By the time night was full, the ambush was over. The clansmen rescued what horses they could, patched the injured Turics, and left the dead to the scavengers. They returned back up the valley, gathering the stolen horses and plunder-laden pack animals as they went. They set up camp by the stream and ate a robust dinner. They were tired and saddened by the tragedies that had forced their assault, but they had been victorious, and one band of vicious marauders had been destroyed without the loss of a single clansman.
After their meal, the men sat by their fires to sing and tell tales and celebrate their success, while their chiefs looked over the prisoners. Two guards brought the Turic leader first, his hands and arms bound and his dark eyes furious, to stand before the clan lords.
Peoren nodded once. “This is the man who killed my father.”
“He was at Shadedron Treld, too,” said young Hazeth.
The Turic stiffened defiantly and glared at his captors.
“I have seen the horses they stole and the goods they plundered,” said Lord Wendern. “There is no doubt.”
Lord Fiergan, the red-haired Reidhar, growled, “Who are you? Why did you attack our trelds?”
There came no reply. The prisoner shifted on his feet, his expression sullen and determined.
Lord Athlone rose to his feet with the slow, deliberate intent of a stalking lion. No hint of emotion altered his cold features; nothing distracted his merciless stare from the prisoner.
The Turic’s eyes snapped to the sorcerer: he recognized the chieftain and knew his power. His swarthy face turned noticeably paler.
Wordlessly the chieftains watched Athlone walk to stand in front of the Turic. The guards moved away, leaving the prisoner alone with the Khulinin lord.
“You know the punishments we can mete out to vermin like you.” Athlone said in a voice as smooth and penetrating as steel. “You will wish for any one of those to end your agony if I am forced to deal with you.”
The Turic, who was nearly as tall as Athlone, tried to meet his gaze and failed. He edged back from the chieftain and looked wildly around to see if anyone was going to intervene, but the clansmen stayed where they were, mercy long gone from their thoughts. The Turic began to sweat in the chilly night air.
Athlone raised his right hand, his fingers inches from the man’s face. The Turic stared in growing fear. “Now,” the sorcerer continued, “who are you? And what can you tell us about the Fel Azureth?”
The Turic visibly blanched. Athlone’s fingers dropped until they lightly touched the prisoner’s forehead.
“Talk!” he commanded.
10
By dawn Kelene and Gabria were wan and sore. It had been a miserable night, and the coming day that softened the black shadows and sent delicate beams of light dancing through the chinks in the wagon wall did little to lighten the gloom in the women’s hearts.
Still dozing, they were startled alert when the door slammed open and Zukhara strode in. His features looked thunderous but, without a word, he laid out their breakfast, freed their hands, and stood aside as they climbed stiffly to their feet. Kelene was ravenous and ate well. Gabria only picked at her food. Her jaw was swollen and discolored purple and blue; her skin was terribly pale. Only her green eyes blazed defiantly at Zukhara as she sipped the wine he had brought her.
No sooner had they finished than the counselor replaced their bonds, tying their hands loosely in front of them. Kelene had little time to wonder why before he pulled a strange vial from the pocket of his robe. Striking like an adder, he gripped Gabria’s injured face and turned it upward. He forced the vial into her mouth and poured its contents down her throat before she could overcome her pain and spit it out. Terror crossed her face.
“What have you done?” Kelene cried.
Satisfied, Zukhara replaced the stopper in the vial. “I have had enough of your disobedience. You would not take me seriously, so I offer you a new bargain. I have given Lady Gabria a slow-acting poison. If you obey me in all things, in ten days’ time I will give her the antidote. If you do not, she will die a long and painful death.” He paused and smiled a slow, malevolent smile. “Do not think to escape me and seek the antidote on your own. The poison is of my own making, and only I hold its cure.”
Indifferently he turned to the Hunnuli and slathered more of the thick sedative on their rumps. Giving the women a slight bow, he left them and locked the door behind him.
Even as the lock clicked into place, Kelene climbed to her feet. Her ankles were still tied, but the ropes had loosened enough to enable her to shuffle the short distance to Demira’s side. She grasped the hem of her tunic and tore a long, narrow strip off the bottom where it would not be immediately noticed. Bunching it in her hand, she rubbed the place on Demira’s hip where Zukhara had smeared his potion. To her relief, a thin film of greenish liquid came off on her cloth. She knew she had not removed all the sedative and that it would be a while before Demira revived, but this was a start. She carefully wrapped the fabric in a wad, the green stain hidden in the folds, and tucked it in her waistband.
She turned slowly and faced Gabria. “I do not trust Zukhara to keep his word. If Demira can escape, she can find Father, Sayyed, or Rafnir,” she said almost apologetically. She knew she was taking a big chance with Gabria’s life.
The sorceress nodded, her resolution clear. “This man must be stopped,” she said simply.
There fell a silence neither woman wanted to break. Gabria lay down on the pallet, too weary to stay upright. Kelene braced herself on the little bench and kept watch through the hours of morning as the wagon lurched and rumbled its way south in the wake of the caravan. The dust grew thick in the little room, and the air turned warmer.
It was noon, judging by the grumblings in her belly, when Kelene realized the van had noticeably slowed. The sorceress waited, scarcely breathing the dusty air. A moment later the van made a sharp turn to the right and dropped onto a rougher road. Kelene had to grab the small table for support, and the mares lurched sideways in their stall. Kelene noticed a ripple run through Demira’s hide from neck to tail, and the mare stirred her head before slipping back into her stupor.
The van stopped. In the quiet that followed, Kelene could hear the distant sounds of the caravan, and she was not surprised that the noises were dwindling away. Zukhara had said they would leave the caravan. Several voices murmured quietly outside, their tones too soft to identify.
Kelene glanced at her mother. Gabria appeared to be sleeping, so she decided not to waken her. But looking at her mother reminded her of Gabria’s conviction that someone had come after them. Kelene’s heart sank. If that were true, if Athlone or Sayyed or Rafnir had followed the caravan to find them, how would the men know where this wagon had gone? They could follow the Shar-Ja all the way to Cangora, hoping to find Gabria and her.
She would have to leave some sign and hope, slim as the possibility was, that someone would find it and recognize it. But what? If she left something of magic, Zukhara could see it and know her intent. It could not be anything large either, since she had no way to get a big object out of the van.
The wagon jerked and started forward along the rougher trail. Kelene’s hands flew to her braid and her red ribbon. It hung limp in her hands, bedraggled and dirty, but it was all she had. On her hands and knees she searched the floor of the wagon for a crack wide enough to push the ribbon through. Unfortunately, someone had rebuilt the bed of the old wagon, perhaps to hold the weight of the Hunnuli. There was not so much as a seam. She finally resorted to a fingernail crack in the wall beside the door. It was painstaking work to feed the limp ribbon through the crevice, and she prayed no one was riding behind the wagon. At last the red strip fell away and vanished to fall somewhere on the trail. Kelene’s prayers went with it.