It was a handsome face, Gabria thought. Even in the rigid lines of the metal she could see the character of his features.
There was strength in the planes of his jaw and forehead, stubbornness in his long nose, and humor in the lines around his mouth. When she looked closer, she could see the cleft of his chin, the trace of a scar on his forehead, and the arched lines of his eyebrows. The eyes were closed, but Gabria fancied the irises would be brilliant blue if they were open.
“It’s magnificent,” Piers said.
“What are you going to do with it?” Sayyed inquired.
Gabria shrugged and turned the mask over in her hands. “I don’t know. It holds some kind of arcane power, but I can’t tell what the spell is supposed to do.”
The Turic rose to his feet and flashed his grin. “Too bad it can’t talk.”
The young woman nodded absently. She studied the gold mask while the others ate their meal and watered the horses, yet she discovered nothing that was useful. There were no inscriptions, etched designs, or markings of any kind on the metal. It was simply a man’s face with an enigmatic expression. Finally she wrapped the mask back in its cloth and packed it with her belongings. For the rest of the day she mulled over the puzzle of the mask and still could find no answer.
The party trailed Branth for seven days after leaving Moy Tura and drew no closer to the elusive exile. He was moving faster now that he knew someone was following him, and the travelers were hard pressed to keep pace with him. To their dismay, he seemed to be pulling ahead of them as he trekked south across the plains. All of them wondered where he was going and what he would do next. On the eighth day they found part of their answer.
That morning dawned clear and warm, hinting of the hot afternoon to come. A light breeze blew about the hills, and meadowlarks dipped and fluttered after grasshoppers. The party was riding south, following Branth’s trail along the flank of a long, low ridge, when the Hunnuli abruptly stopped and neighed an alarm.
Gabria, death birds! Nara warned her rider.
The sorceress saw the birds then—a large flock of black vultures circling low over a place beyond the hills ahead. “Look,” she cried, pointing them out to everyone.
They galloped urgently toward the place, rode to the top of a high hill, and looked down upon a small valley lined with trees. The birds were swinging over a clear space not far from a meandering creek.
“Oh, gods,” Athlone breathed.
Gabria bit her lip to stifle the sick feeling that rose in her stomach. The scene in the clearing below looked hideously familiar to her.
“Keth, stay here with Tam and the horses,” Athlone ordered. The warrior was glad to comply.
The rest dismounted and walked down the long slope to the clearing by the creek. Several vultures squawked and flapped into the trees.
Twelve people lay scattered in huddled, lifeless heaps-five men, four women, and three children wearing the orange clan cloaks of the Bahedin. Their carts and belongings were torn apart and thrown carelessly among the bodies. The horses and other animals were gone.
Piers hurried to examine them, but as he turned the mangled bodies over and checked their pallid faces, it became very clear they were all dead.
While the healer was occupied with the corpses, Athlone and the others looked for signs of Branth. They had little doubt that he was responsible for the massacre.
“They were traveling with full carts and their tents. They must have been latecomers trying to catch up with their clan on the way to the Tir Samod,” Athlone said bitterly as he examined the wreckage of a cart. This slaughter sickened him.
The Bahedin had long been allies of the Khulinin, and they had stood with Athlone’s father against Lord Medb at Ab-Chakan.
Gabria’s face was pale under her tan. “On their way to the gathering.” She turned away from the body of a young woman and swallowed hard. Flies were swarming around the dead girl’s face, and vultures had been pecking at her eyes.
Secen joined Athlone and said, “Lord, I can only find sign of one man other than the Bahedin. It is as we suspected.”
The chief cursed. “Branth.”
“The hoof prints are from the same horse we have been following, and the boot prints seem to match the ones we saw in Moy Tura.”
Piers hurried over, his face strained and white.
“They’re all dead,” Athlone stated rather than asked.
The healer nodded. “Yesterday. They were tortured.”
Secen looked sick. Athlone raised his fist and brought it down on the side of the cart. “Why! Why is he doing this?” he shouted.
Treader began to bark furiously. Come! I am at the creek! his barks told the magic-wielders.
At the same moment, Sayyed yelled, “Gabria, Lord Athlone, over here. Quick’” Something in his voice spurred Gabria and the men into an instant response. They ran toward the sound of the Turic’s shouts and Treader’s excited barking. As they passed beyond a copse of trees sheltering the riverbank, they came to a sudden halt.
Sayyed stood on the bank, holding the frantic dog by the scruff of the neck. In shocked silence, he stared at a corpse that had been impaled on a sword against the trunk of a tree. The, man’s body hung so high his feet did not touch the ground, and they could tell his death had been painful by his wide, staring eyes and the hideous grimace twisting his features. He was an older man, with a lined, weathered face. His filthy, bloodstained tunic had a golden horse, the emblem of a herdsman, embroidered on the left breast.
“I tried to loosen the sword,” Sayyed said, his voice tight with fear and wonder. “But he . . . moved.”
“That’s impossible,” Athlone snapped. “He’s dead.”
The chieftain reached out to grasp the sword pinning the dead Bahedin. He yanked at it several times, then, as Sayyed had warned, the man jerked to life. As Athlone fell back in horror, the herdsman lifted his head. His lifeless eyes stared down at the travelers, and the pain-racked mouth groaned a. horrible, bubbling sound of agony.
The warriors backed away, their eyes wide with shock. Treader cowered down against Sayyed’s feet. Only Piers stepped forward. He reached up to find the man’s pulse.
“By the holy gods,” Piers exclaimed, snatching his hand away. “This man is dead! His skin is as cold as stone. He has no heartbeat. Look, he’s not even breathing.”
“Greetings, hunters. I know you are following me.”
They turned back to the corpse, who spoke again, his voice raspy and hollow. “I have left this message for you so you will know with whom you are dealing. If you are smart, you will turn back while you are still able.”
The dead man looked from one clansman to another. “I was brought here from the realm of Sorh by one of your kind—Lord Branth. I intend to remain here. I have learned from the people who lie dead nearby that there is only one magic-wielder left in the clans, and only she might possess the power to challenge me. I intend to seek her out.”
Gabria gasped, and Athlone moved closer to her.
The corpse added, “If you wish to find me, I am going to the gathering of the clans.” The dead man emitted a harsh, hideous laugh. “I have plans for the people of Valorian.”
Abruptly the herdsman’s head jerked, his voice stopped and his body sagged against the sword. There was a long, silent pause before Piers tentatively reached up and closed the dead man’s eyes.
“Good gods, what was that?” Secen murmured.
“A spell,” Gabria replied, her voice as hollow as the dead man’s. She was staring at the corpse. Her skin had gone deathly pale, and her knees were weak. “Branth—or whatever he has become—put a spell on this man to speak that message.”
“Whatever he has become,” Athlone repeated. “What do you mean?”