Suddenly there was a commotion outside the tent and Medb’s two guards came in, dragging a young warrior dressed in a tattered, filthy robe that had once been Turic. Athlone uttered an exclamation and jumped to his father’s side as the warrior was dumped unceremoniously at Malech’s feet. The other men strained to see who the man was. Only Medb watched Savaric to witness his reaction. The young man moved feebly on the carpets, his body twitching as if he were trying to avoid imaginary blows, his hands clenching spasmodically. Moaning, he rolled over and stared wildly at the roof of the tent.
“Pazric,” Savaric whispered sadly.
The warrior’s face was caked with dried blood and was bruised and haggard; his skin seemed shriveled around his bones. Athlone knelt by his side and tried to lift him to a sitting position. Pazric flinched in terror from the wer-tain’s touch and tried to scramble away, but his battered body failed him and he curled up, gibbering, by the fire pit.
Athlone stood up. “What have you done to him?”
“I?” Medb looked insulted. “My men found him like this, crawling in the desert and near death. The Turic left him to die.”
“And this is your proof?” Lord Ferron said. The Amnok’s face was as gray as his cloak. “This wreck you salvaged from the wasteland? Haven’t you a healer in the Wylfling?”
Medb shrugged off the last question. “Don’t you recognize him? This is the inestimable Pazric, second wer-tain of the Khulinin. Look at his neck. That is what they do to treacherous filth who are not worth the clean cut of a sword.”
Pazric raised his head for a moment and every man looked. A bloodied discoloration encircled his neck like a collar. Purplish flesh puffed out around the edges of the marking and oozing gouges covered his throat like claw marks.
“A leather strap soaked in water,” Medb said conversationally. “As the sun dries it, it slowly strangles its victims.”
“This proves nothing,” said Lord Koshyn.
Medb clapped his hands. “Dog! What was your mission with the Turic?”
Pazric cringed. His eyes bugged and rolled with terror. He forced his voice out of his ravaged throat. “To offer them a treaty.”
“What treaty?” Medb demanded.
The other warriors moved nervously, helplessly, and watched Medb, Savaric, and Pazric. The four Oathbreakers glanced at each other knowingly.
“To trade land,” Pazric croaked. He hid his head under his arms and cried with the effort of answering.
“What land?” Medb pushed relentlessly.
“Their holy land . . . southern foothills. . . for the Altai Basin.”
“That’s impossible.” Lord Quamar shouted. His clan knew the Turic well, for the Ferganan’s treld was in the south by the Altai River. “They would never accept a treaty like that.”
“The Altai Basin is Wylfling land,” Medb reminded them, knowing they were well aware of it. “Yet Savaric feels it is, or will be, open land for his unencumbered use.”
Savaric disregarded Medb’s insulting accusations and the growing dissension around him. Instead, he studied Pazric’s huddled body. The wer-tain would sooner die than intentionally lie about his honor, his lord, or his mission. It was true that he had been sent to deal with the Turic tribesmen, but only to arrange a mutually acceptable meeting place for livestock exchange, and Savaric doubted that the tribesmen had perpetrated any of the brutal injuries on Pazric. They had dealt with him before and respected his integrity. But Medb, also aware of Pazric’s honesty, must have captured him on his way home and warped his mind into a cringing mass of lies to sway the council. Looking at Pazric’s face, Savaric debated how much of the second wer-tain’s mind had been destroyed. The warrior’s sunken eyes seemed turned to an inner agony that was controlling his every word, an agony that almost certainly came from Medb.
Savaric swallowed. No man doubted the chieftain’s courage in battle, but sorcery was a fearsome mystery he had never faced. He shuddered at the recklessness of his idea to goad Medb, and he hated to use Pazric in his ruse, for there was an excellent chance that forcing Medb to expose his powers would result in someone’s death. Unfortunately, it was the only chance he saw to terrify the chiefs into uniting against Medb.
“Lord Savaric, did you send this man to the Turic with a treaty offer?” Lord Malech asked unhappily. He was rapidly losing control of the council and he knew it.
Giving his son a warning look, Savaric answered. “Certainly. It is no secret we deal with the Turic.”
“For livestock, but what about land?” Ferron asked.
Savaric shook his head. “The southern hills are not fit for a lizard, -let alone a horse.”
“Yet they have the Altai River and the sparse grass is excellent pasturage for goats like yours,” Branth pointed out. “You have not answered the charge. Did you offer to exchange the Altai Basin for the Turic’s land?”
“What does it matter if I had?” Savaric said with heavy scorn. He strode to Medb, ignoring the Wylfling guards, and pointed dramatically at the seated man. “Look at him. He is a useless hulk. If he lives to the next wintering, it will be an act of the gods. He cannot move without a litter or survive without aid. He is only a burden to his clan. And he is a chieftain! He must see to the welfare of the herds, the training of the werod, and the survival of his clan. No able-bodied warrior in his clan will tolerate his weakness for long, and before many days, there will be strife in his ranks. If he were truly concerned for the interests of his clan, he would step down and have a new chieftain chosen by the council.”
Several men loudly agreed, and Branth blew his nose with scornful rudeness. Patches of color flamed on Medb’s pale cheeks and his hands twitched on his lap.
Savaric pushed harder. Medb had been injured within the year, and Savaric sensed the mental wounds had not yet healed. Fighting down his anxiety, he rubbed the salt deeper. “Step down, Medb,” he sneered. “You’re a legless parasite on your clan. Not even the exiles want you.”
Athlone, watching Pazric, abruptly stepped back in alarm. The younger warrior’s eyes were filling with hate and his face contorted into bestial rage. He snarled, the sound bubbling and ragged. Savaric heard the warning and knew his ploy was working. Medb’s mental control on the man was slipping.
“Admit it, Medb. Give up your clan. They don’t want you. You’re not fit to rule a feeble clan like the Wylflings, let alone an empire.”
Savaric’s last word ignited the explosive atmosphere. The clansmen burst out into a tumult of violent shouting, abusive curses, and vehement repudiation.
Medb sat upright in his litter, his dark eyes boring into the Khulinin chieftain. Despite his crippled legs, he seemed to dominate the huge tent as he swept his arms in a command to his guards. Gabria and the Oathbreakers jumped to their feet to defend Savaric, and Athlone, reaching for his sword, leaped in front of his father.
Medb laughed in scorn. “You poor whining fools. You snap at my heels and never see the truth. I am tired . . .”
Medb got no farther. A maniacal scream rose above the noise. Pazric stumbled upright. His swollen lips were pulled” back over his teeth; his robe swayed madly around his bruised limbs. With unbelievable speed, he clambered over the fire pit and sprang for Medb.
Athlone grabbed for him. “Pazric, no!” But Pazric’s tattered robe fell apart in the wer-tain’s hands. The young warrior broke free and snatched at Medb’s throat.
Without warning, a brilliant blue light flared in the tent; it smashed into Pazric and slammed him to the floor. Gabria cried with dreadful recognition, for Medb had used the Trymian Force. Everything else came to a horrified stop.
Medb slowly leaned forward and spoke a strange command. A pale, coppery force field began to form around him. “Now you all know your fate,” he said. “The clans will be mine or I will unleash the power of the arcane and destroy every man, woman, and child that bears the name of a clan.”