“Now it is time for work,” Savaric continued. “Ryne, you worked well on the river wall yesterday. Would you bring the werods and examine the walls and towers? Be sure there are no breaches or weak places.”
The young Bahedin nodded, pleased to have such an important task.
“Jorlan,” Savaric said to his new second wer-tain, “I want you to take two men and find the wells. If the water is bad, we will have to bring some from the river.”
Sha Umar looked down the road to the great walls. “We’ll need plenty of food. I’ll start bringing in the supplies.”
Savaric agreed. “Cull out the livestock, too. We’ll leave the breeding stock and the horses in the defile.”
The men left for their tasks. Cantrell and his guide, Athlone, and Savaric were left alone.
“I would like to see this hall,” Savaric said, “before we become too busy.”
The men walked across the court to the entrance of the great hall that formed the front of the palace. Seven arches graced the front of the building. Behind the middle arch was a smaller replica of the magnificent bronze gate. Athlone gingerly pushed it open, and the doors swung gently aside. The Khulinin looked into the hall.
It was lit by deep embrasures set just below the roofline, and the light of the morning sun poured through. Two rows of tall pillars supported the vaulted roof, which was still in good condition. On the floor, faint traces of gold still gleamed through the thick layer of dust, debris, and bird droppings. No hangings, trophies, or anything of wood or fabric remained. But on every wall were murals of ancient battles and generals long forgotten. The colors had dulled with time and the walls were scarred and filthy, but the figures were still clear and detailed.
Savaric and Athlone were staring, fascinated, at the walls when Cantrell suddenly raised his head. “There are horns blowing at the front gate,” he said urgently to Savaric. “Leave me. We will find our own way out.”
The two warriors bolted for the door and ran across the courtyard. As they raced down the road toward the main gates, they, too, heard the horns of the Khulinin outriders blowing frantically from the valley below. Other warriors were crowded around the gate and clustered on the walls. Savaric and Athlone charged up the stone stairs, pushed through the men, and stopped on the brink of the parapet.
There, a mile distant from the crossroads, a small company of horsemen was galloping from the south. A blue banner streamed at their head. Behind the troop, a cluster of wagons was following at full speed and a larger group of riders was fighting a running battle in the rear with an unidentifiable company of warriors. The attackers wore no cloaks and were less disciplined than the fleeing warriors, but they kept up a deadly barrage of arrows at the larger force and cut down anyone who fell behind.
Clan Dangari gained rapidly on the fortress, its attackers close on its heels. It appeared to the watching men that the Pursuers did not realize the other clans were nearby.
Savaric and his men leaned over the wall to see the chase.
“Come on, Koshyn!” Athlone shouted. “Ride!”
Suddenly a score of horsemen led by Sha Umar left the shelter of the river wall and galloped toward the approaching clan, their horns blowing a welcome. The horsemen and wagons pivoted around the foot of the fortress and hurried toward the river wall. The attackers took one look at the approaching warriors and the clansmen gathered on the walls, then wheeled about and cantered off to the shelter of the woods on the other’ side of the valley. The weary clansmen rode gratefully into the defile to the sound of horns blaring wildly.
The Dangari had come.
15
Nara stepped carefully onto a sand bar and snorted when she sunk up to her knees in quaking mud. I am sorry, Gabria. I can go no farther.
Gabria glared at the river in frustration, but she understood Nara’s predicament. The giant mare was coated with mud and had already been mired once, and they were barely into the fringes of the great delta. Since daybreak they had been following the Goldrine as its banks eroded away to mud bars and beds of reeds. The river had quickly sunk into a morass of shallow channels, quicksand, and insecure little islands.
When Gabria and Nara arrived at the river the night before, they had camped in lowlands thick with thorns, brambles, and grasses. But in the morning, as the Hunnuli had traveled deeper into the wetlands, patches of rushes and giant marsh grass with silvery tassels crowded out the thickets. Just a little farther ahead, Gabria had been able to see where the pale gray of the tassels turned to a solid mass of tossing green. Sadly, the illusion of solidity was quite treacherous, for the grass was a shifting quagmire where no Hunnuli or horse of any kind could go.
Nara heaved her front legs out of the silt and-lunged to a more solid bank. Her head down, she stood breathing heavily, her massive strength already drained by the leeching marsh.
Gabria slid off the mare unwillingly. She had hoped the Hunnuli would be with her when she faced the Woman of the Marsh, and she had relied on Nara’s wisdom to seek a path through the dangerous mires. But it was obvious Nara could not go on.
She sighed. “How do I find this woman?”
The woman will find you.
The girl yanked her hat off and thrust it in her bag, then she crossed her arms, feeling very disgruntled. “And how can I be sure she’ll help?”
She will help you. She is a magic-wielder. Like you.
Gabria looked away. Until that moment, no one had told her the woman was a sorceress. But her intuition had already informed her of that possibility long ago.
Nara’s eyes glittered like black crystal. She nudged the girl gently. I will wait nearby.
Without another word, Gabria fastened the food bag to her belt, gritted her teeth, and stepped out bravely. The mud oozed to her ankles and water seeped into her boots, but she did not sink like the Hunnuli. She heard Nara plunging away behind her and, for a moment, her resolve almost crumbled. She faltered in midstep and thought of running after the horse. Then her foot slipped and she fell headlong into the river.
The water was warm and brackish and smelled of rotting vegetation, yet it cleared her head. Sputtering, Gabria stood up and looked down at herself ruefully. She was muddy from head to toe and smelled like a swamp; the sleeves of her tunic were black with mud and her bag was soaked. It serves me right, she thought irritably. I’ve come too far to panic now at the idea of facing my dreads alone.
Her jaw set, Gabria struggled downstream toward the heart of the marshes. The morning sun turned hot, and a smell of moldering vegetation began to rise from the river. Gnats and mosquitoes plagued her. The water spread relentlessly over the land and the ocean of marsh grass loomed closer. She soon found that what looked like one vast fen of grass was really an endless network of pools, quaking mires, and winding, half strangled channels. Through these a cunning eye and foot could find a wandering, unsteady course over patches of mud, tiny islands, and sand bars. However, as the hours passed and Gabria floundered deeper into the marsh, she began to despair of her cunning.
The journey grew very tiresome. Great reed beds often blocked her path, forcing her to wade or swim in deep, scummy brown water. Thickets of grass towered over her and shut her into a green rustling world. She knew the wind was blowing above, for the tassels rippled in sun-drenched waves, yet nothing stirred the water’s surface but the swirl of a fish or the leap of a frog. Soon, Gabria was perspiring heavily, which only drew more fascinated insects.
The day dragged on as Gabria floundered south into the marsh. She looked for anything that would help her find the woman: a path, a hut, even a footprint or a small item dropped in passing. But the marshes hid their secrets well. She found no sign of any other human being, only water and reeds and herons that watched her with jaundiced eyes.