The troop hurried forward to the top of the slope and there halted to stare down at the scene below. Cangora, the ancient capital of the Turic rulers, sat in a great bay in the sheltering arms of the mountains. Roughly equal in size to old Moy Tura, it climbed in gentle levels and terraces up the natural slope of the valley to a massive hump of rock that towered over the city and prevented attack from the rear. Cangora was also fortified with thick stone walls and high, domed towers that provided a solid line of defense across the bay. Its only large entrance was a massive gateway hung with the huge copper doors that gave the city its Turic name, “Copper Gate.” After the vanished holy city of Sargun Shahr, it was the most important site in the Turic realm, a center of trade, religion, and art. Cangora had never been taken in battle.
The Gryphon’s army had drawn up before the great city in shouting, seething ranks. They had no siege engines and not enough men to assault such a large fortification, but even from their position on the distant hill, the Clannad could see Zukhara’s army would need nothing more than the one person who stood before the massive gates to open its way into the heart of the city. A distinctive blaze of fiery blue light seared from the person’s hand toward the top of one of the towers. The dome exploded in a deadly blast of stone, melting lead, and burning timbers. Three other towers had already been destroyed.
“Is that Kelene?” asked Helmar in surprise and consternation.
Hajira leaned forward over the driver’s shoulder, staring at the figure so far below. “No, by the Living God’s hand,” he answered. “That is Zukhara!”
A horrified hush fell over the watching warriors. The answers to so many questions fell into place.
“The Lightning of the North,” snarled Sayyed. “It’s not Kelene’s sorcery, it’s his!”
In spite of the darkness the watchers on the hill could see frantic activity on the walls. Weapons blinked in the torchlight, and people struggled to put out the fires before they grew out of control.
Just then a large, dark shape winged slowly over the city. Torchlight and the light from several fires by the front gate glowed on the golden wings of a living gryphon. On its back sat the figure of a woman, her dark hair unbound, her body unmoving.
Demira suddenly neighed in anger and would have sprung into the air if Sayyed had not seen the tension in her muscles and anticipated her intention. “No!” he bellowed and gave her halter such a tug, it yanked her off balance and into Afer’s side. “No! Do not even think it. Not yet. Wait and see. We cannot rescue her in front of an entire army.”
The mare neighed a strident peal of frustration. Let me get her. I can outfly that thing!
The black stallion snorted fiercely in reply. No, you cannot. That is a creature born to the air. And if you will not think of yourself, think of Gabria and Nara!
Demira pawed the ground. Her coat broke out in damp patches of sweat, and her tail swished a furious dance, but she accepted their logic and angrily clamped her wings to her sides—for now.
Another sound drew their attention back to the besieged city. The braying voice of a single horn echoed across the distance. The attackers fell quiet. The man in front of the gates blared out a thundering message. The troop could not hear his words, but they heard his exalting tone and knew what he demanded.
Nothing happened for a long while. The gryphon continued to cruise over the city; the army shuffled impatiently like a hunting dog waiting for the kill. Smoke swirled from the tops of the shattered towers.
At last another horn sounded, this time from the battlements of the city’s wall, and the huge gates swung slowly open to allow a small contingent of men to exit the city. From their robes and the flat gold chains glinting on their chests, Hajira identified them as members of the Shar-Ja’s council. They bowed low to Zukhara.
“That’s it then,” he growled. “If those men are negotiating, the city will surrender. I had hoped the governor would put up a fight, but they have probably killed him.”
The words had no sooner left his mouth than the envoy turned to point to something, and two more men dragged a body out of the gateway and dumped it at Zukhara’s feet.
A roar of triumph swelled from the ranks of the Gryphon’s fanatics. They lifted their weapons high and crashed their shields together, making a cacophony of noise that filled the valley from end to end and shook the foundations of the city. The great gates opened wide. The Gryphon and the Fel Azureth entered Cangora in triumph.
A pall of mist shrouded Gabria’s dreams. Dense and heavy, virtually impenetrable, it hung across her subconscious, obscuring the visions that formed in her mind. She struggled to get through the fog to a place where the air was clear and the light was as bright as the midday sun over the Ramtharin Plains, but there seemed to be no end to the clinging, gloomy mist. No beginning. No end. No life. Just dismal obscurity.
Then she heard a sound familiar to all clanspeople: the distant drumming of hoofbeats. A jolt of fear went through her. It had been twenty-seven years since the massacre of her clan and the inception of the vision of her twin’s murder. She had suffered the same dream or variations of it several times since then, and it never ceased to cause her grief and pain. It always began in fog and always included the sound of hoofbeats. She half turned, expecting to hear her brother’s voice, and found she was alone in the mist. No one spoke; no other sounds intruded into her dream. There was only the single beat of one approaching horse.
Gabria looked in the direction of the sound and saw a rider on a ghostly white horse materialize out of the mist. A Harbinger, her mind said. The immortal messenger sent from the god of the dead to collect her soul. Zukhara’s poison had worked at last.
But her heart said no. Her heart still beat in her chest, faster now with growing excitement, and her thoughts, too, leaped at the vision coming toward her. Harbingers were male, as far as anyone knew, but the rider on this glorious white horse was a woman, and a magnificent woman at that, dressed for battle and bearing a sword. A helm hid her face, and the style of her clothing was unfamiliar, but behind her back, rippling like a chieftain’s banner, flowed a cloak as red as Corin blood. The woman lifted her sword in salute . . . and vanished.
Gabria stirred restlessly on the bed. “They’re coming,” she whispered.
Ever alert even in sleep, Kelene roused and moved close to check her mother. “Who is?” she asked, but Gabria sighed and slipped back into deeper sleep.
The light from a candle by the bed flickered over Gabria’s face and highlighted the sharp angles of her features with a yellow outline. Kelene bit her lip worriedly. Normally slender, Gabria had lost so much weight she looked gaunt. The poison in her system made her nauseated, and it had been all Kelene could do to persuade her to take liquids so she did not become too weak and dehydrated. Her long, pale hair, usually shining and meticulously brushed, lay in a limp and bedraggled braid. Her skin had taken on a grayish pallor, and her strength had ebbed, so she tired very easily. In fact, she showed so many of the same symptoms Kelene had noticed in the Shar-Ja, Kelene seriously suspected Zukhara had poisoned him as well.
Wide awake now, Kelene slid off the bed and walked across the room to a window seat set in a deep embrasure. She didn’t like sleeping on that high bed anyway; it was too far from the ground. A warm pallet on the floor made more sense and was certainly easier on the back than those overstuffed feather mattresses the Turics saw fit to put on their beds. Of course, this room was meant as a guest room for visiting nobility, not clanswomen accustomed to tents and stone ruins.