The gorthling cursed. He was not ready yet to draw so much attention to himself or his powers. He wanted to find the sorceress first. Annoyed, he threw the weaver to the ground and backhanded the woman with a stunning blow that sent her reeling into a wicker corral. His violent motion knocked his hood off, and the sun shone full on his face. He paid no attention to the shocked clanspeople who gathered around the fallen couple. He ignored the shouts of the people behind him and continued walking down the path. Close by, a voice cried in stunned disbelief, “Branth! That’s Lord Branth.”
Other clanspeople stared at the gorthling in open disbelief as he strode by. A loud, angry commotion was building in the two camps and spreading outward in ripples of outrage and disbelief as word of Branth’s arrival flew from tent to tent.
The gorthling’s lips curled in a wicked grin. Let them yap, he thought. Perhaps the uproar would attract the sorceress and bring her to him. He was growing impatient. Although he studied every female he saw, he did not see any that matched the description of the clan’s only magic-wielder. He passed the fringes of the Dangari camp and went down to the banks of the Goldrine.
He glanced back and saw armed men advancing on him from the Dangari camp, sunlight glinting off their blades. Across the river, where the council tent stood in its grove of cottonwood trees, several clansmen were attracted by the loud commotion and gathered on the bank.
Branth hesitated, looking up and down the river where other camps were clustered along the shores. Several women were standing in the shallows nearby, staring at him, their washing hanging from their hands. He was about to turn and head for another camp, when the armed warriors jumped him.
Jubilantly they bound his hands behind his back and searched him for weapons. To their surprise, all they found was a heavy, leather-bound book in a pack slung on his shoulder. A huge crowd gathered, and many of the people shouted threats. Here at last was a scapegoat for some of their pent-up anger, grief, and resentment for the previous summer’s bloodshed.
The gorthling watched them with an ugly sneer on his face. He would go along with this farce for a little while longer, just to see if these noisy humans would take him to those who commanded their tribes. Their leaders might know where the sorceress was hiding.
The Dangari warriors shoved Branth down the bank and hauled him across the river to where their chieftain stood, framed by the open entrance of the council tent. Much of the crowd followed, trampling through the water like a herd of horses. The Dangari brought their prisoner to stand before Lord Koshyn, Lord Sha Umar, Lord Wortan of the Geldring, old Lord Jol of the Murjik, and Wer-tain Guthlac. Together the men faced the bound prisoner while the crowd pushed around in a shouting, gesturing ring.
Lord Koshyn held up his hand for silence. The onlookers gradually fell quiet as their curiosity got the better of their hostility.
Koshyn studied the man before him and tried to quell a growing uneasiness. He did not like Branth’s strange arrival. No exiled man under penalty of death just wanders into a clan gathering without a powerful reason. Then, too, if Athlone went to Pra Desh to find Branth and Branth appeared at the Tic Samod—what did that say of Lord Athlone’s fate? The Dangari narrowed his eyes. There was a strange aura of menace about the prisoner that made the hairs rise on Koshyn’s neck. Something about Branth was very different.
The chieftain turned to his men. “Was he armed?”
“No, Lord. He only had this with him.” One of the warriors handed the leather bag to the chief.
Koshyn felt his hands grow cold when he looked in the bag. “The Book of Matrah,” he said aloud. His uneasiness boiled into full alarm.
Lord Jol drew a sharp breath and edged away from the book. The other chiefs looked at one another with mixed expressions of suspicion and confusion.
After he handed the bag back to his warrior, Koshyn squared his shoulders. “You are under penalty of death,” he said to Branth. “Why did you come back?”
The gorthling sneered. Death? That was a joke. He drew himself up to Branth’s full height and stared out over the crowd, looking for the sorceress. He still wanted to find her before he blasted these annoying mortals to burned bits.
“Branth,” Sha Umar said sharply, “you are condemned to die for conspiracy, treason, and murder. You can choose your own manner of death if you answer the question. Why are you here?”
The gorthling had had enough of their questions. He turned his inhuman glance on the chieftains. “To be your master!” he said with cold, deliberate malice.
The clanspeople reacted immediately. They surged closer, jostling and grabbing at the prisoner. The Dangari warriors struggled to keep them away until the chiefs could decide what to do.
Koshyn’s face flushed with rage. Yet even as his fury mounted, a warning cry sounded in his head. Branth had had the Book of Matrah in his possession for almost a year—plenty of time to learn sorcery. If that was the case, then the only way they could render him defenseless was to kill him, or at least knock him unconscious. While he could think, he could cast spells; someone would have to deal with him, and quickly.
Everyone’s attention was on Branth, and the gorthling’s attention appeared to be on the Dangari warriors that crowded around him. Without warning, Koshyn snatched a battle axe from the belt of a warrior beside him and brought it swinging toward Branth’s head.
It never landed.
The gorthling saw the blurred movement out of the corner of his eye, then barked a spell that froze the chieftain in mid- motion. The clanspeople around them fell still, their eyes strained wide, their faces caught in expressions of disbelief and shock. The silence spread outward into the crowd until the entire council grove was quiet.
The gorthling laughed and snapped the bonds around his wrists. “Now, worthless little man,” he hissed to Koshyn, “perhaps you can tell me where the sorceress is.” He raised his hand and sent a powerful burst of energy sizzling into Koshyn’s body.
The excruciating pain ripped through the young Dangari. He screamed and fell to the ground in a writhing heap, unable to fight the torturous magic.
The sight of the vicious arcane spell broke the crowded clanspeople’s stunned lethargy. They backed away to put a wide space between themselves and Branth. The chieftains, even Lord Jol, drew their swords, and they and the Dangari warriors leaped in to try to save the young lord. The gorthling blasted them aside as easily as swatting flies, killing three of the warriors. He continued to torture Koshyn.
“The sorceress!” Branth shouted furiously. “Where is she?”
“She’s not here,” Lord Sha Umar answered desperately. He picked himself up from the ground, his eyes pinned on Koshyn’s writhing body.
The gorthling’s face twisted into a frightening mask of delight, hate, and rage that sickened the watchers. “Where is she?” He made a jabbing motion with his hand, and Koshyn screamed in agony.
Sha Umar stepped forward, his hand raised in a pleading gesture. “We don’t know. She went to look for you.”
“She went to Pra Desh to find you,” Lord Jol cried. The old chief was on the verge of panic. “But she’ll be here soon.”
Branth pounced on Jol’s words. “Soon? When!”
Wer-tain Guthlac spoke up. “No one knows.”
“Tell me, you worms, or this man dies!” Branth screamed. “I want the sorceress.”
“Then look behind you,” a new voice called from the edge of the grove.
The men started in surprise.
The gorthling whirled around and saw a young woman sitting astride a great black Hunnuli. He forgot about the men around him. His cruel mouth laughed in triumph, and his eyes began to glow red as the horse slowly paced toward him.