Rafnir, too, grasped his sword. “Lord Athlone, I have never taken the rites of the hearthguard, but I ask to be allowed to join your guard while you attend the council.”
His request pleased the chieftain. “Granted,” said Athlone with the hint of a smile. “And you may start tonight. We ride to meet the Dangari. Lord Bendinor passed lis yesterday, but he is waiting for us so we may-ride to Council Rock together. I intend to be there before the Turics, so they cannot have any nasty surprises ready for us.”
The last of the tents had been packed already, and the warriors doused and buried the fires. In moments Savaron and half the troop of mounted warriors—eighty in all—cantered west toward Khulinin Treld, their pack animals and supplies close behind. In the darkness the magic-wielders mounted their Hunnuli and joined the remaining guard of clan warriors. At Athlone’s quiet command, the Khulinin delegation set out, riding south and east to meet the contingent from Clan Dangari.
The Dangari chief, a middle-aged warrior of courage and sense, had sent the messenger bearing the news of the Ferganan attack to Lord Athlone. He had also suggested they travel together to Council Rock. Athlone readily agreed under the premise that no Turic, no matter how greedy, well armed, and vicious, would dare attack a large troop of clan warriors containing several trained magic-wielders. The addition of Lord Bendinor’s men gave him the excuse he needed to send Savaron and half the werod guard back to the clan despite his son’s arguments. The safety of the Khulinin was more important than a show of strength at the peace council.
The Khulinin met Lord Bendinor near dawn after a long, chilly, damp night. He led them to his temporary camp, fed them well, provided a tent for Lord Athlone, Gabria, and Kelene, and patiently waited while the Khulinin rested and cared for their horses.
Bendinor was a quiet man, capable, efficient, and well liked by his people. He had little of the charm and charisma of his predecessor, Lord Koshyn, but he and Lord Athlone respected each other, and even if friendship had not come yet, they had a useful working relationship. With unspoken consent, they had their clans ready to leave shortly after noon. Beneath their blue and gold banners, the two chiefs led their warriors south toward the Altai River and the meeting with the Turic tribes.
1
Council Rock had earned its name nearly two hundred years before when the chieftains of the Dark Horse Clans and the tribesmen of the Turics met to establish the Altai River as the formal boundary between the two nations. Since then it had been used occasionally as a meeting place between clan and tribe to solve minor disputes, trade negotiations, and border clashes.
Although its name was simple and obvious to the casual observer, the landmark was not so much a rock as an island in the middle of the river. Clanspeople who were curious about such things sometimes wondered where such an enormous chunk of rock had come from, but no one really knew. It had always been there, as far as anyone remembered, a tall, rounded boulder surrounded by water. Over the years a gravel bar had formed around the base of the rock. The gravel had caught more debris through seasons of flood and drought until a long, low island built up like a skirt around the massive rock. Local tales called it Altari’s Throne, after the beautiful water maiden who was believed to be the soul and spirit of the stately Altai River.
The maiden’s namesake, the Altai, was an old watercourse, running deep and staid through gently rolling hills. Over time it had formed a wide, fertile valley where groves of trees, lush meadows, and broad sweeps of marsh grew like a wide green ribbon across an otherwise semi-arid plain.
While early spring barely touched the northern grasslands, it spread its warm breath over the Altai valley. A pale green glowed along the riverbanks and meadows where the grass was sprouting in thick layers; the damp curves of abandoned river bends sparkled with the delicate whites, pinks, and blues of early wildflowers; and a haze of misty green buds spread through the scattered groves of trees.
Kelene drew a pleased breath when she saw the tranquil river from the air. She had not been this far south and had never learned to appreciate the beauty or the importance of the Altai valley. She turned her gaze farther south to the Turic lands that rolled away beyond her view. The landscape appeared much like the plains on the northern side of the river, but farther away the green faded to tan and eventually vanished in a brown-gold haze.
The sorceress and her Hunnuli completed their duty as scouts, and when Kelene reported to her father that the valley and the Council Rock were empty, Lord Athlone said with satisfaction, “We’re first.”
He and Lord Bendinor established their camp on a level rise across from the island, far enough removed to be out of arrow range from the ford, yet close enough that they could easily survey the island as well as the opposite bank. Guard posts were organized, and outriders were sent on patrols to watch for the approach of the other chieftains.
With Sayyed and Rafnir’s help, and under the fascinated gaze of the Dangari men, Lord Athlone drew on the magic power steeped in the world around him and enlarged a traveling tent to resemble the large council tent that was used every year at the summer clan gathering. Willing hands raised the huge shelter on Council Rock and made it comfortable in preparation for the Shar-Ja’s arrival.
Two days after their arrival at Council Rock, the Khulinin and Dangari welcomed three more clans. Lord Jamas brought a small contingent of brown-cloaked Wylfling. His treld to the west was the other clan whose lands bordered the Altai River. He had left most of his werod with the clan and brought only his hearthguard and an unabated anger at the depredations suffered by his clan during the winter. Lord Wendern of Clan Shadedron arrived next with a young, shattered-looking man barely out of boyhood, who looked as if he had aged years in the past few days. One Ferganan warrior stood with him.
Carrying his light blue cloak and weaponless, the young man bowed before the chieftains. “Hail, lords,” he saluted them. Bruises discolored his face, and his arm hung in a crude sling. But the surface pain of his wounds was nothing to the grief that burned in his face. “I am Peoren, youngest son of Lord Tirek. I come to represent the Ferganan and to demand the weir-geld that is due us.”
Lord Bendinor looked dubiously at Peoren and his lone guard. The boy looked barely sixteen or seventeen. “Are there no others to come with you, lad?”
Peoren drew himself up. “My father, an older brother, and the wer-tain were killed. Almost all of the hearthguard are either dead or wounded, my lord, except for Dos here, who vowed to attend me. I am the only male left in my family, and I felt it was my duty to attend this council even though I have not been accepted as chief. I decided the rest of the warriors were needed to guard the clan and help the women care for the wounded.”
Kelene, who had been studying Peoren’s bandaged arm, asked worriedly, “Where is your healer? He should have seen to your arm before you left camp.”
The young man winced. “He was killed in the first surprise attack. We’ve been doing what we can.”
“Are you certain you want to do this?” asked Athlone.
Lord Wendern, his long features masked with concern, stood beside Peoren. “I saw what was left of the treld. Peoren has done a man’s job of organizing the clan and caring for his people. I feel he’s earned the right to stand in his father’s stead.”
The sorcerer lord accepted his word, and the other chiefs made no further comment. Nor did the remaining chiefs when they joined the council. They came by twos and threes, traveling together with their mounted guards for convenience and safety. Another sorcerer, Kelene and Rafnir’s friend Morad, came riding in with Lord Hendric of Clan Geldring.