Dark Horse (29 page)

"Get the healer quickly,” Gabria whispered to one of the guards. He nodded, his mouth tight with anger. They al recognized the bard and were stricken by his hideous injury. The the warrior dashed out and the other guard stepped outside to watch the tent's entrance.

"Thank you," the bard murmured. "I was beginning to think I would never cross the river."

Gabria looked at the bard unhappily. He was a distinguished man, and he wore a dark blue robe cut in an ornate pattern popular among the Wylfling. He wore no cloak and had no weapons. His hands were long and supple. He carried himself wel despite the agony of his wound, but she saw that his skin was gray beneath the dried blood, and he gripped his knees with the effort of hiding his pain.

"Why did you come here?" she asked, kneeling by his feet.

"I was not welcome elsewhere." He pointed to his crude bandage. "I also hope to see your healer."

"Of course. He's on his way." Gabria leaped up to see if Piers was coming.

"Wait. Sit a minute. He wil be here soon enough." The old man felt for Gabria's arm and pulled her gently to the ground by his side. "I am Cantrell."

"I know," she mumbled. Although Clan Corin had not been able to afford a bard, Gabria had heard this man many times at past gatherings and had loved his soaring tales and sweeping music. "You were with the Wylfling."

"Until recently. Medb took offense to one of my riddles," he replied calmly.

"Medb did this to you?"

He nodded. "And you are the Corin who tongues are wagging about?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"By the inflection in your voice. The Corin always rolled their R's as if they appreciated the sound."

He cocked his head in puzzlement. "But you are a woman. That is interesting."

Gabria bolted upright and stared at him. "How---"

"Don't worry. I know you are trying to pass as a boy, but you' cannot hide the telltale characteristics of your voice from a trained bard.” He smiled wanly. "I'm sorry. I couldn't help showing off a little.”

Gabria moved stiffly away from the old bard, her heart in her throat.

But Cantrel reached out for her. His hand found the girl's shoulder and groped down her arm to take her hand. His skin was cold and clammy, but his grip was strong. "Do not fear for your secret," he said gently. "I have heard a great deal about you at this gathering. I simply had no idea you were a woman. It makes your survival more intriguing. I---"

Without warning, the bard straightened. He gripped Gabria's hand tighter, and his ravaged face grew still. He sat for a long time, quietly rubbing her palm with his thumb, lost in deep concentration.

Gabria watched him curiously; Cantrell sighed and his chin sank to his chest. She waited for him to speak. After a while he dropped her hand.

"I was right. You
are
intriguing. Seek the Woman of the Marsh, child. Only she will be able to help you.'

“Who is she?"

But Cantrell shook his head slightly, and, at that moment, Piers and Savaric came into the tent.

Puzzled, Gabria moved to the rear of the tent to keep out of the way while Piers unwound the blood-stained bandages. When the dirty material fell away, revealing the slashed, oozing remains of the bard's eyes, Gabria looked away. Savaric blanched at the sight and his face paled under his tan. With gentle hands, Piers tended to the hideous wound.

Cantrell sat like a statue during the operation, as if his face were carved of wood. Only when the healer finished wrapping new bandages around the bard's head did Cantrell allow his shoulders to sag and the breath to escape his lungs in a ragged sigh. The men remained quiet while Cantrell drank a cup of wine laced with a mild dose of poppy.

The bard was the first to speak. He felt for the table by his side and laid the cup down. "Thank you, Piers. You have wel earned your reputation as the gentlest of the clan healers." Piers glanced questioningly at Savaric, then replied, "You are welcome, Bard. You should have come to us sooner."

Cantrell leaned toward the chieftain. "There were many interesting things to hear in Medb's camp.

Unfortunately, he wanted to listen to me as well, and he did not like what I told him."

"Which was what?" Savaric asked.

"A riddle."

"Oh?"

The bard tilted his head. "You keep your curiosity in check.

That's good because I doubt you wil understand the riddle any more than I did. My riddles, like most prophecies, are very confusing. If they were clear to us, they would negate the future they were created for. All I can do is give a man a riddle to accept as he wishes. Medb did not accept his.

Gabria turned her head and stared at the old man's face, engrossed in his words.

Cantrell said softly:

"No man will kill thee,

No war will destroy thee,

No friend will betray thee,

But beware thy life,

When the buttercup bears a sword."

"And for that Medb blinded you," Piers said in disgust.

"He took offense at the implications."

Savaric smiled ruefully. "Is there a meaning in that riddle that holds anything for us?"

Piers said, "I don't like that part about no man will kill him."

"And no war will destroy him," Savaric added. He moved to the tent flap. "Medb has heard his doom and we are well aware of ours. Flower or no, we will have to fight."

Cantrell reached carefully for his staff. "Lord, it would be wise to move soon. Lord Medb is bringing in more mercenaries, and the exile band has been cal ed. He plans to destroy the Khulinin first."

The chieftain and Piers exchanged glances, then Savaric said, "I was afraid of that." He called to the guard outside by the tent entrance. "Tell Athlone, Jorlan, and the elders that I want to see them in my tent. And send for Lord Ryne and Sha Umar. Now." The guard dashed away. "Cantrel , do you feel up to attending me a very short while longer?"

The bard nodded. "I am grateful for your hospitality."

"We are the ones who are grateful. Piers, we will be leaving tonight." With the bard leaning on his arm, Savaric walked out. The healer sat down and stared morosely at the pile of filthy bandages and the bowl of blood-stained water. Gabria came to stand beside him.

"Piers, who is the Woman of the Marsh?"

The healer started out of his musings and said, "What? Oh, a fable, I guess. She was supposed to live in the marshes of the Goldrine a long time ago."

"Is the woman still alive?"

"Still? I doubt she ever was." He looked at her strangely. "Why?"

"Cantrell told me a riddle, too." She stared at the leather chest where her scarlet cloak had been neatly packed away and thought of the gold brooch that her mother had given her many years ago: a golden buttercup, the flower that was her namesake.

Late in the night, when the air was chil ed and the stars blazed across the sky, the Khulinin, the Jehanan, and the Bahedin gathered their caravans together and struck out southwest, fol owing the Goldrine to the mountains. It was impossible to keep their leave taking a secret, for the caravans were too massive and the animals were restless in the cool hours before dawn. Still, Savaric hoped to gain an element of surprise by slipping out without warning. A sleepy crowd gathered on the banks of the river to watch the clans leave. By sunrise, the caravans were miles away.

Medb anticipated their flight and immediately sent trackers to follow the clans' trail. It would be several days before his reinforcements arrived and, by the time he marched, it would be too late to catch the fleeing clans on the plains. But eventual y they would go to ground, and when they did, Medb knew that he could crush them al .

For three days the clans followed the Goldrine River west toward Khulinin Treld. They traveled quickly, making few stops during the day and walking late into the night. The chiefs knew their time was limited and pushed their people hard. It could have been a difficult trip with three chiefs commanding the huge train, but the leadership seemed to fall naturally on Savaric. Lord Ryne was inexperienced in his new position as chieftain and leaned heavily on Savaric's advice. Sha Umar also bowed to the Khulinin's authority-he was smart enough to know Savaric was the better leader in a drastic situation like this.

So Savaric, almost instinctively, was leading them toward the safety of Khulinin Treld. Yet, as the miles stretched out behind the caravans, he began to have second thoughts. Khulinin Treld was the natural place for them to go; Medb would expect it and plan for battle in that terrain. However, the treld promised no real defense for a large group that contained many women and children. They could be starved out of the hall in a matter of days, and there was no good place for defensive stands. The treld was also close to Wylfling Treld. Too close for comfort.

However, Savaric knew of no other alternatives. They did not dare fight Medb on open ground: the three clans would be massacred in the first rush. There were no natural defensive positions near any of their holdings and no other clan that would give them aid. The Dangari had been Savaric's last hope, but Koshyn was still vacillating when the clans left. The Khulinin, the Bahedin, and the Jehanan were alone, with no hope for more aid, no hope for mercy, and no place to make a stand before Medb's larger, more formidable army. Savaric racked his brains for a solution. The responsibility of the clans weighed heavily, and, though he rode his stallion to a lather and wore himself into exhaustion keeping the caravans moving, Savaric came no closer to an answer.

The fourth night out of the gathering, the waning moon rose late beyond the grasslands to waken the wolves. The night was breathlessly uncomfortable. The moisture from the recent storm had quickly dried in the arid air, and the heat soared with every passing day. Now, even the nights gave scant relief.

There was little wind to keep the mosquitoes at bay, and the dust settled slowly about the wagons. After setting the watch and posting the outriders, the camp fell into an uneasy rest. Savaric, weary of his own thoughts, gathered Ryne and Sha Umar and went to find Piers and Cantrell.

The bard had col apsed with a fever soon after coming to the clan and had been under Piers's care during the trek. To everyone's relief, he was beginning to recover. Savaric hoped he had regained enough strength to give advice. Cantrell was the repository of nearly every song and tale told by the clans for generations. Somewhere in that vast store of clan history and tradition, Savaric hoped to find the key to their survival.

They found Piers and Cantrell in the healer's tent, finishing a light meal. The tent had only been partially raised over several poles and the wagon to give the occupants shelter. The flaps were wide open to catch the fitful evening breeze. Piers had not lit a cooking fire; only a small brass lamp glowed in the dark interior. Even so, the tent was stuffy and hot. Cantrell lay on a pallet near the entrance. His skin was gray with exhaustion, but he had eaten wel and his wounds were healing.

Piers welcomed his guests and offered cups of wine. The chiefs accepted and sat down around the bard.

Cantrell's face was unreadable beneath the bandages, but his mouth lifted in a smile as he greeted the men. "Khulinin Treld is far tonight, my lord," he said to Savaric.

"I am weary, Bard," Savaric chided. "We had hoped to hear a song that might help us face the leagues stil to go. Not an observation on the distance to the treld."

"My voice lacks its strength and my hands lack an instrument. Would you settle for a tale?"

"I shall listen to your wisdom, master," Savaric said quietly.

Cantrell was still for a moment. He was well aware of the deadly peril that faced them. For years he had traveled among the clans---from the northern most Murjik Treld on the fringes of the great forest, to the deserts and the towers of the Turic tribesmen. He had seen Khulinin Treld and knew its advantages and its weaknesses, and he had watched the buildup of the massive Wylfling forces. He also knew Medb. The sorcerer would hunt the Khulinin to the grave unless the clan found a way to destroy him.

Cantrell had pondered for many hours what he might tell Savaric if the chief asked his counsel.

Advice was a two-edged sword the bard did not like to wield lightly, particularly when his prophetic riddles clouded the issue. Yet, during the long, painful hours of riding in the wagon, he had remembered an ancient tale that had survived the wars and invasions of countless years to be written on a scrap of vellum and buried in the vast library of the Citadel of Krath. A long time ago, he had been allowed to study some of the priceless manuscripts there and had found that tale. It came to his mind now, and in its substance he saw a glimmer of hope.

"Many years ago," Cantrell began, "before Valorian led the clans over the mountains to the vastness of the Ramtharin Plains, other peoples held this land. Short, dark-haired sons of the Eagle, they came from the west, beyond the Darkhorn Mountains, and joined the plains to their vast empire.

Greedy for slaves, horses, and the riches of the grasslands, they subjugated the simple tribes that lived here and built their roads with the bones of the fal en. They built many fortresses to guard their mighty domain and garrisoned their armies within. From these walls of adamant, the invaders pinned their conquered realm in a grip of steel. Four of these strongholds were built to guard the steppes. One was located on the eastern flank of the Himachal Mountains, by the Defile of Tor Wrath."

Sha Umar looked startled. "Do you mean those old ruins on the spur of the ridge?"

Cantrell barely nodded, for his wounds still ached.

"I remember that vaguely," Lord Ryne said. His dark blue eyes shifted from one man to another. He was still nervous in such illustrious company, but his self-confidence was growing. "There was another fort near Bahedin Treld, along the Calah River. But that one was razed by the men of Pra Desh years ago."

"That's true," Cantrell replied. "But this fortress still stands. It has withstood many attacks. I believe there are wards set in the gates to protect it from arcane assault."