A great cry shook the fortress. Medb jerked, contorted by pain, and his cruel mouth shaped one last curse. Then he collapsed backward, impaled by the silver sword.
Gabria shivered uncontrollably. The world fell away and she sank to the ground. But as the edge of consciousness darkened, a vision came of a hollow tree and an old woman who waited for her. Before the pain finally drowned her, Gabria clawed the air, trying to answer to the strange summons that beckoned her to the marsh.
19
Lord Savaric did not hesitate after the sorcerer fell. With a wild shout he called to his warriors and raced through the gates toward Medb’s army, which stood in stunned silence in the fields. The Khulinin were fast on their chief’s heels. Lord Koshyn, Lord Ryne, and the clansmen raised their voices into battle cries that shook the towers, and the four clans sprang after the enemy.
Clan Amnok broke immediately. They had wanted no part of Medb’s treachery, but had been swept along by Lord Ferron, their cowed chieftain, and trapped by the sorcerer’s tyranny.
Now, without Medb’s arcane goad to force them on, they turned and ran. The Geldring, too, were reluctant to fight; despite Branth’s ravings, they fled with their wer-tain to the camp. The Ferganan simply threw down their weapons and refused to fight. Only the mercenaries, well paid and eager for battle, the exiles, and the Wylfling drew their swords and faced the charging clans.
The four clans roared joyfully. The sorcerer was dead, the enemy forces were cut in half, and Athlone had been saved. Now they were running to something they understood. As they charged across the fields, they beat their shields with their weapons and shouted their challenge across the plains. Their running feet raised clouds of dust, and, through the thick air, the sunlight glistened on their helms and their swords. With one will, both sides met in a deafening crash.
The tumult rattled through the fortress. Seth, from atop the wall, watched the battle for several minutes before walking down to the ground. His icy, remote eyes revealed no feelings as he felt Athlone’s wrist and laid the unconscious man in a more comfortable position. Then he turned to Gabria. She was lying in a heap, her face pale and her golden hair dirty with sweat and dust. The Hunnuli stood over her.
“Tell her we still guard the most treasured books of the old sorcerers. She may have need of them one day.”
The Hunnuli did not answer, as he expected, but she flicked her head in understanding. Gabria stirred as the noise of the battle finally drew her awake. Seth put a skin of water to her lips; she drank thirstily and struggled to her feet. He watched her impassively.
The girl looked around at Medb’s body, at the furious fighting that raged in the fields, and at Athlone lying nearby. For just a second, her gaze softened as she looked at the wer-tain. At last she met Seth’s eyes.
He nodded to acknowledge her. “It was said in tales long ignored that sorcery would one day be found in the hands of a woman.”
Gabria didn’t answer. She was tired beyond exhaustion, but she could not rest. The strange image of the Woman of the Marsh remained in her mind, compelling her to come. She hauled herself up onto Nara’s back and put on her cloak.
Seth kept his stare pinned on her. “You are leaving?”
“I have to,” she said curtly.
At Gabria’s command, Nara wheeled and cantered south down the old road. The girl did not watch the fighting as they passed or look back at the fortress. The noise of the battle receded, and before long they were alone.
“Please take me back to the marshes, Nara,” Gabria said, her voice indistinct and empty.
Nara’s thoughts were worried. What have you left to say to this woman?
“Don’t be concerned. I need to see her.”
Nara asked Gabria nothing else, but a foreboding chilled her.
Her rider was so remote. The girl’s unresponsiveness could not be explained simply by weariness or distress. There was something different, an unnatural sense of urgency that precluded everything else. The mare settled into a gallop. There was little she could do but comply until they reached the marshes and she could learn the real purpose behind their journey.
Like a wild tide, the four clans swept through the remaining forces of the sorcerer’s army, until the ground was littered with dead and the earth was stained with blood. The Wylfling and their mercenaries fought bravely, but by the close of day they were defeated. Most of the exiles were cut down, except for a few who escaped to the hills. The Geldring, Ferganan, and Amnok clans had already surrendered, preferring the punishment of the council to annihilation by the enraged, triumphant Khulinin, and they stood aside while Savaric tore down Medb’s banner.
The fighting was still going on in the valley when Athlone regained consciousness. For a moment, he thought he had drunk too much, because his stomach was queasy and his thoughts were a jumble of bad dreams and unfamiliar pain. Then he opened his eyes and saw that he was lying beside several other wounded men by the gates of the fortress. Piers was tending a warrior close by. The memories flooded back with all their griefs and furies.
The wer-tain’s moan brought Piers to his side. The healer helped him sit up, then forced a cup into his hands. Athlone stared numbly down the hill at the body of Boreas while he drank the liquid. Whatever Piers had given him burned in his stomach with revitalizing warmth, and, after a few minutes, he was able to stand. When he saw Medb’s body, his jaw clenched.
“Why did she have to do that?” he groaned.
Piers said quietly, “Gabria had no choice, Wer-tain. She had to use the weapons at hand.”
“The weapons at hand,” Athlone repeated ironically. He could remember using the same words to Gabria. “Where is she?” he asked after a while.
Piers’s face clouded with worry. “She and Nara went south. I think she is returning to the Woman of the Marsh.”
“Returning!” Athlone cried. He threw the cup to the ground and ran for the nearest horse.
Piers yelled angrily, “Athlone! You’ll never catch a Hunnuli on that.”
The wer-tain ignored him, grabbed the bridle of an escaped mount and swung up in the saddle. He savagely reined the animal around and kicked it into a gallop.
A day later, Athlone’s horse fell and did not rise again. No Harachan could catch a Hunnuli or even keep pace with one, yet Athlone, his heart sick with fear and confusion, had urged the horse on until it had dropped. Now he was on foot and farther from Gabria than ever. In the hours he had ridden like a -madman, he had given no thought to anything but keeping to Nara’s trail and finding Gabria. But that day, as he trudged southeast in the hot sun, he had too much time to think and his emotions twisted inside him.
Athlone could hardly believe Gabria had killed the sorcerer with magic. He guessed she had learned sorcery from the marsh woman, but why had the girl decided to use magic as her weapon against Medb? Gabria had never shown any sign of using sorcery . . . or had she? As Athlone jogged along, he began to remember things that had seemed odd to him: her fight with Cor and the man’s Strange illness; Cor’s later death at her hand; and even the fight Gabria had had with him at the pool, when she had felled him with a mere shoulder wound.
Athlone vaguely recalled how he had called her a sorceress, but how could he have known? She was nothing like what he expected a magic-wielder to be, nothing like Medb. Gabria rode a Hunnuli and she had saved the clans. She had saved him.
Where was the evil in that?
Athlone groaned and ran faster. He had to find her before she was lost in the marshes. Suddenly, to his relief, he heard a Hunnuli neigh a strident greeting. Nara galloped down a long hill to meet the wer-tain. She was drenched with sweat and caked to the knees with dried mud. And alone.