When they were gone, Zukhara turned his burning glance to Kelene. “You have done well, my lady. You and the gryphon have flown as successfully as I had hoped. I have a gift for you.”
Kelene flung herself to her feet. “Mother has but one day left! The only gift I need is her antidote.”
He stood and walked to his table where a small tray of multicolored glass bottles stood shining in the light. He picked up a small vial sealed with wax. “As you have undoubtedly noticed,” he said, coming close to her, “I am very knowledgeable in the arts of medicines and poisons.” He pulled the sorceress close and pressed her against his chest with one arm. With the other he held the vial up to a lamp. “Not only can I design a poison to suit my purposes, I also create antidotes and partial antidotes that delay the effects of the poison.”
Kelene’s jaw tightened. “Do you fulfill your promises?” she said between gritted teeth.
“Partially, my lady.” He chuckled and kissed her fully on the lips before he handed her the vial. “This will keep the poison in check for another ten days or so. Continue your exemplary behavior, and I will give her more.”
“What about the antidote?” Kelene exploded. Would he keep this game going indefinitely?
“I hold it close,” he replied, and he pulled out the chain that held his ivory ward. There, hanging beside the ball, was a small, thin silver tube. “When I feel you have earned it, the reward shall be yours.”
Kelene clamped her mouth closed and averted her face. At least, she thought, he had not noticed the crack in the ivory ward.
He kissed her again, long and languorously deep, until Kelene thought she would gag; then with a sneer he pushed her toward the entrance. “Not tonight, my lady. Though the thought is sweet. I have too many things to attend to. Sleep well.”
Kelene did not bother to answer. She gripped the precious vial, whirled, and fled.
The Gryphon’s army rose at dawn to another clear sky and hot sun. They knelt in the dust for their morning worship and bowed low to Zukhara, the figurehead of their reverent zeal. Their fervor ran high that morning as they broke camp and prepared to march, for by evening they would reach the outskirts of Cangora and perhaps meet their first resistance from forces still loyal to the Shar-Ja. At least they hoped so. Their blood burned for battle and the opportunity to give their lives in service to the Living God and his servant, Zukhara. After all, Zukhara, the Mouth of Shahr, had told them all that such a death guaranteed their entrance to paradise.
At the sound of the horns, the men took their positions. The Fel Azureth, the fist of Zukhara, took the honored place in the vanguard, their highly trained units riding like members of the Shar-Ja’s own cavalry on fleet horses. Behind them rolled the Shar-Ja’s wagon with its prisoner under tight guard. Then came the other combatants, some in orderly ranks on foot, some in mounted troops, still others—mostly rabble and hangers-on who had come for the loot, the thrill, or motives of their own—marched in crowds at the rear. Behind them were the supply wagons, camp followers, and a unit of the Fel Azureth who kept a vicious order on the trailing mobs.
The army set out under Zukhara’s watchful scrutiny and soon reached the wreck of the Shar-Ja’s grand caravan. Several days in the late spring sun had wrought havoc on bodies already torn by weapons and the teeth of scavengers. The stench along that stretch of road was thick and cloying and as heavy as the clouds of flies that swarmed through the ruins. The men wrapped the ends of their burnooses over their mouths and noses and pushed on, paying little heed to the dead.
Overhead, on the wings of the gryphon, Kelene tried not to look at the carnage below. She felt bad enough having to forward Zukhara’s cause with her presence, without witnessing the bloody results of his ambition. She prayed fervently he would not order her to use her magic against the Turics. So far, his own power had been enough to awe and terrify his people, and she hoped that his pride would prevent him from seeking oven aid from a woman. But who was to say? If the city of Cangora bolted its gates against him and his army had to lay siege to it, he might be angry enough to force her hand. His arcane prowess was growing by the day, but the power of a fully trained sorceress could open an unwarded city in short order.
Kelene patted the gryphon’s neck. Rafnir, she silently cried, I need you. Where are you?
She had no way of knowing that on that day Rafnir was far to the north, across the Altai with her father and the clan chiefs, preparing the werods for war.
That same morning, leagues behind Zukhara’s army, the riders of the Clannad crested a high ridge and looked down on the dusty, beaten path of the Spice Road on the flatlands below.
“This is as far as I can lead you, Lady,” the guide said gruffly. “I have never traveled beyond these hills.”
Helmar studied the road from one horizon to the other, as far as she could see. At that moment it was empty. “You have done well, thank you. The trail is clear now for all to see.”
Rapinor looked skeptical. “You want us to go down there?” All the warriors stared at the open road as if it were a poisonous snake.
“Too long a solitude makes a heart of fear,” Helmar responded, and she urged her mare into a trot down the hillside. The warriors did not hesitate further but followed after her straight, unyielding back.
They have been hiding for so long, it has become habit, Afer commented.
“And how do you know that?” Sayyed inquired, still watching Helmar ride down the slope.
Helmar told me. I like her. Most of the Clannad are magic-wielders, you know. But she became chief because she proved herself to be the most talented.
“No,” Sayyed said, almost to himself. “I didn’t know. And did she also tell you how they came to be hidden away in the Turic mountains?”
Not yet, the stallion nickered. But I could make a few guesses.
“So could I,” Sayyed replied thoughtfully. “So could I.” He folded his golden cloak into a tight roll, tied it behind his saddle, and wrapped his burnoose around his head. If need be, he could pretend to be a Turic escorting new troops to Zukhara’s war. He didn’t know what they would find on the road ahead, and he did not want to give Zukhara any warning that more sorcerers were coming after him.
He glanced critically at Demira shifting impatiently by his side, and he realized there was no possibility of disguising her long wings. There was only one thing he could think of that might explain her presence.
A halter! she neighed. That is humiliating!
No more than this saddle! If I can wear tack, so can you. For Kelene! Afer told her severely.
So they left the mountains, a Turic on a big black horse, leading a winged Hunnuli mare. If anyone asked. Sayyed would tell them he had captured the mare and was taking her to the Gryphon.
Strangely enough, no one did ask that day, for though the road soon became busy, no one dared stop the strange troop of hard-eyed warriors jogging purposefully along the side of the road. Other groups of mounted or marching men traveled south toward Cangora, and a few refugees fled north. But not one person tried to join the troop or talk to any of its riders. They only stared as the white horses trotted by.
The sun was nearing its zenith when Afer, Demira, and the white horses flared their nostrils and began to toss their heads. An erratic breeze blew hot and dry from the desert, and on its skirts came the unmistakable smell of unburied dead.
In the open, nearly treeless land the riders saw the scavenger birds and the remains of the massacred caravan for a long way before they reached the first burned wagon and decaying bodies. A few birds squawked at the intruders and flew farther down the road to settle on another spot. Some of the dead had already been claimed and taken away for burial, but many more still waited on the sandy ground among the dead horses and scattered debris.