Dark Horse (39 page)

Medb did not give the clans long to recover from their shock. Horns suddenly blared from all corners of the field and four horsemen, bearing the banners of stark white, trotted out of camp. They halted by the dead Hunnuli. The horns continued to sing until the fortress echoed with their music. A second Wagon rol ed slowly down the road. Behind it came a procession of Wylfling warriors; in their midst rode the sorcerer on a large white horse.

Gabria stared at the sorcerer in amazement, for she had not known he had healed his crippled legs.

Medb's brown cloak had been discarded for a long robe of white---the color of death, the color of magic-wielders. He raised his hand and the procession stopped. Medb motioned a second time. Three Wylfling soldiers dragged the stumbling body of a man from the wagon to Boreas's body. They stepped back and Athlone fell to his knees. The horns stopped.

The clansmen immediately recognized the wer-tain, and a cry of rage roared out of the fortress.

Lord Medb laughed and spurred his mount forward. A Wylfling warrior seized Athlone's head, yanked it back to expose his throat, and poised his dagger inches away from the jugular. The clans grew quiet and waited.

"Khulinin. Dangari. Bahedin. Jehanan. Hear me!" Medb shouted. "I wish to congratulate you on your success thus far. You have held off your defeat quite admirably. However, your luck will not carry you forever, and I am afraid that when you fall, I will not be able to control my men. They are growing impatient and very angry. Most of you will not survive. But I do not wish to lose four clans, so I have a proposal for your consideration. Is there any man who will listen?"

After an angry pause, Savaric, Koshyn, and Ryne climbed to the top of the parapet and stood side by side. With a blade at Athlone's throat, they had little choice.

Lord Medb leaned forward like a snake eyeing its prey. "The terms are simple. For the safe return of Athlone, I want the Hunnuli, the Corin boy, and the four chieftains turned over to me. If these hostages are given quickly, I will withdraw my army and allow your clans to go in peace."

The chiefs exchanged glances. "What if we refuse?" Koshyn shouted.

Medb snapped a word. The Wylfling stepped back from Athlone. At another word, an invisible force yanked Athlone to his feet and held him spread-eagle in the air. From out of the ground, pale flames of red and gold flared up and around his body. Athlone writhed in agony, but Medb's magic held him mercilessly fast.

"Athlone will die very slowly before your eyes. And then your clans will follow," the sorcerer replied.

For a heartbeat, Savaric wavered. He would give anything to save his son from death. He would gladly surrender himself to Medb if he thought that Athlone would live. Unfortunately, he was certain of only one thing: Lord Medb could not be trusted to keep his word. His treachery was as plain as his heresy. Without a twitch of remorse, the sorcerer would slay his hostages, massacre the clans, and destroy Athlone anyway. In a voice that belied the tearing grief in his heart, Savaric shouted, "Your terms are intolerable. We cannot accept them."

Lord Medb threw back his head and laughed. "Don't jump into your fate so fast, Savaric. Give yourself time to think. You have one hour. At the end of that time, you wil surrender the fortress or die."

Without warning, Medb raised his hand and pointed to the great bronze gates of the fortress. A blue fire sprang from his fingers. It struck the gates in a brilliant flash, searing along the edges of the bronze doors and scorching the stone arches. The ancient arcane wards in the entrance held for a few moments, then they cracked under the tremendous power and the gates crashed to the ground.

The clansmen stared down in horror as the dust slowly settled around the broken gate.

"One hour," Medb cal ed. "Then Athlone dies." He stopped the flames around the wer-tain and waited as the Wylfling planted a post and hung Athlone up by his wrists. Then Medb reined his horse around and rode back to his army.

Gabria watched Athlone. From where she was standing on the parapet, she could not see his face, only his body hanging limp on the pole. She felt someone move beside her and turned to see Savaric staring down at his son. The chief’s hands clenched the edge of the stone wal as if he wanted to tear down the parapet.

"Are you going to do anything to save him?" Gabria asked, although she knew what his answer had to be.

The chieftain shook his head, not even looking at her. "There is nothing we can do. Medb wil not free him and I will not sacrifice the clans."

The girl nodded in understanding. Silently, she left the parapet and walked up the road toward the palace. Nara was waiting for Gabria in the big courtyard and came to join the Corin as she sat on the rim of the fountain.

For a long time, Gabria ignored the people passing by and stared at the mare waiting patiently by her side. The glorious Hunnuli, Gabria thought, they are as intelligent as humans, telepathic, impervious to sorcery, stronger and swifter than any other creature, and totally devoted to those few humans lucky enough to befriend them. They were creations of magic.

Everything Gabria had learned in her life had taught her to reject magic in any form, yet the clans did not reject the Hunnuli. In fact, Gabria began to realize how much magic was still a part of clan life.

The magic was hidden behind different names, but the power was everywhere. It seeped in the rituals and traditions of the priests and priestesses; it was guarded by the Oathbreakers; it was sung of by the bards; it was embodied by the Hunnuli; and the talent to wield magic was still passed on from generation to generation.

Yet the clans, in their fear and ignorance, turned a blind eye to the power in their midst. Even after two hundred years, their prejudices had not al owed them to see the truth. Magic was not an evil, corrupting power. It simply was a force that existed, a force that could be formed into something as lovely or as hideous as its wielder desired. For the first time in her life, Gabria recognized how foolish her people had been to ignore magic.

Just then, Nara turned her head and her ears pricked forward. Gabria followed the mare's gaze and saw Cantrell walk carefully down the steps of the palace. He had a bundle under his arm.

Nara neighed and the bard called, "Gabran, are you there?" Gabria walked over to him and took his arm.

"Come," he said. "Walk with me a moment." They walked slowly around the courtyard, out of earshot of any casual listeners. The Hunnuli stayed close behind.

Gabria finally spoke. "Will the clans never learn to accept magic for what it is?"

"Not as long as Medb lives," Cantrell replied.

She sighed. "Then perhaps they need to see magic as something positive as well."

The bard gripped Gabria's arm tightly. "I heard Medb's ultimatum. There is not much time left."

They came to the front of the palace again and Gabria stopped walking. She knew what she had to do to free Athlone and save the clans---the conflict had stood at the end of her path since the day she left Corin Treld. But the very idea terrified her. She was no match for Lord Medb and she knew the consequences of her failure. Unfortunately, there were no more alternatives.

Cantrel held out the bundle he had been carrying. "I thought you might need this."

She opened it and found her scarlet cloak with the buttercup brooch, and a long, pale green tunic.

"The tunic was the closest I could find to white," the bard joked with a faint smile. He embraced her quickly. "The gods go with you, Gabria." He turned and left her.

Gabria wound her fingers in Nara's mane, and they went back down the road toward the main gate.

Behind a ruined wall, Gabria stripped off her clothes. The rags that bound her breasts, the filthy tunic, and the Khulinin cloak were tossed aside, though she hesitated taking the gold cloak off. The Corin kept only her leather hat, her boots, and her pants. She tucked her father's dagger into her boot, then pul ed the green tunic over her head and belted it with her sash. She thought about using her power to change the tunic's color to white, but she changed her mind. It was time magic-wielders had a new color. Gabria laid her red cloak over her shoulder and sighed with relief. Never again would she have to play the boy.

Soon the clans would know her for exactly what she was.

Gabria took a slow breath and opened the sorceress's bag. A long, needle-thin diamond splinter fell glittering into her hand. Gabria stared at it, puzzled. The sorceress had told her this thing was the sign of a true magic-wielder, but she had not said what Gabria was supposed to do with it.

"You wil need an assistant to help you complete the rite," someone said behind her.

Gabria nearly jumped out of her skin. Nara snorted, but it sounded more like an agreement than a warning.

Seth walked around the wall and joined her. "It is too difficult to insert the splinter alone.”

"How do you know?" she gasped.

"The men of my cult have guarded the knowledge of the magic-wielders for years in hopes someone would need it."

"But how did you find me?"

His eyebrows arched. "I followed you."

Gabria studied him for a long time before she gave him the diamond. Seth took her arms and extended them, palms up.

His weathered face was impassive. He spoke the words of the ancient rite as if he had spoken them every day of his life, without hesitation or distaste. The words were still hanging in the air when he raised the diamond splinter to the sun to capture the heat and light. The sliver glittered in his hand.

Then, with a skill as deft as a healer, he pierced Gabria's wrist and slid the splinter under her skin.

The pain lanced through Gabria's arm, and she could feel the heat of the diamond burning under her skin. Immediately the splinter began to pulse with the pounding of her heart. A tingling spread through her hand and up into every part of her body. The sensation was warm and invigorating. Gabria looked into Nara's wise eyes and smiled.

Seth turned her wrist to look at the splinter pulsing under her skin. "Use this wisely, Corin. You are the last and the first, and it would be best if you survived."

"Thank you, Seth."

He grunted. "Go."

The girl mounted the Hunnuli, and the horse trotted toward the main gate. The one-hour reprieve was over. Medb had returned.

The Wylfling lord rode arrogantly up to the fortress. His army was ready to attack; his face was alive with triumph.

"What say you, clansmen?" he shouted to the defenders.

Lord Savaric, Koshyn, and Ryne leaned over the parapet. "We will not deal with you," Savaric called.

"But I will!" a strange voice shouted below him. Hoof beats clattered over the stone road and the Hunnuli gal oped forward. The mare reached the entrance and went up and over the fallen gates with a terrific heave of her hind legs. Gabria's scarlet cloak flared like wings. The horse landed lightly and cantered a few paces forward to a stop.

Savaric shouted, "Gabran! Come back here!"

Gabria ignored him and calmly faced Medb. Her hat and her cloak still disguised her femininity and the embedded splinter that pulsed in her wrist. "I wil make you an offer, Lord Medb," she said coldly.

"I do not deal with mere boys,” Medb sneered. He snapped a word and magic fire flared around Athlone. The wer-tain jerked in agony.

"Gabran!" Savaric cried.

Gabria was silent. With deliberate slowness, she raised her hand and the ruby light of the splinter gleamed on her tanned skin. The flames around Athlone snuffed out, the cords binding his wrists parted, and his body sank to the ground. The wer-tain shivered once and his eyes opened. A Wylfling warrior, his sword drawn, jumped toward the fallen man. A blue flare of Trymian Force surged from Gabria's hand to the warrior's chest, flinging him backward into a smoking, lifeless heap.

The silence on the field was absolute.

"Oh, my gods," Koshyn breathed.

Medb stared at the Corin thoughtful y. So that was the answer to those many, puzzling questions.

He parted his thin lips in a twisted smile. "What is your offer, boy?"

"You may have me and the Hunnuli in exchange for Athlone's life. But you must fight me to win your prizes." He shrugged. "A duel? That is impossible. A boy cannot fight a chieftain."

"I am chieftain of the Corin, thanks to you. But I do not wish to use swords in this duel."

"An arcane duel? Against you?" Medb laughed. "If that is what you want, I wil humor you." The sorcerer knew his strength was low. He was not fully recovered from the battle two days before, and he had expended a great deal of energy shattering the fortress gates. Stil , he thought it would take little effort to crush this upstart. Smiling, Medb ordered his warriors back. He dismounted on the level space by the fallen gates.

"You are a fool, boy. Did the bard not tell you the riddle of my doom?" the Wylfling asked.

Gabria looked down at Medb. Standing straight and tall, he was a powerful, handsome man. "It is a riddle no longer."

"Oh?" He fixed her with a cold stare.

"I am the answer to your riddle, Medb, for I am no boy and my name in the northern dialect means buttercup." Before her stunned audience, Gabria peeled off the leather hat and shook her head until the loose curls fluffed out and framed her face in gold. Then she unpinned the cloak and let it drop over Nara's black haunches. The wind molded the green tunic against her breasts and slender waist. The sun glittered in her eyes, as hard and as bright as any sword.

"Gabran is dead these many days. I am Gabria, his sister, and daughter of Lord Dathlar."

For the first time since his hands touched the
Book of Matrah,
Medb was deeply afraid. This girl had come out of nowhere with a knowledge of sorcery and the emblem of a magic-wielder burning in her wrist. Where had she gotten her knowledge? And the splinter. He had not been able to find one, but this girl had not only attained one but had it properly inserted. For a moment, Medb's heart quailed and the hairs rose on the back of his neck.

Then he steadied himself. She was a difficulty he had not anticipated, but he had not struggled this far to be overcome by a girl and a riddle. She might be the "buttercup,” but she was not bearing a sword. With a silent curse, Medb swore he would end the riddle once and for all.