The Amnok, Lord Terod, hoisted his eyebrows toward his thinning hair. “What do you mean by that? Who would prevent the Shar-Ja from fulfilling his promise?” he asked sharply.
Lord Bendinor, walking beside Athlone, jerked his head toward the Turic camp across the water. “If I had to make a guess, I’d say that rock-faced counselor, Zukhara. He hasn’t done much talking during these meetings, but everyone walks on nails when he’s around. He would bear watching.”
Kelene hid a smile. She was beginning to like this shrewd and sensible Dangari.
The clansmen reached their horses and mounted for the return ride to camp.
Rafnir looked up at the sky that had darkened to a deep blue-gray. “Here it comes,” he said and wiped off several wet splatters from his face.
More raindrops pattered on the rocks and speckled the water. The north wind freshened and roared among the trees, tossing their branches and making the trunks creak and groan. It pulled at the riders’ cloaks and chilled man and horse with its sudden damp cold. Across the river, only a few small fires fought bravely against the wind and coming rain. The riders said no more but hurried back to the shelter of their tents and the hot meals awaiting them.
The rain fell through the night in steady sheets that swayed and danced in the wind. Lightning crackled a few times, and the magic-wielders felt their blood stir and the energy sing in their heads. But the storm cell moved in harness with the wind and was gone as quickly as it had arrived, leaving behind the steady rain and slowly dropping temperatures.
The thunder had faded and the lightning passed to the south when Gabria rose from her blankets beside Athlone and quietly stirred the embers in her small brazier back to life.
Kelene, wakeful beside Rafnir, saw the dim light beyond the sleeping curtain in the tent they shared with her parents, and she slipped out to join Gabria. The older sorceress silently brought out a second glazed mug, poured water for two into her pan, and spooned several heaps of her favorite tea into a teapot.
They huddled together around the small warmth of the brazier while the tent around them heaved in the blustery wind and the rain beat on the waterproofed fabric. They said nothing until the water boiled and Gabria poured it into the pot to steep.
Kelene saw with alarm that her mother’s hands were trembling. “What’s wrong?” she whispered, conscious of the men sleeping behind the curtains.
Gabria’s eyes were huge in the dim light and rimmed with shadows. She shakily set her pot down and pulled her arms tight about her. She nodded gratefully when Kelene brought her gold cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Something has happened,” she said in a soft tone that was terribly certain.
“What?”
“I don’t know. I had a dream as dark and foreboding as this night, but nothing was clear.”
A dream, Kelene thought, feeling the first stirrings of dread. Gabria’s talent for magic sometimes manifested itself in prophetic dreams and visions. The problem was the dreams were not always clear enough to understand until it was too late. She thought about her mother’s words and asked, “You said has happened. It cannot be stopped?”
“I fear not. I sense the Harbingers are near,” Gabria replied in a hollow voice.
Kelene’s heart turned cold. The Harbingers were the messengers of Lord Sorh, god and ruler of the Realm of the Dead. If the Harbingers had entered the mortal world, someone or several someones had died.
Already forewarned, neither she nor Gabria were surprised when a distant horn suddenly sang in the storm-wracked night. Somehow they had been expecting it.
It blared again, insistent and furious, until it was joined by others that blasted their warnings into the dark.
Gabria heaved a deep sigh and stood, ready to face what would come. The horns were Turic, and in her deepest sense of the unseen world she knew the Harbingers had arrived.
Behind her, Athlone and Rafnir sprang from their pallets, pulled on their boots, and reached for their swords. There was some advantage to sleeping in one’s clothes, for the two men were racing for the tent flap before the horn blasts had ended.
“Wait,” Gabria called. She and Kelene hurried into (heir boots and joined their husbands, cloaked and ready to go. Just outside under a canopy their four Hunnuli stood ready. The horses tossed their heads in agitation, and their star-bright eyes rolled in anger. Their breath steamed in the cold air.
Someone has used magic across the river, Eurus’s deep masculine thoughts reached the four people.
“Oh, gods,” groaned Athlone.
The Hunnuli carried their riders at a canter through the rain-soaked darkness to the river. Activity already stirred the clan camp, but Lord Athlone refused to wait. He urged Eurus on across the Altai. Water fountained beneath the Hunnuli’s hooves as they charged through the ford to the opposite bank. Abruptly they came face-to-face with a solid phalanx of Turic guardsmen.
The guards lowered their spears to face the magic-wielders, forming a deadly barrier across the road. Their actions were swift and angry, and their faces were cast in rage. Behind them, the Turic camp was an uproar of shouting voices and running men. Torches flickered everywhere in the rain, and armed guards rushed to defend the perimeters.
“Stop there, infidels!” a commander bellowed in credible Clannish.
Eurus slid to a halt, his hooves sliding in the muddy earth. Lord Athlone carefully unbuckled his sword and held it out to show he came in peace. “I am Athlone, Lord of the Khulinin. I came only to learn of your trouble and offer our help.”
“I know you,” the officer snapped. “You are one of those sorcerers, so you already know what disaster has overtaken us. Begone from here before I have your horses brought down.”
Kelene felt her fury rise. Hunnuli were impervious to magic, but not to normal weapons. To her, the Turic’s threat was underhanded and unwarranted. She opened her mouth to say so when another figure appeared on the path behind the guards. The tall form stopped when he saw the clanspeople and shook his fist at them.
“You!” he bellowed over the sounds of the storm. “Curse you for your deeds! What you have clone this night will plunge our people into war!”
It took the magic-wielders a moment to recognize Zukhara in the wild night; then Athlone raised his voice. “Whatever has happened, Counselor, we have had no part in it. We came only to give our aid to the Shar-Ja.”
“He will not see you,” Zukhara answered wrathfully. “He lies crashed in grief. His eldest son, the Shar-Yon, is dead.”
A small, heartsick moan escaped Gabria’s lips, and she leaned over Nara’s neck. Her dream had been right.
At that moment Sayyed galloped up on Afer, his head bare to the pouring rain. He had heard the counselor’s last words, and his hand clenched tight on his stallion’s mane. Like most clansmen, he was unafraid to speak his mind before his chief or any other figure of authority. Immediately he shouted back, “Prove it, Counselor! Show us the Shar-Yon’s body that we may see you do not lie for your own devices!”
A roar of dissension burst from the guards, but Zukhara raised his hand to silence them. “I grant the Khulinin that right. Lord Athlone, you and your guard may enter if the others remain here. I want your word that you will keep your people under control. No weapons, no magic while you are in this camp.”
Although the clanspeople could not see it, Zukhara’s mouth twisted into a smile of satisfaction while Lord Athlone gave his bond. “I must attend the Shar-Ja,” Zukhara called. “Officer, take the infidels to the Shar-Yon, then escort them off our land.” He turned on his heel and strode out of sight, his cloak snapping in the wind.
The commander of the guards looked as if he would hurst with outrage, but the Turics were more reserved and strict in their ranks, and he managed to stifle his objections to trusting a clansman. Grudgingly the guards parted before the Hunnuli.