Dark Horse (26 page)

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 wil 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 intentional y 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 control ing 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 swol en 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 wil have al 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 wel . 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 fal en 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 total y 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 ful 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 wil command this united rabble? You, Savaric? And after you have disposed of Medb, wil 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 wil be in my tent. Everyone knows where that is." He too, left with his men.

Koshyn sighed and pul ed 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, propel ed 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.