Athlone could wait no longer. An excitement and fury roared within him that was fired by days of frustration and running. He drew his sword. Koshyn caught his feeling and cried to the horn bearer with them. “Now, let them hear the song of the hunt.”
The horn burst in the quiet night like a thunderclap. It rebounded through the hills, ringing clear with the victory of a quarry sighted and the joy of the coming kill. Before the last and note left the horn, Boreas reared and neighed a challenge that blended with the horn’s music and forged a song of deadly peril. In unison, the other men drew their weapons with a shout and spurred their eager mounts into a gallop toward the fires.
The exiles were taken by surprise. As the riders swept down on them, the outcasts broke out of their stunned lethargy and frantically ran for their horses. The Hunnuli burst among the largest group. Two men fell to Athlone’s sword and one to Boreas’s hooves. The rest scattered in all directions, the clansmen on their heels.
A few exiles were caught by the riders and immediately put to death. The remainder fled to the sanctuary of the rough hills, where they could easily lose their pursuers. Thus it was that the marauders did not see the files of heavily laden people and animals toil up the road to Ab-Chakan, nor did they hear the thud as the massive gates were closed.
At dawn, the horn bearer again sounded his instrument to welcome the sun and to gather the riders. Exhausted, their fury spent, the warriors rode back, pleased with their labors. They had suffered only a few minor wounds while nine of the exiles had been killed. The troop rode to the gates of the fortress, and the men who greeted them and took their lathered horses were relieved to have the riders back. The big bronze gates closed behind them with a thud of finality.
It was not long before the exiles edged back to their cold fires and took up their watch of the fortress.
As soon as it was light and the women were settled in the palace and surrounding houses, guards were placed in the towers to watch the plains for signs of Medb’s army, and the chiefs and their men set out to explore every cranny of the stronghold. The men spent all morning poking and digging and opening things that had not been opened in generations. By the time they returned to the palace’s hall to confer, even Koshyn was admiring the handiwork of the men of old and the most reluctant clansman was realizing the capabilities of the fortification.
The outer walls and the towers were still in very good condition. The inner walls were crumbling but defensible, many of the stone buildings in the fortress’s center were sturdy enough to shelter the clanspeople and the livestock. The cisterns, buried deep in the rock, were full, since the water was constantly refreshed by seasonal rains.
As soon as the chiefs had planned their defense of the stronghold, everyone set to work to prepare the old fortress for what it had not seen in centuries: war. The walls were patched, the trash and rubble were cleared out of the space between the two walls, and the gate was secured with logs and chains. Wer-tains and children alike began to grow confident in their new refuge. It would take more than Medb and a few clans to rout them out of this hill of stone.
The clanspeople were still working desperately when a horn blew wildly from one of the towers. The people looked up at the sinking sun in surprise. It was too early for the sunset horn. Then the realization dawned on them all, and the chiefs came running to the wall from every pan of the fortress. The men close by the main wall crowded up onto the parapet.
There in the valley, the exiles were galloping their horses about and the vanguard of the sorcerer’s army was riding up the old road.
As planned, horns blew from all the towers and five, banners—one gold, one blue, one maroon, one orange, and one dark red—were unfurled above the main gate.
Savaric’s hands gripped the stone. “Medb is here,” he called: the people crowded into the bailey below him. “You all know your duties.”
Silently, the warriors dispersed to seek their weapons and take their places along the battlements. Athlone ran up the stone steps to join the chiefs, and without a word, Lord Ryne pointed down to the valley.
Once again Medb timed his arrival to create the greatest impression. The sun was already behind the crown of the mountains when the sorcerer’s army arrived at the Defile of Tor Wrath and the valley was sinking into twilight. A sharp wind blew the grass flat and swirled about the foot of Ab-Chakan.
Heralded by the wind and cloaked by the approaching night, the sorcerer’s vanguard crossed the bridge and stopped at the foot of the hill just below the fortress. They waited in ominous silence.
Behind them, the main army marched to the command of drums. They came endlessly, countless numbers obscured by the dim twilight that hid their true form. They came until the valley was filled and the army spread out along the mountain flanks. There were no torches or lamps or voices or neighs of horses to break the monotony of the terrifying black flood. There was only the sound of the drums and the remorseless tread of feet.
The clansmen watched the coming host in dismay and disbelief. Never had they imagined anything like this. The force that marched relentlessly toward the defile was no longer Wylfling or Geldring or Amnok or foreigner lured by gold. It had become a faceless, mindless mass driven by the single will of one evil man.
The wind eased and all movement died in the valley. The night-shrouded army gathered its breath and waited for its master’s signal. But the sorcerer held them firm. He let the troops wait, allowing them to see their goal and the clansmen to see their doom. In the fortress above, Savaric and the clans looked on with dread. Still Medb held back his army. The tension burned until it became almost unendurable.
Then a lone horseman rode out of the vanguard and up to the gates of the fortress. He was cloaked in brown and a helm hid his face, but nothing could hide the snide, contemptuous tone of his voice.
“Khulinin, Dangari, Bahedin, and Jehanan. The rabble of the clans.” He snorted rudely. “My master has decided to be merciful to you this once. You have seen the invincibility of his arcane power and now you see the might of his host. Look upon this army. Weigh your advantages. You will not survive long if you choose to oppose Lord Medb. There are still other choices: surrender to him and he will be lenient.”
Savaric struggled to find his voice. Furiously, he shoved his hands over the edge of the stone wall and gripped it tightly for support. “Branth, I see you have lost your cloak.” His voice was harsh with derision.
The Geldring made a broad sweep with his arm to indicate the army behind him. “Brown is such a strong color, fertile with opportunities.”
“So is dung, but I wouldn’t trade my clan for it. How do the Geldring feel about forsaking the green?”
Branth’s words were clipped with anger. “My clan obeys.”
“Your clan!” Savaric forced a rude laugh. “No longer, Branth. Your clan is Medb’s and it is he they obey. The Geldring no longer exist. Go away from here, traitor.”
Branth sneered. Behind him, in the valley, the army shifted restlessly. “Bravely spoken, chieftain. Soon, you, too, will see the wisdom of wearing brown. Only do not take long to decide. The army has already smelled blood.” With a harsh cry, Branth spurred his horse back down the road.
Medb, in his enclosed wagon, nodded to himself in satisfaction. He forced his restive army back, away from the fortress. Anticipation would put a keen edge on the fear he had honed in the stronghold; when at last he released the attack, the clansmen would not survive for long.