Without hesitation everyone leaped to obey. They searched for hours, as the darkness closed in and the sleet completed its change to driving snow, and yet they found nothing more of Gabria, Kelene, or the two Hunnuli mares.
In all the furor of the search, no one on the northern bank of the Altai saw the Shar-Ja’s great wagon leave the camp, nor the long line of supply wagons and baggage vans that followed in its wake.
At last the men gathered in the center of the camp by a huge fire built as a signal on the slim possibility the two women were lost in the storm.
Rafnir’s face was blanched when he reported to Athlone the dismal results of the searches. “Only one guard noticed them leave the tents, but they seemed fine to him and he thought nothing more about it. No one knows why they rode down to the river. We have found no more traces of them anywhere close by.” He bit off his words fiercely as if to contain the worry and fear that ate at him. “Downstream, they found the body of one of our outriders washed up on a snag. His throat had been cut, and his cloak was gone.”
Athlone, Sayyed, and Rafnir looked at one another, their minds coursing along the same track. Other chiefs and clansmen clustered around the roaring fire, but to the three men they seemed only a distant, murmuring part of the background. For the sorcerers there was only their common anger and burning anxiety for their wives and kinswomen.
Sayyed spoke first, his dark eyes glittering in the shifting light of the fire. “The Turics had some hand in this.”
There was no firm evidence to back him up, and yet Athlone nodded in agreement. “None of the clans could profit by their capture.”
“What about exiles or even strangers on our land?” Rafnir ventured.
Athlone pondered those possibilities, then shook his head. “It would have taken a fair number of men to capture and hide two Hunnuli, Gabria, and Kelene. They must have been taken by surprise. I don’t think a large group could have slipped past all our outriders without leaving some trail. Whoever it was struck fast from close by and fled where we can’t follow.”
“What if they weren’t captured? What if they’re dead?” Rafnir said miserably.
The stallion Tibor laid his muzzle gently against the young man’s chest. I do not believe they are dead. I would surely know if Demira had left this world.
And Eurus, who had run with Nara for twenty-six years, nickered his agreement. Hunnuli had the capacity to make powerful mental and emotional connections with their riders, so powerful that many Hunnuli sought death on their own if their rider died before them. This deep mental attachment was often extended to each other as well. Hunnuli such as Eurus and Nara, Tibor and Demira, whose riders were passionately in love, mated for life.
If Tibor said Demira was still alive, then Kelene must be, too, and Rafnir accepted his word wholeheartedly. He rested his brow on the stallion’s wide forehead. “We will go after them,” he declared.
“The council is over,” Athlone said, sweeping his hand in a sharp gesture. “Pack your gear. We’ll leave—”
Lord Fiergan bullied his way into their midst, and his commanding voice rang over the snap and crackle of the fire. “Don’t be a fool, Athlone. You can’t just ride into Turic territory and demand your women back. They’d either laugh at you or kill you. You don’t even know who took them. Could have been the Shar-Ja, those crazy fanatics, or even that cold fish, Zukhara. Maybe the women were taken to lure you over the Altai and into a trap.”
“Lord, he’s right,” Gaalney put in fervently. “And if you crossed the river and tried to pass yourself off as a Turic, you wouldn’t get far! You don’t look enough like one. Please listen! You’re too important to us to lose. You can’t leave the clan for a venture this dangerous.”
“Venture!” exploded Athlone. For once his temper got the best of him, and he turned on both men with fury raw on his face. But before he could vent his anger, another sound reached the ears of the clansmen, a sound that froze them where they stood and turned every eye to the east. Beyond the edge of the fire, in the swirling darkness, the dull drumming of hoofbeats pounded closer and closer.
“Lord Wendern!” wailed a frantic voice.
The Shadedron chief lunged forward several paces. “Here! I’m here. Is that you, Hazeth?”
“Lord Wendern!” the voice cried again, and out of the night, guided by the bright beacon of the fire, came a dark horse carrying an apparition of ice and snow and blood. The exhausted horse staggered into the firelight, its sides heaving and its nostrils red as flame. Steam poured from its drenched hide, and its legs shook from its effort.
The figure on its back, swathed in a snow-blanketed black cloak, slid sideways and fell into the arms of his chief. Blood from a head wound had frozen in rivulets down the young rider’s face, and another wound on his shoulder had left a hard, icy crust on his cloak. Even so, in spite of his injuries and exhaustion, the boy struggled to remain on his feet.
“The treld has been attacked, my lord,” he panted. “By Turic raiders!”
This time, the bad news had come in a set of four.
“Lord Athlone, please!” Wendern pleaded. “Please see reason. Hazeth says the raiders attacked yesterday before the weather turned foul. They could not have made it to the river yet. In this snow they’ll be holed up somewhere, ready to bolt as soon as the sky clears. If we leave now, we can cut them off. We have a chance to put an end to this raiding for good!”
“Your logic is persuasive, Wendern, but you don’t need me. I have to go seek my wife!” responded Athlone adamantly, and he squared his shoulders as if to fend off further argument. He turned his back on the Shadedron chief and continued to pack his gear with an urgency bordering on frenzy. The other chiefs had returned to their own parts of the camp to organize their men and prepare to leave at first light, but Wendern had followed Athlone to his own tent and stood shifting from foot to foot, the blood of his youngest warrior still staining his hands.
Wendern was one of the new chiefs, a robust, middle-aged man who had won his torque three years ago when the previous chief died in the plague. He was a strong, capable leader, but he had no experience in warfare and little idea how his clan had fared in the attack. He truly did need help, Athlone acknowledged, help that would have to come from someone else. Gabria and Kelene were more important.
Athlone slammed a waterskin onto his pile of gear and had just reached for the bag containing his flint and firestone when a sound at his tent flap interrupted him.
“What is it?” he growled, barely pausing in his activity.
A choked gasp from Wendern brought Athlone around, hand on dagger hilt, to see two Turics standing in the entrance. Their long-sleeved brown robes were starred with snow, and their burnooses gleamed white as the moon. They appeared to be unarmed. The first man stepped quietly into the tent, the second close on his heels. Because the ends of their burnooses were wrapped across the lower halves of their faces to protect them from the stinging wind, only the Turics’ dark eyes could be seen. The first Turic’s eyes seemed to crinkle in some sort of amusement.
He touched his fingers to his forehead and his chest in the Turic form of salute and greeted Athlone in the tribal language.
Athlone’s hand dropped. If the garb wasn’t familiar, the voice was. “Sayyed,” he said, exasperated, “don’t you think that’s rather dangerous at the moment? Someone could take offense and put an arrow through you.”
Sayyed chuckled as he pulled the cloth away from his face. “It proves my point though.”
“Which is?”
“That I should seek Gabria and Kelene beyond the Altai, while you go after the marauders with Lord Wendern.”