blood. The exhausted horse staggered into the firelight, its sides heaving and its nostrils red as flame. Steam poured from its drenched hide, and its legs shook from its effort.
The figure on its back, swathed in a snow-blanketed black cloak, slid sideways and fell into the arms of his chief. Blood from a head wound had frozen in rivulets down the young rider’s face, and another wound on his shoulder had left a hard, icy crust on his cloak. Even so, in spite of his injuries and exhaustion, the boy struggled to remain on his feet.
“The treld has been attacked, my lord,” he panted. “By Turic raiders!”
This time, the bad news had come in a set of four.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Lord Athlone, please!” Wendern pleaded. “Please see reason. Hazeth says the raiders attacked yesterday before the weather turned foul. They could not have made it to the river yet. In this snow they’ll be holed up somewhere, ready to bolt as soon as the sky clears. If we leave now, we can cut them off. We have a chance to put an end to this raiding for good!”
“Your logic is persuasive, Wendern, but you don’t need me. I have to go seek my wife!” responded Athlone adamantly, and he squared his shoulders as if to fend off further argument. He turned his back on the Shadedron chief and continued to pack his gear with an urgency bordering on frenzy. The other chiefs had returned to their own parts of the camp to organize their men and prepare to leave at first light, but Wendern had followed Athlone to his own tent and stood shifting from foot to foot, the blood of his youngest warrior still staining his hands.
Wendern was one of the new chiefs, a robust, middle-aged man who had won his torque three years ago when the previous chief died in the plague. He was a strong, capable leader, but he had no experience in warfare and little idea how his clan had fared in the attack. He truly did need help, Athlone acknowledged, help that would have to come from someone else, Gabria and Kelene were more important.
Athlone slammed a waterskin onto his pile of gear and had just reached for the bag containing his flint and firestone when a sound at his tent flap interrupted him.
“What is it?” he growled, barely pausing in his activity.
A choked gasp from Wendern brought Athlone around, hand on dagger hilt, to see two Turics standing in the entrance. Their long-sleeved brown robes were starred with snow, and their burnooses gleamed white as the moon. They appeared to be unarmed. The first man stepped quietly into the tent, the second close on his heels. Because the ends of their burnooses were wrapped across the lower halves of their faces to protect them from the stinging wind, only the Turics’ dark eyes could be seen. The first Turic’s eyes seemed to crinkle in some sort of amusement.
He touched his fingers to his forehead and his chest in the Turic form of salute and greeted Athlone in the tribal language.
Athlone’s hand dropped. If the garb wasn’t familiar, the voice was. “Sayyed,” he said, exasperated, “don’t you think that’s rather dangerous at the moment? Someone could take offence and put an arrow through you.”
Sayyed chuckled as he pulled the cloth away from his face. “It proves my point though.”
“Which is?”
“That I should seek Gabria and Kelene beyond the Altai, while you go after the marauders with Lord Wendern.”
“No. I am going to find Gabria.”
“Athlone, listen!”
The chieftain hesitated, his attention caught by the intensity of his friend’s voice.
Sayyed crossed his arms and said, “Gaalney had a point. You do not look like a Turic, nor act like a Turic, nor have any hope of ever speaking like a Turic. If you go over the river, you will be an invader, and no one will help you. Fiergan was right, too. We have no proof who took Gabria and Kelene. We need someone on this side of the border to eliminate other possibilities.”
Athlone was still, his face unreadable, his big body held
The figure on its back, swathed in a snow-blanketed black cloak, slid sideways and fell into the arms of his chief. Blood from a head wound had frozen in rivulets down the young rider’s face, and another wound on his shoulder had left a hard, icy crust on his cloak. Even so, in spite of his injuries and exhaustion, the boy struggled to remain on his feet.
“The treld has been attacked, my lord,” he panted. “By Turic raiders!”
This time, the bad news had come in a set of four.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Lord Athlone, please!” Wendern pleaded. “Please see reason. Hazeth says the raiders attacked yesterday before the weather turned foul. They could not have made it to the river yet. In this snow they’ll be holed up somewhere, ready to bolt as soon as the sky clears. If we leave now, we can cut them off. We have a chance to put an end to this raiding for good!”
“Your logic is persuasive, Wendern, but you don’t need me. I have to go seek my wife!” responded Athlone adamantly, and he squared his shoulders as if to fend off further argument. He turned his back on the Shadedron chief and continued to pack his gear with an urgency bordering on frenzy. The other chiefs had returned to their own parts of the camp to organize their men and prepare to leave at first light, but Wendern had followed Athlone to his own tent and stood shifting from foot to foot, the blood of his youngest warrior still staining his hands.
Wendern was one of the new chiefs, a robust, middle-aged man who had won his torque three years ago when the previous chief died in the plague. He was a strong, capable leader, but he had no experience in warfare and little idea how his clan had fared in the attack. He truly did need help, Athlone acknowledged, help that would have to come from someone else, Gabria and Kelene were more important.
Athlone slammed a waterskin onto his pile of gear and had just reached for the bag containing his flint and firestone when a sound at his tent flap interrupted him.
“What is it?” he growled, barely pausing in his activity.
A choked gasp from Wendern brought Athlone around, hand on dagger hilt, to see two Turics standing in the entrance. Their long-sleeved brown robes were starred with snow, and their burnooses gleamed white as the moon. They appeared to be unarmed. The first man stepped quietly into the tent, the second close on his heels. Because the ends of their burnooses were wrapped across the lower halves of their faces to protect them from the stinging wind, only the Turics’ dark eyes could be seen. The first Turic’s eyes seemed to crinkle in some sort of amusement.
He touched his fingers to his forehead and his chest in the Turic form of salute and greeted Athlone in the tribal language.
Athlone’s hand dropped. If the garb wasn’t familiar, the voice was. “Sayyed,” he said, exasperated, “don’t you think that’s rather dangerous at the moment? Someone could take offence and put an arrow through you.”
Sayyed chuckled as he pulled the cloth away from his face. “It proves my point though.”
“Which is?”
“That I should seek Gabria and Kelene beyond the Altai, while you go after the marauders with Lord Wendern.”
“No. I am going to find Gabria.”
“Athlone, listen!”
The chieftain hesitated, his attention caught by the intensity of his friend’s voice.
Sayyed crossed his arms and said, “Gaalney had a point. You do not look like a Turic, nor act like a Turic, nor have any hope of ever speaking like a Turic. If you go over the river, you will be an invader, and no one will help you. Fiergan was right, too. We have no proof who took Gabria and Kelene. We need someone on this side of the border to eliminate other possibilities.”
Athlone was still, his face unreadable, his big body held
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