Irritably Valorian stood by Hunnul’s steaming side and ate the last of his trail bread while his thoughts slogged morosely through his mind. When the afternoon was late and the rain was still falling, Valorian reluctantly decided that, meat or no meat, it was time to go home. He would have to try again some other time to find the pass.
At last the rain eased to an intermittent drizzle, and the wind died to mere gusts. The lightning and thunder seemed to move farther to the south.
Depressed and weary, the clansman rode his horse to the top of the ridge again for one final look at the mountains. The clouds had lifted a little with the passing of the thunderstorm, revealing a glimpse of the imposing ramparts of the Darkhorns.
Valorian’s mouth tightened. He hated those mountains. As long as those great peaks blocked his people to the east and the Tarnish Empire forced them out of the west, they had no hope of survival. If the Clan was to continue, they had to escape. They had to find a way over the mountains and out of the grasp of the Tarns.
“We have to locate that pass, Hunnul,” Valorian said forcefully. The stallion’s ears cocked back to listen. “If we could just find it, I could give Lord Fearral positive proof that a path over the mountains really exists. Then he’d have no excuse not to bring the Clan together and seek the Ramtharin Plains!”
There was a pause, then the man threw his hands wide. “Imagine it, Hunnul! A realm of sky and grass, there for the taking. No Tarns, no tribute or taxes, no General Tyrranis. Freedom to raise our horses and our families. Freedom to be as we once were! If I could only convince Lord Fearral . . .” Valorian lapsed into silence and stared morosely at the curtains of clouds and rain to the south. If the clanspeople deserved the ridicule and scorn of the Tarnish Empire, Lord Fearral was one reason why.
In the time of Valorian’s grandfather, the Clans had been a proud people who had roamed the fertile lands of Chadar in large, loosely knit nomadic bands, each ruled by a lord chieftain. They had been fierce warriors, excellent stockmen, and good neighbors to the sedentary tribes of Chadarians who populated the riverbanks and valleys of the country.
Clan life had followed a smooth and natural course, until the armies of the Tarn had invaded Chadar. The clansmen had tried ferociously to defend their land, but the Chadarians surrendered to the armies and refused to help. The large, heavily armed infantry legions decimated the mounted Clan warriors, massacred entire camps of women and children, and drove the survivors into the bleak and barren Bloodiron Hills in the northern Darkhorns. The people had remained there ever since, penned in, isolated, and rejected.
Since that time, nearly eighty years ago, the Clans had lost many of their traditions and much of their pride. They had dwindled to a single Clan composed of a few ragged family bands who paid homage to one old lord chieftain. Their rich pastures, large herds, and the accumulated wealth of generations were gone. They managed to eke out a bare subsistence through hunting, foraging, and petty thievery.
Everything else they had went as tribute to General Tyrranis.
Valorian recognized the futility of fighting the Tarnish Empire to regain what was lost, but he couldn’t give up hope for his people. If they couldn’t survive where they were, then he firmly believed they had to seek a new home.
The problem was convincing his wife’s uncle, Lord Fearral. The timorous old chieftain was as hidebound as an old cow. Valorian had tried several times to plead with the chieftain to bring the scattered families together and lead them somewhere to new lands. Fearral had refused. Without more definite hope and specific information about their destination, the aged lord wouldn’t even attempt a move. The Darkhorns were too dangerous, he told Valorian repeatedly, to warrant such a foolhardy journey. Besides, General Tyrranis would never allow the Clan to leave their place in the hills. The chieftain was adamant.
Now, though, Valorian hoped that if he could bring news of a pass over the mountains and a land free of Tarn’s grip, it would sway Fearral to at least send out scouts and begin making plans.
If only he could find the pass so he could be certain. A sudden impulse born of deep emotion brought his hand to his sword. With the ancient war cry of his people, Valorian drew his weapon and flourished it at the sky.
“Hear me, O gods!” he shouted. “Our people are dying! Show me a way to save them. Help me find Wolfeared Pass!”
At that instant, in the heart of the thunderstorm south of the high ridge, an incredible power burst into incandescent existence. Brilliantly hot and deadly, it knifed through the cold air like a divine bolt and exploded out of the confines of the storm. In the space of a heartbeat, the lightning arced to earth and found a conductor of metal as its target.
With unearthly force, it struck the helmet and sword of the clansman. Its power seared down his arm, through his head, into his body, and continued down through his horse.
Valorian arched over backward, connected for an eternal second to the power of the gods, and then his world exploded in fire and light. The thunder boomed around him, but he didn’t hear it. Both horse and rider were dead before their bodies crashed to earth.
2
The first thing Valorian grew aware of was a vast, unutterable silence. It pressed against his senses with a strange heaviness as empty and still as death. Gone were the sounds of the wind and rain, of wet leather creaking, and the clop of Hunnul’s hooves on stone. There was simply nothing.
Ever so slowly Valorian raised his head and opened his eyes. The world he had known was still there, but it seemed to be fading into a pale, slightly luminous light, like a dream that ends before waking. Valorian was shocked to realize that he was standing upright, yet he couldn’t feel anything. He had no weight on his legs, or soggy clothing on his cold skin, or even a headache from his fall.
All at once the revelation hit him as hard as the lightning. With a cry, he whirled around and saw his body lying twisted and motionless beside the still form of his horse. A wisp of smoke rose from his broken helmet.
There was a feeling in Valorian’s mind like the shattering of glass that shook him to the depths of his soul. Fury filled him, and he bellowed with all his might, “No! This cannot be!” His voice sounded strange in the unearthly stillness, yet it was a relief to hear any noise. He shouted again just to break up the frightening silence.
Something moved close by, causing him to turn again, and he came face-to-face with Hunnul. The black stallion, apparently unmarked by the drastic change that had befallen them, nickered nervously and crowded close to his master. The saddle, or the image of the saddle, with all of his gear, was still cinched to Hunnul’s back.
Valorian’s anger receded a little in the comfort of the stallion’s presence. He reached out to touch Hunnul, and his fingers felt the warm, black hide—until he pushed a little harder and his hand went right through the horse.
Frightened and furious again, Valorian shook his fist at the sky and shouted. “We’re dead! All you holy gods, is this how you answer a prayer? Why now? Why us?”
The clansman abruptly paused. A faint sound intruded into the silence, a sound like distant thunder. Gradually it grew louder, drawing closer from a distance that had no direction.
Valorian drew a harsh breath. “The Harbingers.” He should have remembered they would come. They were the riders of Nebiros’s steeds and the messengers of Sorh, the god of the dead, who came to escort every soul that passed beyond the mortal world. They took the newly deceased to the realm of the dead to face the judgment of Lord Sorh.