Winged Magic

1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lord Bendinor looked dubiously at Peoren and his lone guard. The boy looked barely sixteen or seventeen. “Are there no others to come with you, lad?”

Peoren drew himself up. “My father, an older brother, and the wer-tain were killed. Almost all of the hearthguard are either dead or wounded, my lord, except for Dos here, who vowed to attend me. I am the only male left in my family, and I felt it was my duty to attend this council even though I have not been accepted as chief. I decided the rest of the warriors were needed to guard the clan and help the women care for the wounded.”

Kelene, who had been studying Peoren’s bandaged arm, asked worriedly, “Where is your healer? He should have seen to your arm before you left camp.”

The young man winced. “He was killed in the first surprise attack. We’ve been doing what we can.”

“Are you certain you want to do this?” asked Athlone.

Lord Wendern, his long features masked with concern, stood beside Peoren. “I saw what was left of the treld. Peoren has done a man’s job of organizing the clan and caring for his people. I feel he’s earned the right to stand in his father’s stead.”

The sorcerer lord accepted his word, and the other chiefs made no further comment. Nor did the remaining chiefs when they joined the council. They came by twos and threes, traveling together with their mounted guards for convenience and safety. Another sorcerer, Kelene and Rafnir’s friend Morad, came riding in with Lord Hendric of Clan Geldring.

Last to arrive were clans Amnok and Murjik, the two northernmost clans. The chiefs and their men came late in the night, weary from days of relentless travel to reach the council before the appointed day. They had only one day left before the Shar-Ja was due to arrive, and there was still much to do to prepare to meet the Turics.

The tribesmen, however, followed their own schedule. The following morning, only a few hours after the clan horns had blown to welcome Amara’s sun, the horns blew again in warning. As the horn blasts died away, they were echoed by a blast of deeper horns that sounded from somewhere across the river beyond a long, low ridge.

The clansmen paused at their tasks for a brief moment, and in that space of silence they heard a distant murmur of sound: the dull thunder of hooves, the rumble of wagons, and the din of many voices. Over the gently rising hills they saw a wavering cloud of dust that rolled closer, spreading wider as it approached. The murmur of sound grew to a constant clamor.

“To your horses!” bellowed Lord Athlone in a voice that cracked like thunder.

Every man grabbed his weapons and ran to mount his horse. The standard bearers brought the chieftains’ banners and took their places by the lords in a line along the northern riverbank. By the time the Turic vanguard rode into sight, the clans were ready, sitting in rank after rank behind their chiefs. The bright colors of their cloaks glowed in the morning light; their mail and weapons glinted like scattered pieces of silver. As the Turics came into view, the clansmen raised a forest of spears above their heads in salute.

At the forefront of the clan contingent sat Lord Athlone on his towering Hunnuli, Eurus. Beside him rode Gabria, Sayyed, Gaalney, Rafnir and Morad, representing the clan magic-wielders. Their black Hunnuli stood as an impregnable bulwark across the path to the river’s ford.

From where he sat on Afer, Sayyed felt his heart twist at the sight of his father’s people. He should have worn away the Turic in his mind by this time, but the blood of his fathers still clamored for recognition. The sight of the tribesmen, dressed in traditional burnooses and long, flowing robes and pants, and riding their sleek desert horses was enough to jolt more memories than he had believed still remained.

Although he deplored the viciousness of the attack that destroyed his mother’s people at Ferganan Treld, he couldn’t help but be pleased as the standards of the fifteen tribes came over the crest of the hill and lined up on the banks opposite the clans. There among the colored banners he saw the lion rampant on red, the emblem of the tribe of Raid. In twenty-six years of contentment and happiness among the clans, Sayyed had learned to forgive his father, the Raid-Ja, for rejecting him so many years ago, and he wondered now if any of his family still lived.

“By Amara’s crown,” he heard someone breathe in awe. “How many are there?”

Sayyed glanced at his son and saw interest and amazement play across his face. Although Rafnir could speak fluent Turic and understood Sayyed’s devotion to the Turic god of ages, he was clan from boot to plaited hair. He did not really understand the strict and honor-bound codes of the Turic.

“The Turic believe it is necessary to show an opponent their power and strength before negotiations of any peace treaty,” Sayyed explained. “Because the Shar-Ja is with them, they have probably brought his entire retinue to prove to infidel clansmen that the Turic hold the upper hand.”

Rafnir jerked his head around at the word “infidel,” but the quick retort died on his lips when Sayyed winked at him. They both turned back to watch the vast procession. Even after his talk of retinues and shows of strength, Sayyed had to admit his words paled in comparison to the overwhelming numbers of horsemen, wagons, and chariots that gathered across the river.

The Turic had always outnumbered the people of Valorian, but Sayyed had not realized until now just how wide the discrepancy had become since the plague killed over three thousand clanspeople a few years before. This was not going to make negotiating a settlement for damages and peace any easier.

At that moment a ringing fanfare of trumpeters announced the arrival of the Shar-Ja. An enormous wooden wagon rumbled over the hill, drawn by a team of eight matched yellow horses, the sun-gold mounts of the desert monarch. A peaked roof covered the top, and the windows at the sides were hung with silk hangings of silver and blue. Elaborate carvings decorated the wagon from wheel to roof.

If the Shar-Ja rode inside the wagon, Sayyed couldn’t tell, for the ruler did not reveal his presence. But flanking the vehicle rode the heavily armed troops of his royal guard, followed by a group of nobles and attendants.

The wagon creaked down the easy slope to the rows of Turic warriors and stopped nearly opposite Lord Athlone. A strange, wary silence fell over the valley as the two forces stared at each other across the water.

A clan horn suddenly sounded, pure and sweet, and Sayyed nudged Afer forward into the rushing water. The big Hunnuli splashed as far as the edge of the island, where he stopped and neighed a ringing welcome. Sayyed raised his hand palm outward in a gesture of peace. He felt a twinge of humor at his position. He had left his usual burnoose and tulwar in his tent and wore instead the clan cloak, tunic, leather—and-mail shirt, and the short sword favored by the clans. The Turics would take him for nothing more than a bilingual clan sorcerer.

“Hail, Rassidar al Festith, Shar-Ja of the Fifteen Tribes, Ruler of the Two Rivers, Overlord of the Kumkara Desert, and High Priest of the Sacred Rule,” Sayyed bellowed in perfect Turic. Then he proceeded in impeccable tribal decorum to greet the representatives of the fifteen tribes. “The Eleven Clans of Valorian, Masters of the Ramtharin Plains, welcome you to Council Rock. May wisdom walk among our people and peace shine upon us,” he concluded.

The words had no sooner left his lips than a winged shadow flitted over the gathered clansmen. A babble of excitement rose from the watching Turics when Demira, Kelene on her back, soared effortlessly overhead on a fresh spring breeze. Full of grace and beauty, she circled over the Turic ranks, then made a gentle landing on the island, beside Afer.

Sayyed grinned at them both. Kelene loved to make an entrance, and while the Turics had certainly heard of the winged Hunnuli, few had seen her until now. Her altered appearance was a peaceful reminder of the power of the clan magic-wielders.

The crowd near the Shar-Ja’s wagon parted for a solitary rider who cantered his horse to the river’s edge. Obviously a tall man, he sat his mount with practiced ease and total command. When he swept aside his burnoose he showed a face of middle years, swarthy, grim, and forged with resolution. His hair was knotted behind his head in the manner of the Turic people, and a trim beard etched his jaw with black. His deep-set eyes seemed sunk in shadow, and there was little sign of humor in his graven features.

“I am Zukhara, Emissary of the Shar-Ja and First High Counselor to the Throne of Shar. I bring greetings from His Highness.” The man spoke, in polished Turic, from the far bank. It seemed he would not deign to yell, yet he made no effort to cross his half of the river to meet Sayyed and Kelene. The two of them could make out his words, but the clan chiefs could not hear him at all over the splashing flow of the river.

“Sadly, our monarch is weary from his hard journey. We ask to postpone any meeting until midday tomorrow. Then we will meet on the Council Rock.”

“We?” Sayyed murmured. “Who is this man?”

The Shar-Ja’s son? Afer suggested.

“No. The Shar-Yon is younger. And more personable, they say. This is a new counselor. I wonder where he came from?” Sayyed had tried to keep informed of Turic news and politics, until Tam died and he moved north to Moy Tura where he had lost interest in the world of his father. Now he regretted his ignorance. He bowed over Afer’s neck to the Turic and replied, “We are willing to wait. Until tomorrow. May the Shar-Ja find rest and comfort.” As soon as they received a reply, Sayyed and Kelene trotted their Hunnuli back to the clan lines.

“I’m not surprised,” Lord Athlone responded when they told him the emissary’s words. “In fact, I will be surprised if the Turics do not keep us kicking our heels for several more days.”

“But we will wait,” Peoren ground out. “I will wait for as long as it takes.”