. He’s over by those trees, helping the wounded.”

“Then that is where I will be,” Linna said firmly. She passed Khulinar over to Kierla.

Valorian hugged her in thanks. He knew with Linna there, Aiden wouldn’t be able to overexert himself. “Take Mother Willa with you. They need all the healers who can help.” When Linna was gone, Valorian kissed his wife soundly on the lips and forced himself to stand back. “Will you. . .” he began to say.

Kierla knew immediately what he was going to say and interrupted him. “We will be fine. Go! I will help here.” She recognized as well as he the responsibilities of a Clan chieftain, and she gave him a gentle push.

By nightfall, some semblance of order had been restored in the valley meadow. The Tarns had marched down the valley just before sunset in sullen, silent ranks. Valorian had allowed them to bring in their teams and provision wagons to haul away their dead and wounded—as long as they left half of their foodstuff..., and medical supplies behind. The clanspeople stopped what they were doing to watch the legion fall back, for it was a .sight no one had ever expected to see. When the last file faded down the trail into the twilight, the people burst out with a cheer that followed the Tarns far down the trail.

For the first time in three generations, the clanspeople were free to go, and they were jubilant.

Meanwhile, the survivors began to set up a camp of sorts beside the river. Gylden and some of the older boys, with the help of Hunnul, rounded up most of the loose horses and were slowly gathering in the scattered livestock. The dead clanspeople were placed in covered rows to be readied for burial, and a guard of honor was stationed to protect them from scavengers. The injured were lovingly tended in the shady grove; the able-bodied were fed. One by one, the young and the old put aside their grief, joy, gratitude, and pain and fell into deep, exhausted sleep.

Only Valorian could not find the rest he dearly needed. He still had to dispose of one small, tenacious problem. When the makeshift camp seemed quiet and a nearly full moon had risen, he rode Hunnul up the steep slopes to the top of a distant hill. The night was warm and muggy and undisturbed by any breeze. Far to the east, on the other side of the peaks, clouds obscured the stars, and a faint flicker of sheet lightning outlined the edges of the mountains.

Valorian paid little attention to the land around him. He simply stared for a long time over the scattered campfires in the dark camp below while the gorthling swayed soothingly on his shoulder.

Now that he had a chance to try sending the gorthling back, a strange reluctance overcame him, as intense as the hatred that had dogged him earlier. He knew he couldn’t leave this evil creature in the mortal world; every sentient particle of his soul believed it would be hideously dangerous and wrong. The gorthling belonged in Gormoth.

But he really didn’t know how to send it or take it back, and his mind was too tired to think. The effort would be so difficult. Maybe he could do this later.

The gorthling stopped weaving and softly stroked the dirty stubble on Valorian’s jaw. The chieftain hardly felt it through the fog of his preoccupation.

There was nothing, he thought to himself, that required him to send the creature back now. He could wait until tomorrow. Perhaps even a few days. The gorthling’s enhancement of his power would be useful to have while the Clan repaired their wagons and healed their wounded. There was so much more he could accomplish with the greater power at his fingertips.

Wearily he leaned forward to rest his forearm on Hunnul’s mane. He had done enough for one day. The gorthling could wait, he decided, and he would think about a spell for a few days. Later, perhaps, he would send the creature back.

Under him, Hunnul stamped his hooves restlessly. His ears flattened as he sensed his rider’s reluctance, and his tail was jerking back and forth in annoyance. Master. His voice broke into Valorian’s thoughts. Have you asked the creature how to send it back?

The chieftain started violently. His sudden movement upset the gorthling and caused it to accidentally scratch his cheek. Irritably he swatted at it, forcing it to withdraw to the farthest point of his shoulder.

“How would it know?” Valorian demanded. “And for that matter, why would it tell me the truth?” He was cross at the interruption of his musings, even though a part of him realized Hunnul’s suggestion was a good one.

The gorthling is cunning and knows more about the immortal world than we do. It could think of some way to go back to its home. Simply command it to tell you the truth.

Valorian’s reluctance seemed to ease in the face of such a sensible idea. He plucked the gorthling off his shoulder and dropped it to his knee, where he could see it better in the moonlight. Now that the gorthling was away from his head, the strange hesitancy to send it back weakened even more.

Valorian’s eyes widened in alarm and comprehension. So the gorthling was trying to influence his mind with its own insidious thoughts. That was why he had wanted to slaughter every Tarn and keep the gorthling by his side. If the creature could alter his emotions so easily after just half a day, what control would he have had left of his mind if he had waited for several days? The realization washed away the last tendrils of his unwillingness. Valorian knew without a doubt that the gorthling couldn’t be allowed to remain the night—for the sake of his immortal soul.

“Unless you wish to eat that gold ring, you will tell the truth to every question I ask,” he informed the wizened creature on his knee.

The gorthling had no choice when it was under the power of the bright gold. It hunched down, its lip curled up in a silent snarl. “What do you wish to know, nag rider. . . the truth? You have seen it. Your power is sevenfold when I am with you. Nothing can touch you. Nothing can harm your family or your people when you wield such magic. Think about the possibilities!”

Valorian ignored the conniving tone and demanded, “Would I be able to use my consciousness and return you to Gormoth the same way I brought you out?”

“Yesss. . .”

Valorian caught the edge of smugness at the end of the reply. “But?” he prompted.

“Yes, you can go back. But there are dangers.”

“Like what?” demanded the chieftain.

The gorthling’s face wrinkled even more in its effort not to answer, but it couldn’t fight the power of the gold around its neck. Its words came spitting out. “If you try to enter the realm of the dead without a Harbinger to guide you, you could become lost in the mists of the barrier, where there is no escape. If you do find a Harbinger to guide you and you make it through, Lord Sorh may not allow you to enter the realm of the dead while your body still lives. You slipped through once, but not again. And he’s probably not happy that you kidnapped me!

“Nor will the other gorthlings let you into Gormoth. They have sensed your mind, and they know your presence. They would catch you the moment you opened the door.” The gorthling suddenly broke off and smirked at Valorian. “Do you know what they would do to you? They might torment your mind for eternity or maybe just a few years. If your consciousness ever returned to your body, you would be . . . utterly. . . hopelessly. . . demented!” It chuckled at the whole idea.

In the back of his mind, Valorian had been afraid of something like that. The hatred and the malice he had felt in Gormoth had been focused too intently on him when he pulled the gorthling out. The others probably knew he would have to return his prisoner sometime, and they had all eternity to wait for him. He scratched his neck where the dried sweat itched and thought about other ways.

“Could the Harbingers take you back?” he suggested.

“No!” the gorthling rasped. “Those messenger boys only obey Lord Sorh.” At the thought of the god of the dead, the gorthling began to grovel on Valorian’s leg. “Please, master. Let me stay with you. I will wear your nasty gold and obey your every whim. Please let me stay,” it wheedled.

Valorian wasn’t moved this time by the gorthling’s attempt to sway him. Beneath the whining voice and the pleading posture, there was an indistinct phosphorescent glow in the creature’s eyes that sent shivers down the clansman’s back. “Enough!” he snapped. “Tell me what other ways will return you to Gormoth.”

The gorthling hissed its frustration, but it finally had to answer. “There is only one other way-the ancient way that Lord Sorh used to trap us in the mountain.” It cackled suddenly with derision. “Not that it will help you. No simple, weak-handed mortal can wield the power necessary to return me!” Still cackling, it leapt into a mad dance on Valorian’s knee, as if it had just conclusively proved its victory.

The chieftain had had quite enough of the gorthling’s antics. Muttering an imprecation, he snatched it up by the golden armband and shook it until it stopped its wild movements and hung there glaring at him. “Just tell me what it is!” he insisted furiously.

“Yes, master! Nice master!” the gorthling crooned and rubbed its tiny hands over the man’s fingers. Valorian dropped it in disgust back onto his knee. It giggled nastily. “You have to make an opening through the barrier between the mortal and immortal world and send me through it. If you could do that, which you can’t, your magic would return me to Gormoth.

“What power do I need to make this opening?”

With a snicker, the gorthling replied, “There is only one in the mortal world that will work, but it would fry you to ashes and turn your nag into vulture bait.”

“And that is?”

The gorthling waved a hand at the east, where a faint flash illuminated the mountain peaks for the blink of an eye. “Lightning.”

Valorian went numb and cold all over. Oh, sweet, merciful goddess, not that! he thought, terrified at the very suggestion. His one experience with lightning had been enough to last him a lifetime and beyond. And the gorthling was right. Even with the enhancement of his power, he didn’t have the strength to withstand the unbelievable energy of a white-hot bolt of lightning.

Master, Hunnul’s quiet, reassuring voice touched his mind. We could use it together.

There was a long pause, then Valorian said, “Tell me.” His voice was unsteady as he tried to balance hope and fear.

When we were struck by lightning before, you know the bolt left some of its strength within me. In some way I do not understand, it has made me invulnerable to its power. !f you are in touch with my body when you call the lightning, you should be protected.

“ ‘Should be’? Not ‘will be’? ” Valorian asked dubiously.

The stallion cocked his head to look back at Valorian out of one deep, velvet eye. We have never tried this before, so I cannot be certain.

Valorian considered Hunnul’s words. The whole concept of using lightning as a fuel for a magical spell was completely beyond his experience or knowledge. He had only a horse’s word that it might not incinerate him the second he touched it. That was hardly reassuring.

But it was intriguing. He had sensed the traces of the searing power in Hunnul and, if the stallion were right, it would be worth the attempt to create a spell that would send the gorthling back through the barrier alone.

There was only one other problem: There was no lightning close by. He was certain that even with the gorthling’s help, he didn’t have the skill to create the intricate and vast forces that birthed a thunderstorm. Nor could he form lightning out of thin air. Fires, bolts of magical energy, rockslides, or images of warriors were spells he could manage, but lightning was a power far beyond his present ability and knowledge.

The only hope he had was to use real lightning, but once again, there was none available. The existing storm was too far away to be of any use. It was probably somewhere over the Ramtharin Plains, and by the time he rode Hunnul there, it would be long gone.

Relief, disappointment, and frustration ran through his mind in turn. What were they going to do? “It won’t work,” he said morosely to Hunnul. “We have no lightning to use.”

The gorthling sneered. “No lightning! Of course not, moron. The stars are out. And why are you talking to that creature? Did you think that worm-eaten grass biter was going to help?”

Hunnul gave a snort. Actually, I think I can.

Valorian sat straighter. “How?”

Lightning begets lightning. I think we can use our power to pull the storm close enough for you to draw on its energy.

“We?”

My foals and I.

“Oh, gods above!” Valorian murmured weakly.

There were no more excuses, no more reasons to hesitate.

He had pulled the gorthling out of its prison, and it was his responsibility to send it back by whatever means necessary-even lightning. He swallowed his terror and said softly to Hunnul, “Let’s try it.”

The gorthling leaped upright, its eyes glowing like coals.

“Try it? Try what? What brainless thing are you going to do?

Answer me!” it screeched.

Beth man and horse ignored the creature. Hunnul lifted his head and neighed a long, ringing call into the night.

Out of the darkness, the little ones began to come in answer to their sire’s summons. Small and as black as the night, they were ghostly shapes in the moonlight that gathered in a circle around the stallion at the top of the hill.

Only their wide eyes and their lightning marks caught the faint gleam of moon and stars and threw it back with equal brilliance. They shifted noisily in their places like children at play until Hunnul nickered to them to be still.

By that time, there were over seventy Hunnul foals in the Clan herd, and every one of them down to the smallest, only a few hours old, was there to help their sire. Gently he told them what they were going to do, and they filled the night air with whinnies of excitement.

Hunnul quieted them again. As one, father, sons, and daughters raised their muzzles to the sky, where the stars sparkled across the ebony spaces, and joined their power to summon the storm. A deep stillness settled over the horses’ motionless forms, and a silence as palpable as the darkness.

Valorian barely breathed, so rapt was he in the unmoving spectacle of the horses, the night, and the magic. Only the gorthling fidgeted, for it didn’t understand what was happening, and its suspicions were beginning to burn.

Nothing seemed to happen for a long while. The ring of small horses and the stallion in the center remained held in the spell of their unseen power, while the moon continued to gleam and the man and the gorthling watched.

The changes came imperceptibly at first, on an indistinct rumble that barely disturbed the silence of the night. Valorian didn’t realize what it was until the second rumble sounded, a little louder and longer. Thunder. He glanced up at the sky to see the first shreds of clouds blowing over the face of the moon. A slight wind stirred the grass.

For a moment, he couldn’t believe it No horse could call a thunderstorm, not even a stallion who had survived a lightning strike. Then a bright flash hid the stars, and three heartbeats later, the thunder boomed through the mountains. Whether he wanted to believe it or not, Valorian realized the storm was coming and he had better be prepared to receive it.

Working only with his intuition and his memories of the realm of -the dead, Valorian quickly worked out a spell that he hoped would propel the gorthling through the barrier of mists and back into the mountain of Ealgoden. All he needed was the lightning bolt to blast the opening into the immortal world and the courage to use it. Overhead, the sky was almost overcast, and the night had become as black as burned pitch. There was no light at all except for the blinding explosions of energy that danced across the face of the coming storm. The wind came gusting over the slopes, bringing the damp smell of rain.

Valorian felt every muscle in his body tighten into thrumming wires. To his amazement, he realized the magic around him was increasing, as if something was intensifying its strength. He remembered that same phenomenon had happened before when the Clan crossed the river just before the thunderstorm broke. It had to be the huge forces of the storm and the lightning that produced that effect. It could be a useful thing to remember.

Then he grinned to himself. The strengthening magic could be a useful thing now! He wouldn’t have to rely on the gorthling’s enhancement when he had magic of his own surging around him in an ever-increasing tide. Quickly he dismounted and carried the gorthling to a flat rock several paces away.

“Don’t move. Stay on this rock,” he ordered.

The gorthling looked up at him with hatred, its eyes glowing fiercely. “What are you up to, mortal? Are you trying to kill yourself?” Valorian turned his back on the creature and returned to Hunnul. The storm was close now, its winds blowing flat across the grass. Lightning crackled nearly overhead.

Get ready, master, Hunnul warned him.

Valorian wrapped his legs tightly around Hunnul. The gorthling’s influence on his power was gone because of the distance between them, so he drew on the intensifying energy around him to form the beginnings of his spell.

All at once the gorthling understood what the man was trying to do. A blood-chilling shriek rent the night over the sound of the thunder and wind. “You fool! You can’t do this! I belong here now! I’ll never return to Gormoth.” The gorthling jumped up and down on its rock, but because of the gold still around its neck, it could not disobey Valorian’s order to stay. It grew even angrier. It shouted maledictions at the top of its lungs at Valorian, Hunnul, the foals, the Clan, and even Lord Sorh, and when no one paid attention to it, it broke into hideous, unending screams.

Valorian shut out its voice. The lightning was close now, and he could feel its power vibrating through his being. His mouth was so dry with fear he could barely whisper a prayer to Amara to protect him. A raindrop spattered on his nose, and a sizzling streak of lightning ripped through the clouds overhead. It was almost time. Slowly he raised his hand toward the sky.

The gorthling saw his movement and its shrieking stopped. “Don’t do it, mortal! Don’t condemn me to go back to that prison,” it shouted in fury. “I will curse you into the tenth generation! The goddess of life has given you and your blood descendants the ability to wield magic, but I will take that away! Someday, in some place, your talent will come to be hated and feared as you hate me. Others will hunt down your descendants and destroy them! Do you hear me, Valorian? Your magic saved your family yesterday, but if you send me away, I will see that it brings everyone who carries your blood to annihilation!”

Valorian hesitated for the space of a breath. He didn’t know Amara had allowed his talent to be passed on to his children. Was the gorthling right? Could it possibly place a curse on his descendants?

Then the air began to tingle on his skin and in his lungs from a new charge of lightning that was building in the clouds. It was now or never. The chieftain shut out the gorthling’s screaming voice and its imprecations and set his spell in motion. Let the future happen as it will, the gorthling had to return to Gormoth.

A split second later the energies within the turbulent storm instantly fused into a brilliant white streak that was hotter than the sun and faster than the eye could follow. It arced down through the black sky like a spear thrown from the hand of the god Surgart and was caught by the magic of the clansman. In one swift, smooth motion, he pulled the bolt into his right hand. He felt its searing power rage through him to Hunnul and safely into the ground, and only then did he know that Hunnul was right.

Triumphantly he channeled his spell into the furious energy of the lightning and threw the bolt with all his might at the cowering gorthling. There was a tremendous explosion of sparks and light, a howl of rage and despair, and a deafening crack of thunder that shook the hills. Almost simultaneously the backlash slammed into Hunnul and the foals, sending them staggering. Valorian was thrown sideways, and before he could catch himself, he fell from the stallion’s back. His head struck a rock, and the night, the horses, and the storm disappeared into black oblivion.

Gylden found him the next morning lying in the wet grass with blood on the side of his head and Hunnul standing over him. Gently his friend roused him and lifted his head to offer him a sip of Mother Willa’s herbal drink from a small waterskin.

Valorian drank gratefully. Groaning, he sat up and put his pounding head in his hands. He knew the gorthling was gone without even asking or looking; he could feel its absence in every fiber of his body. Without the gorthling to feed his power, the effects of his constant use of magic had taken their toll. Every muscle ached, his limbs were sore, and he felt completely and utterly exhausted. His head throbbed with each heartbeat, and he was soaked from head to toe. He wasn’t sure he could even walk, he felt so tired.

A soft muzzle touched his arm, and he cocked an eye sideways to see one of the older Hunnul foals peering at him with obvious concern.

Gylden scratched the little fellow fondly. “I don’t know what you’re doing up here,” he said to Valorian, “but the foals were awfully worried about you. They brought me, to find you.” When Valorian didn’t answer, he sat down beside his friend to wait for the medicinal drink to take effect.

It was a glorious morning, fresh and cool, with a light breeze and a sky of perfect blue. Before long the sunshine, the drink, and the realization of his victory brought strength pumping back into the chieftain’s mind and body.

It was over. The struggle to unite the Clan, the long journey through Chadar and Sarcithia, the race for survival, the battle against the Tarns, and the summoning of the gorthling. It was all finished. The gorthling was banished. Valorian had lost his armband, too, but he was sure Kierla would understand. The Tarns were defeated. Now the Clan faced a new beginning. Valorian wasn’t foolish enough to believe the path would be easy, but from this day forward, anything the Clan did, they did for themselves. The thought was euphoric.

He hauled himself to his feet, clasped Gylden’s hand in thanks, and walked slowly down the hill with the black stallion at his side.

The moon was new and the summer had well begun by the time the Clan left the meadow for the final trek to the top of Wolfeared Pass. They left behind a large mound crowned with spears and flowers, where almost two hundred of their people lay. With them went several wagonloads of wounded still too hurt to ride, a horse herd nearly doubled in size, and almost one hundred black Hunnul foals. Safely hidden in the dark, warm wombs of the brood mares were nearly a hundred more. The black stallion’s dynasty was well begun.

A light of joy mingled with sadness glowed on the faces of the clanspeople as they climbed higher into the mountains. The peaks, gleaming with snow, reared above them, and a sharp alpine scent filled their nostrils. They crossed the pass in the late afternoon, and everyone from the youngest to the oldest stared at the hazy, purplish land to the east where they would build a new home.

Valorian deliberately chose to be the last clansman over the pass. He brought Hunnul to a stop on the highest point of the stony trail and watched the last wagon, several riders, and the warriors of the rear guard pass by him and move on down the trail toward a broad, flat plateau where the Clan was setting camp for the night.

He couldn’t have described his feelings to anyone at that moment if he had tried. His entire being was a jumble of memories, dreams, and emotions that washed through him in an uncontrollable flood. Foremost, he decided, was gratitude to the Mother Goddess. Without Amara, they would still be scratching out a bare survival in Chadar.

The memory of his discovery of the stone temple on the mountain peak far to the north brightened in his mind, and he suddenly decided that the Clan would begin to leave their own legacy here and now. They would build a monument of their own to Amara, a symbol of their journey and their gratitude that would remain for generations to come.

Perhaps down there on the wide plateau would be a good place.

At that moment, a soft wind blew up around him, lifting Hunnul’s mane and tugging at Valorian’s clothes. It bore a fragrance of incredible delicacy and sweetness that Valorian had only smelled once before in his existence. The flower that shattered the stone. The power of life.

“Amara,” he breathed.

The wind wafted past, tickling his face. He felt the same feeling of comfort and familiarity that had nurtured him previously in Amara’s presence, and he looked around, trying to see her.

Hunnul tossed his head, neighing a welcome.

You have done well, my son, the wind whispered in his ear.

“Because of you,” Valorian replied.

The voice laughed like a breeze dancing through leaves. I gave you the tools; it was you who put them to use.

The man felt himself grow warm from the goddess’s praise, but there was still something he had to know. “Is it true,” he asked, “that you have given this talent to my son?”

To all of them. And to their children after them.

Unfamiliar tears sprang to Valorian’s eyes. The goddess had entrusted him with a great gift, and he had ruined it with his weakness and stupidity. “Then the gorthling was right,” he murmured.

Yes, my son, and his curse cannot be revoked, for it was spoken by an immortal. But I will give you this promise: Not all of your blood will be destroyed. A few I can save, and ; when the time is right, they will return your gift to the Clans.

He hung his head and whispered, “Thank you.”

In a sudden, gusty twirl, the wind whisked away with its fragrance and its comfort, leaving Valorian and Hunnul alone on the pass.

The chieftain raised his fist in farewell, then he and the black stallion left the Tarnish Empire behind forever and walked the path to join the Clan.