Lightnings Daughter (29 page)

She scraped off the dirt from the stone and smiled to herself.

"Look at this," she whispered to Tam and Nara. The girl and the mare picked their way to her side.

She showed them her find---a large relief of a man mounted on a Hunnuli stallion. From the lightning bolt in his hand, Gabria knew the man was supposed to be Valorian. The clans' Hero-Warrior had used the power of the lightning to give the Hunnuli their remarkable resistance to magic.

Nara moved around Tam to get a better look. As the mare did so, her hind hoof slipped on a loose slab of rock. She lost her balance, fell sideways, and crashed into the altar.

"Nara!" Gabria cried in alarm. To her immense relief, the mare staggered to her feet and shook herself ruefully.

I am bruised but unhurt,
the mare reassured her.
I should watch where I am stepping.

Tam grabbed Gabria's sleeve and pointed to the altar. The big stone altar had appeared to be a solid chunk of white marble, but the Hunnuli had knocked one side loose. With an exclamation, Gabria scrambled over to look. The whole side of the altar was a cleverly hinged door.

Gabria pul ed the door open and peered inside. At first she saw nothing but dust in the dark interior. She reached gingerly into the cavity, feeling the cold stone and dirt beneath her fingers. She lifted the only thing hidden in the altar's interior with great care and laid the object on the floor.

Whatever it was, it was heavy and wrapped in a stained piece of fine linen.

Gabria looked at Tam and the two grinned at each other like children with a present. The colt pushed close for a look.

Nara snorted.
Are you going to unwrap it?

Her fingers trembling slightly, Gabria pulled back the fabric to reveal a mask of solid gold. She dropped the linen and stared. It was the face of a man, beautifully wrought and polished to a brilliant shine. In wonder she reached out to touch it. A strange tingling tickled her fingers, and she froze, her fingertips still resting on the golden surface. A faint pulse of power vibrated out of the mask into her hand. She had sensed power like that in the healing stone Piers sometimes used and in a brooch Lord Medb had once given Lord Savaric. It was the power of magic.

Without a second thought, she wrapped the mask back to its linen cover and tied it to her belt. "It's time to go,” she said.

Do you know what the mask is?
Nara asked as the little group moved to the door.

The sorceress shook her head. "No. But it is a prize too precious to leave here."

They slipped outside, and, after Treader and Nara made sure the area was safe, Gabria and Tam remounted. They tried to head back the way they had come. It was not long, though, before Gabria realized they were completely lost.

Gabria glanced worriedly at the sun. The day had passed to late afternoon. She did not relish spending the night in the old city with a living stone lion, Branth, or any other evil creature that might be loose.

She was lost in thought, pondering their unsettling situation, when Tam tapped on her shoulder.

The little girl pointed to a magpie flapping overhead. She closed her eyes and raised her hand toward the bird.

To Gabria's amazement, the magpie fluttered down to Tam's hand. It squawked loudly.
Go to the
next street. Turn at the broken statue,
the bird said in her mind. The sorceress turned to the little girl and grinned proudly before she passed the information on to Nara.

They fol owed the magpie's instructions and wound through the ruins to a broad avenue. Far ahead they saw a high wall with an open arch. There was no sign of the Korg or Branth, but to Gabria's endless relief, she heard a shout and saw two riders come out of the shadow of the wall. A few moments later, three more riders, Athlone among them, came out of the ruins and gal oped toward the mare, whooping with relief. The entire party met near the wal and greeted one another in joy.

Secen, who had been scouting the area, came riding in through the open arch. The warrior beamed with pleasure when he saw Gabria. "You're safe! Praise Surgart." He turned to Athlone. "I've found him, Lord Branth left the ruins through another gate. The trail leads west."

"Let's be after him," Athlone said. "I have no desire to stay and see that Korg again."

The others wholeheartedly agreed, and they thankful y rode out of Moy Tura behind Secen.

Somewhere in the ancient ruins, the lion roared a cry of anger and hopelessness. Gabria glanced back in sadness for the magic-wielders who had been lost in blood and violence. She prayed that such a thing would never happen again. Tightening the knot that held the mask to her belt, she fol owed her companions as they resumed their hunt for the renegade chieftain.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Gabria did not show the mask to her companions until the next day, when they were away from the desolate ruins of Moy Tura. The party stopped at noon to eat and rest the horses, and she brought out the stained linen bundle and laid it on the grass in front of her. The men and Tam gathered around to watch as she peeled the fabric away.

Gabria's heart pounded. She could hardly believe the beautiful, magical object was real until she could see it again in the light of day. She lifted the last linen fold aside to reveal the golden mask.

Drawing a deep breath, she held the mask up to the sun. It sparkled and shone as bril iantly as it had on the day it was made.

"What is it?" Athlone asked in a hushed voice.

"It looks like a death mask,” Piers said.

The sorceress ran her finger over the mask's cheek. Piers was right, it did look like a death mask. If that was the truth, then this man had been very important. The clanspeople only made death masks of those they deeply revered.

It was a handsome face, Gabria thought. Even in the rigid lines of the metal she could see the character of his features.

There was strength in the planes of his jaw and forehead, stubbornness in his long nose, and humor in the lines around his mouth. When she looked closer, she could see the cleft of his chin, the trace of a scar on his forehead, and the arched lines of his eyebrows. The eyes were closed, but Gabria fancied the irises would be brilliant blue if they were open.

“It's magnificent,” Piers said.

"What are you going to do with it?" Sayyed inquired.

Gabria shrugged and turned the mask over in her hands. "I don't know. It holds some kind of arcane power, but I can't tel what the spel is supposed to do."

The Turic rose to his feet and flashed his grin. "Too bad it can't talk."

The young woman nodded absently. She studied the gold mask while the others ate their meal and watered the horses, yet she discovered nothing that was useful. There were no inscriptions, etched designs, or markings of any kind on the metal. It was simply a man's face with an enigmatic expression.

Final y she wrapped the mask back in its cloth and packed it with her belongings. For the rest of the day she mul ed over the puzzle of the mask and stil could find no answer.

*****

The party trailed Branth for seven days after leaving Moy Tura and drew no closer to the elusive exile. He was moving faster now that he knew someone was following him, and the travelers were hard pressed to keep pace with him. To their dismay, he seemed to be pul ing ahead of them as he trekked south across the plains. Al of them wondered where he was going and what he would do next. On the eighth day they found part of their answer.

That morning dawned clear and warm, hinting of the hot afternoon to come. A light breeze blew about the hills, and meadowlarks dipped and fluttered after grasshoppers. The party was riding south, following Branth's trail along the flank of a long, low ridge, when the Hunnuli abruptly stopped and neighed an alarm.

Gabria, death birds!
Nara warned her rider.

The sorceress saw the birds then---a large flock of black vultures circling low over a place beyond the hil s ahead. "Look," she cried, pointing them out to everyone.

They gal oped urgently toward the place, rode to the top of a high hil , and looked down upon a small valley lined with trees. The birds were swinging over a clear space not far from a meandering creek.

"Oh, gods,” Athlone breathed.

Gabria bit her lip to stifle the sick feeling that rose in her stomach. The scene in the clearing below looked hideously familiar to her.

"Keth, stay here with Tam and the horses,” Athlone ordered. The warrior was glad to comply.

The rest dismounted and walked down the long slope to the clearing by the creek. Several vultures squawked and flapped into the trees.

Twelve people lay scattered in huddled, lifeless heaps-five men, four women, and three children wearing the orange clan cloaks of the Bahedin. Their carts and belongings were torn apart and thrown carelessly among the bodies. The horses and other animals were gone.

Piers hurried to examine them, but as he turned the mangled bodies over and checked their pal id faces, it became very clear they were al dead.

While the healer was occupied with the corpses, Athlone and the others looked for signs of Branth.

They had little doubt that he was responsible for the massacre.

"They were traveling with ful carts and their tents. They must have been latecomers trying to catch up with their clan on the way to the Tir Samod,” Athlone said bitterly as he examined the wreckage of a cart. This slaughter sickened him.

The Bahedin had long been al ies of the Khulinin, and they had stood with Athlone's father against Lord Medb at Ab-Chakan.

Gabria's face was pale under her tan. "On their way to the gathering." She turned away from the body of a young woman and swallowed hard. Flies were swarming around the dead girl’s face, and vultures had been pecking at her eyes.

Secen joined Athlone and said, "Lord, I can only find sign of one man other than the Bahedin. It is as we suspected.”

The chief cursed. "Branth."

"The hoof prints are from the same horse we have been fol owing, and the boot prints seem to match the ones we saw in Moy Tura."

Piers hurried over, his face strained and white.

"They're all dead,” Athlone stated rather than asked.

The healer nodded. "Yesterday. They were tortured."

Secen looked sick. Athlone raised his fist and brought it down on the side of the cart. "Why! Why is he doing this?" he shouted.

Treader began to bark furiously.
Come! I am at the creek!
his barks told the magic-wielders.

At the same moment, Sayyed yelled, "Gabria, Lord Athlone, over here. Quick'" Something in his voice spurred Gabria and the men into an instant response. They ran toward the sound of the Turic's shouts and Treader's excited barking. As they passed beyond a copse of trees sheltering the riverbank, they came to a sudden halt.

Sayyed stood on the bank, holding the frantic dog by the scruff of the neck. In shocked silence, he stared at a corpse that had been impaled on a sword against the trunk of a tree. The, man's body hung so high his feet did not touch the ground, and they could tel his death had been painful by his wide, staring eyes and the hideous grimace twisting his features. He was an older man, with a lined, weathered face. His filthy, bloodstained tunic had a golden horse, the emblem of a herdsman, embroidered on the left breast.

"I tried to loosen the sword," Sayyed said, his voice tight with fear and wonder. "But he . . . moved."

"That's impossible," Athlone snapped. "He's dead."

The chieftain reached out to grasp the sword pinning the dead Bahedin. He yanked at it several times, then, as Sayyed had warned, the man jerked to life. As Athlone fell back in horror, the herdsman lifted his head. His lifeless eyes stared down at the travelers, and the pain-racked mouth groaned a.

horrible, bubbling sound of agony.

The warriors backed away, their eyes wide with shock. Treader cowered down against Sayyed's feet. Only Piers stepped forward. He reached up to find the man's pulse.

"By the holy gods,” Piers exclaimed, snatching his hand away. "This man is dead! His skin is as cold as stone. He has no heartbeat. Look, he's not even breathing."

"Greetings, hunters. I know you are following me.”

They turned back to the corpse, who spoke again, his voice raspy and hollow. "I have left this message for you so you will know with whom you are dealing. If you are smart, you will turn back while you are still able."

The dead man looked from one clansman to another. "I was brought here from the realm of Sorh by one of your kind---Lord Branth. I intend to remain here. I have learned from the people who lie dead nearby that there is only one magic-wielder left in the clans, and only she might possess the power to challenge me. I intend to seek her out."

Gabria gasped, and Athlone moved closer to her.

The corpse added, "If you wish to find me, I am going to the gathering of the clans." The dead man emitted a harsh, hideous laugh. "I have plans for the people of Valorian."

Abruptly the herdsman's head jerked, his voice stopped and his body sagged against the sword.

There was a long, silent pause before Piers tentatively reached up and closed the dead man's eyes.

"Good gods, what was that?" Secen murmured.

"A spell," Gabria replied, her voice as hollow as the dead man's. She was staring at the corpse. Her skin had gone deathly pale, and her knees were weak. "Branth---or whatever he has become---put a spel on this man to speak that message.”

"Whatever he has become,” Athlone repeated. "What do you mean?"

Gabria's shoulders sagged. "It claims to be from the realm of Sorh. I'm not sure, but I think there is only one such creature that can be summoned by sorcery: a gorthling."

“What's a gorthling?" Sayyed demanded.

When the woman did not answer, Athlone said, "They're monsters from our ancient stories.

They're supposed to be creatures of immortal evil."

"They're not just stories. Gorthlings exist,” Gabria whispered. "The Woman of the Marsh warned me about them." Her eyes held a faraway look. She crossed her arms over her chest and took a deep breath.