Savaric sighed. He hated the danger his son was riding into, but he too, wanted those catapults destroyed. Finally, he nodded reluctantly.
The wer-tain saluted him. Then, without warning or reason, a deadly chill touched Athlone’s mind and a shade seemed to pass over his father’s face. Alarmed, Athlone sat back on Boreas and rubbed his hand over his chin. The feeling of malaise was gone as quickly as it came, leaving in its place a dull, aching hollow and a newly planted seed of fear. He shook his head slightly and wondered what was wrong.
Savaric did not seem to notice. He bid farewell to his son and stood back out of the way. The bronze gates were opened.
The first inkling of disaster came with a flare of torches at the fortress gates, then a storm of horses’ hooves thundered down the road and swept with gale force into the midst of the guard around the catapults. Led by a rider on a flame-eyed Hunnuli stallion, the horsemen surged into the stunned enemy. The riders’ weapons ran red with blood, and their eyes gleamed in the joy of battle.
While Athlone and his men pushed the enemy back, the men with the torches rode to the catapults. They doused the devices with oil and threw their torches onto the wooden platforms. The catapults burst into flames and the riders began their retreat.
But Lord Branth was expecting a possible attack on the siege weapons, so he was waiting with his men in the encampment. At the first sign of attack, he charged across the bridge to meet Athlone’s men, before the riders could escape.
The clansmen on the walls of the fortress watched in horror as Athlone and his riders were surrounded and the fighting grew bitter. Savaric shouted frantically for more warriors to ride out and rescue the men, but he knew that it was already too late.
Inexorably, the Wylfling and Geldring pulled down the riders. Athlone and his men were forced into a tighter and tighter circle. They fought back ferociously, anxious now only to survive.
Then, without warning, a spear was hurled over the warriors’ heads into Boreas’s chest. The great Hunnuli bellowed in pain and fury. He reared and his hooves slashed the air. He tried to leap over the fighters and carry his rider to safety, but the spear was buried too deep. The stallion’s heart burst, and his ebony body crashed to the earth.
Athlone felt his friend’s dying agony in every muscle of his body; his mind reeled in shock. He held on blindly when Boreas reared and sprang, but as the Hunnuli fell, he was too overwhelmed to jump off. The horse’s heavy body collapsed beneath him. Athlone saw the ground rushing toward him just as unconsciousness dimmed his searing grief.
A triumphant shout roared from the attackers. They pressed forward and quickly slew the last surviving Khulinin who tried in vain to defend Athlone’s body. Lord Branth shoved his way through the crowd to the corpse of the Hunnuli. He gleefully grabbed Athlone’s helm, wrenched it off, and raised his sword to cut off the wer-tain’s head. .
“Hold!” The command stilled the chief’s arm. Furiously he looked up and saw Lord Medb standing by the bridge, his face illuminated by the burning catapults. A second spear was in his hand. Branth quaked. .
“I want him alive,” Medb said. “I have a use for the son of the mighty Savaric.”
On the wall of the fortress, Savaric watched as his son and the big Hunnuli fell. He saw the enemy swarm over their bodies and he saw Lord Medb standing straight and strong on the river’s bridge. The chief’s eyes closed. Slowly his body sagged against the stone wall and he gave in to his grief and despair.
17
Gabria lost track of time. The hours she spent with the Woman of the Marsh seemed to spring from an eternal wellhead and flow endlessly beyond her memory.
The girl and the sorceress had descended to a large, round chamber that lay beneath the tree. They sat together around a small wooden table, the woman hunched over her words and gestures like a jealous priestess and the girl watching with a pale face and a fascinated light in her eyes. Slowly, as the uncounted hours passed and the rasping voice muttered unceasingly in her ear, Gabria began to understand the depths of her power.
“Will is at the center of sorcery,” the woman said time and again. “You have no time to learn the complexities, the difficult spells or gestures that govern the proper use of magic, so beware. You are attempting to impose your will on the fabric of our world. Magic is a natural force that is in everything: every creature, stone, or plant. When you alter that force, with even the smallest spell, you must be strong enough to control the effect and the consequences.”
Gabria stared into the sorceress’s remorseless black eyes and shivered.
The woman’s dark gaze fastened on her. “Yes! Be afraid. Sorcery is not a game for half-wits or dabblers. It is a deadly serious an. As a magic-wielder, you must use your power wisely or it will destroy you. The gods are not free with the gift and they begrudge any careless use of it.”
“But can anyone use this magic?” Gabria asked.
“Of course not,” the woman said irritably. “People are born with the ability. That was the reason for the downfall of the sorcerers so long ago. A few magic-wielders abused their powers and those people without the talent grew jealous and resentful.” The woman coughed and shifted in her seat. “But that time is past. As for you, your potential for sorcery is . . . good. Your will to survive is a facet of your strength. And that strength of will is the most essential trait of a magic-wielder.”
Gabria nodded. “I understand.”
The sorceress’s face twisted into a mass of wrinkles. “You understand nothing! You have no conception of what it is to be a sorceress. You are a child. Do you know yourself at all? You must know every measure and degree of your own soul or you will not recognize when your sorcery has begun to leech strength from your being.”
The woman sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Not that it matters. You will not have the time to learn, if you wish to defeat that worm-ridden Wylfling any time soon.”
“Then what am I supposed to do?” Gabria shouted in frustration. “If I cannot learn my own abilities, how in Amara’s name am I supposed to control this power?” Gabria discovered that she was shaking. She clamped her hands together and stared at the table.
The woman laughed, a cackle edged with arrogance. “You do not need superhuman knowledge or control for this task, only desire and concentration. The critical ingredient in any spell, no matter how simple, complex, or bizarre, is the will and strength of the wielder. Those, at least, you have plenty of. I am merely warning you, should you overextend yourself particularly in an arcane duel.” She paused and her eyes lit with a strange, greedy light. “I do want you to succeed.”
The girl was puzzled by the odd look in the old sorceress’s face, but before she could think about it, the woman hurried on.
“You need to know what you have become a pan of, so listen.” She jabbed her finger at Gabria. “The other trait you need for spells is imagination. Not all spells are rigidly defined. It is often better to create your own. On this we will proceed.”
The old woman Stood up and fetched a stub of a candle. She set It down in front of Gabria. “The reason you need to use spells is to formulate your intent. The words elucidate the purpose in your mind and help you focus your power on the magic.
“When you used the Trymian Force before, it came as an unconscious reaction to your will to survive, and so it was very weak and uncontrolled. But if you had used a spell, you could have changed the intensity of the force and used it at will.”
“But how do I learn these spells?” Gabria asked.
“Sorcerers experimented with spells for years. They worked out many spells that were formulated for the greatest clarity and efficiency. But you do not always need to use them. Magic spells can be worded any way you wish.” The woman suddenly snapped a foreign word and the candle in front of Gabria popped into flame. The girl started back, her eyes wide with surprise.