Sayyed ran a finger along the hilt. Although gryphons were extinct, they were still powerful symbols of loyalty and courage in the Turic faith. “A beautiful knife,” he said.
“A gift from the Shar-Ja,” Hajira replied, unable to completely disguise the ironic bitterness in his voice.
The sorcerer tucked away the knife and took something from his saddlebag. It was a rope as thick as his little finger. “Many years ago magic wards were made of ivory or wood, carved into balls of great beauty,” he explained to Hajira and Tassilio. As he talked he deftly cut a length of the rope and began tying an intricate knot in the middle of the section. “Unfortunately, I do not have time to carve. This will have to do for now.” He laid the knot on the ground and before Tassilio’s fascinated gaze, he touched the knot and spoke the words to a spell he had memorized from the Book of Matrab.
The magic glowed red on the rope knot for just a minute before it sank into the twisted fibers. Sayyed picked it up, tied it into a loop, and gave it to Tassilio. “This is not as strong as the old ones, but this magic ward will help protect you against all but the most powerful of spells.”
Tassilio marveled at the gift. He accepted the knot without his usual blithe smile and hung it gratefully around his neck.
After morning prayers, the four ate a quick breakfast together, saddled the Hunnuli, and made their farewells.
“Watch your back,” Sayyed told his brother. The two men embraced, both thankful for this unexpected meeting after so many years. The clansmen mounted and waved to the lone guardsman and his royal charge. Hajira lifted his arm in salute.
The Hunnuli unhurriedly trotted through the outskirts of the caravan camp toward the settlement. The camp bustled with preparations to leave, and everyone was too busy to pay attention to two tribesmen minding their own business.
Before long the camp and the oasis with its slow bubbling springs were left behind. As soon as they were out of sight of the camp, Rafnir and Sayyed split up, each taking a side of the beaten caravan road. The chances of finding the tracks of one wagon, particularly the right wagon, were very small. On the other hand, the men knew the conveyance had left the caravan somewhere between the Impala Springs and Oasis Three, and they planned to search every square inch of territory along the road until they found some trace of the missing van.
With the help of their stallions’ keen sense of smell and their own knowledge of tracking, the men examined the Spice Road for leagues. It wasn’t easy. The Shar-Ja’s vast caravan had left a huge trail of hoofprints, wheel tracks, boot marks, trash, and dung piles, while subsequent traffic had added its own signs. Well-traveled side roads joined the trail here and there, and the route passed through two tribal settlements, each with its own collection of carts and wagons.
The clansmen asked for information at the tiny villages, and they questioned other travelers, but no one remembered seeing a wagon of that description. They fought a constant struggle between their desire to hurry in case the wagon was somewhere ahead of them on the road and the need for slow, careful scrutiny for tracks in case the wagon had been driven off the road to some remote destination. Through most of the day, the men forced their frustration aside and worked their way slowly northeastward.
The afternoon sun slanted toward evening when Sayyed and Rafnir returned to the road and walked their horses side by side. The caravan route passed through a hump of tall hills, forcing travelers to go through a narrow cut walled with steep slopes and shaded with fragrant cedar and pine. Father and son rode quietly, each occupied with his own thoughts, until they rode out of the hills and came to a long, rolling stretch of road.
There is another track to the left, Afer told Sayyed. The stallion was right. It was faint and overgrown, but a two-wheeled track split off from the main road and wended its way into the barren, brown range. The horses followed the track a short distance and stopped to allow Sayyed and Rafnir to dismount.
“Something heavy has traveled this way very recently,” Sayyed observed. He pointed to wheel marks in the dirt and crushed clumps of grass.
Rafnir bent to look. “But is it our missing wagon?” He looked back the way they had come toward the hump of hills. “If you were planning to leave a caravan with little notice, this would be a good place to do it.”
Sayyed studied the hills and saw what Rafnir meant. A wagon lagging behind could easily veer off the road when the rest of the baggage train turned out of sight into the tree-lined cut. “So, do we continue along the road or try this track?”
“Try the track,” Rafnir suggested. He shaded his eyes with a hand and looked down the course of the trail as far as he could see. If the track continued its apparent direction, it would eventually reach the mountains.
The men mounted again, and the Hunnuli stretched out into a slow, easy canter. There were few places a wagon could leave that track, and the trail wound on, clear and obvious even through the dry vegetation. They had ridden for almost half an hour, one in front of the other, when Tibor veered off the path so abruptly, Rafnir was unseated. Reacting quickly, the sorcerer grabbed the stallion’s mane and hauled himself back into the saddle.
Look! Tibor sent excitedly before Rafnir could voice any of the words that came to his lips, and the stallion nosed something on the ground.
Rafnir could not see the object over Tibor’s big head, so he slid off and pushed the stallion’s nose aside. All he saw was a thin strip of red dangling from the long, sharp leaves of a dagger plant. His eyes suddenly popped wide, and he whooped with delight. “It’s Kelene’s hair ribbon,” he yelled, waving the trophy in the air.
“Are you sure?” Sayyed’s brow rose dubiously.
I am. Tibor neighed. It has her smell.
“They’re just ahead of us!” Rafnir crowed. “She must have left this as a sign.”
The two men grinned at each other. For the first time in five days they had a definite lead, and they did not want to waste it. Rafnir quickly tied the ribbon around his arm and leaped into the saddle. The Hunnuli sprang away.
The wagon had a day’s lead on them, but no living creature could outrun or outlast a Hunnuli. The horses ran for the rest of the daylight hours, until the sun slid behind the mountains and night fell. They saw no more signs of the women, only the wagon track drawing nearer and nearer to the mountains.
As soon as the sun set, the Hunnuli were forced to stop. Although they could have run all night, a high veil of clouds covered the sky and hid the light of the moon and stars. The men were afraid to proceed for fear of missing another sign or losing the faint trail in the darkness. Reluctantly they made a cold camp and bedded down for some much-needed sleep.
Just before dawn the men roused, ate a quick meal, and made their prayers on bended knee. Rafnir felt comfortable now with this morning oblation, and he silently sent his plea to the mother goddess to watch over his wife and her mother. By the time the light was strong enough to see the trail, the men and the Hunnuli were on their way. The path went on before them, like two pale parallel ribbons that led ever westward into the foothills of the Absarotan Mountains.
Swiftly the land rose into bleak, rumpled uplands whose brown slopes lay bare to the arching sky. Dry creekbeds and gullies ran like cracks down the slopes, and rough outcroppings of weathered stone poked up like ancient ruins through the grass. Not far ahead the mountains reared their towering peaks above the parched plains and sat like brooding giants over their deep, unseen valleys.