At the southernmost end of the mountains, where a wide valley led a stream out of the forests to meet the Isin River, Clan Dangari had built their treld and ran their studs year round. They were the most sedentary of the clans and were trading their nomadic instincts for the pleasures of horse breeding.
Athlone’s scouts cautiously bypassed Dangari Treld and continued north, seeking only the defile and the fortress. There was still no word of Koshyn’s movements and nothing had been seen of the band of exiles. The Oathbreakers sent word to Savaric that the army of hired mercenaries had arrived at Medb’s camp and the combined forces of the four clans and the hired soldiers were marching after the Khulinin. Medb had also followed through with his threat to the cultists and had sent a large force to besiege the Citadel of Krath.
Time was running out. Savaric turned the clans north after the scouts, and the race began.
The three clans had a five-day lead on the Wylfling and they would need every hour of it to find the fortress in time. The caravans moved much slower than an armed host and had many leagues to travel. It would be close, but Savaric hoped that the clans would make it to Ab-Chakan with a day or two to spare. That hope was a real possibility—as long as the Dangari or the exiled marauders did not slow them down.
The next four days were miserable, but Savaric’s pride in his people grew tenfold. With the host of the sorcerer on their heels, the three clans drew together and fled for the mountains. Excess baggage, broken wagons, and sick or weak animals were left behind. They made no Stops during the day and at night they only stopped long enough to rest the horses, water the livestock, and eat a cold meal. The clans lit no fires, and the tents remained packed; the people collapsed in the shelter of their wagons and waited for dawn. On the trail, the sun burned on their heads and the dust rose to choke them. Before long, the grueling pace began to tell, particularly on the children and the foals, but the caravan pushed on, knowing it would mean certain death if they were caught on the open plains.
Late on the second day of the journey north, several scouts, including Gabria, returned to tell Savaric that the walls of Ab-Chakan still stood and the caves in the defile were empty. Two men had been left to watch the fortress, and others waited along the way. Dangari Treld was quiet and no news was known of the exiles.
Savaric sighed with relief when he heard the scouts’ reports, and he sent several more trackers out to follow the advance of Medb’s forces. In secret, he wondered where Koshyn and the Dangari were.
On the tenth day of the trek from the gathering, Savaric got his answer.
14
Footsore and weary, the three clans swung east to avoid Dangari Treld and then north again to follow the Isin River. The Himachals lay on their left hand and the vast, wind-walked plains of Ramtharin lay on their right. Savaric was relieved they had traveled almost thirty leagues in the four days since leaving the Goldrine River—an unheard-of pace for a caravan so large—but the clans were exhausted. Men, women, children, and animals were pushed to the limits of their strength. Only the Hunnuli showed no signs of fatigue as the caravan trudged the last leagues toward the defile.
Along the mountains’ foothills, the Isin River flowed south, following the lay of the terrain. Like a boundary line, it separated the rugged hills on the west side from the smoother grasslands that rolled east to the sea. After some debate, the chieftains decided to stay on the east bank of the river. There was very little cover to shield them from hunters and few places where they could easily defend themselves if caught, but their passage would be easier and faster.
The decision proved a wise one. As the caravan traveled farther north, the mountains tumbled down into rough hills, gullies, and sharp-backed ridges that would have been impossible for the wagons. On the east bank, the slopes were gentler and the patchy growths of scrub were easier to avoid. The clans moved faster, hoping that they were almost to the fortress and safety. Only the openness, something they usually loved, made them feel strangely insecure. No one knew when the exile band or Medb’s host would sweep down on the slow-moving caravan, so people waited and watched and constantly looked over their shoulders.
Then, just after midday of the fifth day, one of the outriders, scouting to the south of the caravan, wheeled his horse and galloped back to the line. Instantly, the werods herded the wagons together and drew a tight ring around them; swords glittered in the sun and a deadly shield of spears pointed outward from the ring. The outriders galloped in and all the mounted men filled the gaps behind the warriors.
The three chiefs drew their swords and waited as the scout reined to a stop. Savaric’s face was stern. Gabria and Athlone waited side by side on their Hunnuli just behind him. The clans were quiet while they waited for the news.
“Lord,” the Khulinin said to Savaric. “The Dangari are behind us. They ride swiftly without herds or wagons.”
An excited murmur rushed through the listening clans. Their worst fears seemed to be realized.
“We should move back to the river and the shelter of the trees,” Lord Ryne suggested.
Savaric shook his head and slammed his sword back into its scabbard. “No. We have no time. We will wait.”
No one else moved. They watched warily as a large troop of mounted, mail-clad men swept toward them along the skirts of the hills. The riders carried their painted shields on their arms and in their hands were tall spears of ash. A blue banner floated at their head.
Suddenly they swerved toward the waiting caravan and gal loped up with a noise like thunder. The three clans instinctively moved closer together, and the warriors’ hands tightened on their swords. A horn cried out, clear and keen, then the company came to a halt not far from Savaric. The two groups eyed each other silently. Then, a lone man rode forward, leading a string of seven mares. A white horsetail flowed from his helm. His blue cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, and his fair face grinned in relief.
“Savaric, you are a hard man to track down.”
“Koshyn, what in Surgart’s name are you doing here?” Sha Umar yelled suspiciously.
“I could ask you the same, for you are on my holdings,” Koshyn replied, ignoring the hostile looks of the clansmen. “But I’ve come to pay my debt. Seven mares, remember?”
“You choose a strange time to do so,” Savaric said.
“The situation demanded it. The exile band is not far behind me,”
Athlone, his eyes smoldering, urged Boreas forward. “And you led them directly to us!”
Koshyn’s face darkened as though a cloud of rage had passed over him. “They attacked my treld last night and butchered five of our prized stallions and a score of mares before we could drive them off. They’re licking their wounds now, but they will return.”
Voices burst out in anger and surprise from the watching clanspeople. The warriors kept their spears raised, but their hands relaxed. Every person there understood the Dangari’s grief and rage at the loss of their beloved horses.
“Why did the marauders attack your clan?” Savaric asked.
“Because I refused to join Medb. We left the gathering after you. Medb was furious. I think he diverted the exiles from you to take his revenge on us,”
“I see. Thank you for the warning and the mares. We must go,” Savaric wheeled his stallion and raised his hand to motion to the caravan. Although he desperately wanted the help of the Dangari, he would not beg for aid now—not after days of frantic flight and worry.
Koshyn rode forward and stopped him. The young chief’s eyes were bright with anger, and the tattoos on his face faded into a dark flush. “We’re going with you, Lord Savaric,” he said. “I have been justly punished for my sluggardly courage and now I ask your leave to join you.”