For once Kelene could think of nothing to say. His audacity and conviction stunned her. The Gryphon. By the gods, she knew that name. “Fel Azureth,” she whispered, unaware she had spoken loud enough to be heard.
Zukhara’s head jerked up; his eyes glittered. “Yes, my lady. I am Fel Karak, the Gryphon, and the Fel Azureth is my sword. Already my plans are falling into place. There is but one weapon left to collect, and for that we shall leave the caravan tomorrow.” He picked up the hair ropes, tied her hands behind her back, and steered her to the bed.
“Be glad, clanswoman, that you are here with me,” he said softly. He touched her cheek, his fingers gently caressing. “Already the Gryphon sinks his claws into the north. When I gain the throne, I will claim the rich pastures north of the Altai for my own empire. With the lightning in my fingertips, your people will not withstand me. By year’s end I will make you my queen and will lay the plains of Ramtharin at your feet as my wedding gift to you.”
Kelene stared at him, her dark eyes enormous pools in her face. Although she could sense the stark power of his convictions through the touch of his skin on hers, she did not need her talent to grasp the reality of what she was hearing. “But I already have a husband,” she said, too shaken to say anything more perceptive.
Zukhara’s teeth flashed white against his black beard. “There is no law that says I cannot marry a widow.”
With swift, sure movements he replaced Kelene’s gag, cleaned the table, put out the light, and bid the women a good night.
Kelene listened to his footsteps pass away. Anger roared like a caged beast in her head, and she stared helplessly at the dark door, trying to bring her fear and rage under control. She wanted to shriek, to strike out at the man and his unshakable arrogance. She vowed to Amara, Sorh, Surgart, and Krath that she would find a way to stop him. There had to be something to thwart his plans. Not all prophecies come to pass as one would believe they should.
She turned her head to check her mother and saw-tears leaking down Gabria’s face. The sorceress had her eyes screwed shut and her pale face turned toward the ceiling.
Worry doused Kelene’s anger as surely as icy water. As carefully as she could manage with her hands tied, Kelene used her long sleeve to mop away the blood on Gabria’s swelling jaw and the tears that dampened her lair hair. Gabria forced a wan smile. Unable to talk, the two women pressed close and took solace in each other’s company. Neither slept well that long, bitter night.
To young Peoren, the clatter of horses’ hooves sounded unnaturally loud in the hushed twilight. He sat taller in his borrowed black cloak and tilted his head so he could hear the approaching troop. Beside him, his picked men—two Dangari, Dos his guard, and six Shadedron—stiffened like alert hounds, their attention pricked to the approaching sounds of horses, hushed voices, and the softer chink and rattle of arms.
To all appearances the ten clansmen appeared to take no notice of the troop approaching them up the long hillside. They had built their fires with care and set them so the vanguard of the Turic raiding party could see them and identify them at a distance that would still allow the clansmen time to run.
Peoren smiled a slow, assured smile as the first Turics topped the rise. The scouts had reported the disposition of the raiders perfectly. Five point riders rode ahead of the main body of men. As if on cue, they reined their mounts to a halt and stared at the ten men, their tiny fires, and the ten clan horses. Peoren and his companions jumped to their feet, as if in alarm. The Turics whooped with glee. One yanked up a horn and blew a signal to the riders coming up behind.
With an appropriate display of fear, the clansmen scrambled wildly to their horses, mounted, and set off along the side of the high hill to escape.
The troop of raiders was a big one, numbering over two hundred mounted fighters. Some brought up the rear with strings of stolen horses and laden pack animals, but the majority drew their weapons and followed the escapees at a rush. After all, ten men were easy prey, and ten clan horses were a prize worth pursuing.
Led by a Shadedron guide, the fleeing clansmen raced down the back slope to the mouth of a valley that plunged deep into a range of plateaus and towering hills. They paced their horses at a gallop just fast enough to stay ahead of the chasing band of marauders. Down they swept into the valley, swung right along the streambed, then cantered swiftly upstream toward the cover of the tree-clad hills. The Turics pushed their horses harder to catch the clansmen before they escaped into the night.
Twilight darkened to a dismal gloaming, obscuring detail and washing out color in a thickening blue-gray haze. Mist rose from the creek in curling tendrils that gathered in the hollows and spread out over the low-lying patches of bog. Snow still lay piled in drifts in the colder shadows of the hills.
The clansmen pushed on behind the Shadedron, a hunter who knew the hills as well as he did his own tent. Peoren brought up the rear and lagged slightly behind to taunt the Turic into continuing the chase over the poorly lit trail. The hillsides climbed higher above the stream, and the remaining snow grew deeper.
The clansmen were almost in range of the Turics’ crossbows when the valley curved sharply to the left and widened to form a fairly level open space devoid of trees and lightly drifted with snow. In the dense twilight the flat ground looked safe enough, and the Shadedron led his companions across to the foot of a high embankment. The Turics, coming past the curve, saw their prey’s escape apparently blocked by a high bank and yelled their battle cries while they spurred their horses directly toward the milling clansmen.
In their excitement, the Turics did not notice a pale, luminous glow on the ground beneath their horses’ feet. Camouflaged by the snow and the indigo twilight, the glow covered the entire level up to the base of the high bank where the clansmen waited with drawn swords. Atop the embankment in a cluster of brush and rocks, Lord Athlone watched the raiders and gauged his time. Gaalney and Morad, across the valley, watched too, and waited for the chieftain’s signal.
The charging Turics raised their tulwars and prepared to overwhelm the small band of clansmen. In the blink of an eye, the earth sagged beneath their horses. The pale fluorescence they had never noticed flicked out with a wave of Lord Athlone’s hand, and the hard crust the Turics mistook for soil dissolved into a quaking bog. The galloping charge turned into a thrashing, struggling, screaming quagmire of men, mud, and horses.
A few riders at the rear of the troop had not yet ridden onto the bog, but when they tried to turn around, a bright red wall of magic energy slammed into existence across the valley, blocking their way out. They reined to a stunned halt and watched over one hundred fully armed and vengeful clansmen silently rise from their hiding places and encircle the marauders.
The tribesmen still on firm ground guessed what their fate might be in the hands of the furious clans and chose to attack. They charged the nearest group of warriors and were brought down by arrows before they reached the first man. Another bunch at the front of the charge struggled toward Peoren and his men to cut them down. The Shadedron, sick with rage, met them hand-to-hand and killed several before Peoren stopped them. He looked into a square-jawed face with a scimitar nose and a killer’s eyes, and he recognized the leader of the band that had attacked Ferganan Treld.
This was a prize too good to lose. Peoren bellowed to Lord Athlone and stood back from his opponent as the sorcerer lord dropped down from his vantage point and fired a burst of magic at the Turic commander. The blue force laid the man unconscious. Twenty more Turics were hauled from the mud and taken prisoner. The rest either drowned in the black, clutching bog, were crushed by the terrified horses, or were killed by the clansmen.