The gorthling under his thigh finally wiggled its head free. “You’ll suffer for this,” it howled at him. “We’ll flay you alive for a thousand years and make you wish every second of eternity that you had never heard Amara’s name!”
Valorian refused to reply. He tuned his senses ahead and behind to listen for any sign of pursuit. He knew the vicious little gorthlings wouldn’t let him go without a fight. For the moment, though, he could hear nothing.
Hunnul was cantering now as fast as he could go in the zigzagging tunnel on the rising slope. Because he knew roughly what to expect in the passages, he was able to move faster through the twists and turns and dark halls.
But even Hunnul’s agile speed wasn’t enough. All too soon Valorian heard what he feared—a screeching, yowling pack of gorthlings coming up the tunnel behind them. He bent low over Hunnul’s mane, held tightly to the crown, and prayed that the stallion wouldn’t fall, that there were no lava rivers with narrow ledges, and that there were no gorthlings on the trail ahead. The cries of the creatures behind him grew louder.
Hunnul continued to run, his legs thrusting forward, his hooves pounding on the stone path, his head rising and falling with the rhythm of his flight. Black against the deep shadows, he careered through the tunnel ahead of the gorthlings, trusting his master to guide him.
Then, before man or horse realized what had happened, the trail abruptly leveled out and came to a sudden dead end before a black wall of stone. Hunnul skidded to a wild-eyed stop.
“What’s this?” Valorian cried frantically to his captive. “Where’s the tunnel?”
The gorthling chortled. “It’s the entrance, you moron, and it’s locked. This tunnel is shorter than the others.”
The noise of the pursuers was almost upon them when the clansman raised his hand. He didn’t have time to question the gorthling any further or stop to look for some means to open the door. He and Hunnul had to get out now! His power, strengthened by the gorthling’s contact, burst from his hand and exploded on the wall before him. The rock exploded outward, opening the entrance in a cascade of blue sparks and flying rock.
Hunnul stumbled out through the shattered door into the bright light. Blinded by the sudden glare, Valorian fumbled for the creature he held under his knee. He could hear the other gorthlings running up the passage and shrieking, and he knew he couldn’t let them loose in the realm of the dead.
Desperately he yanked the gold armband off the gorthling’s neck, turned, and hurled the creature as hard as he could toward the opening. Almost in the same movement, he fired a second bolt of magic into the rock above the door just as the gorthling pack appeared at the entrance. The burst was weaker than before, but it was enough to bring down a massive chunk of rock that sealed the opening shut with stone, gravel, and dirt. The enraged gorthlings vanished behind the tumbling rock.
Bit by bit the stone settled into place, and the mountain returned to silence. Valorian’s eyesight adjusted enough to see the ground, so he dismounted and leaned for a moment against Hunnul’s heaving sides. The stallion blew out his breath with a loud snort.
Valorian tried to laugh in a wave of overwhelming relief, but he could barely chuckle. Without the gorthling to sustain his strength, the heavy, unaccustomed use of magic had left him completely exhausted. Too tired to even stand, he sagged slowly to the ground and sat by the stallion’s front feet. The golden crown hung heavy in his hands.
He stared at the crown as if seeing it for the first time. In the pure light of the sacred peak, the diadem’s own radiance was as clear and golden as the dawn and as warm as the summer sun. It had four pointed rays on its front, each set with a large gem of a different shade to represent the four seasons, and its heavy rim was ornately decorated with intertwined rays of silver and vines of gold. It was a crown worthy of Amara.
Valorian was leaning forward, staring at the crown, when another glorious light illuminated the mountainside. He looked up to see four shining figures standing before him: the Clan deities Surgart, Sorh, Keath, and Amara. He knew in his heart who they were without a word being spoken, and he fell prostrate in awe.
The four deities gazed down on him, their faces benign. “You have chosen well, Sister,” he heard Sorh say to Amara.
“Do we go ahead with our plan?” she asked.
Valorian jerked slightly in surprise. Plan? What were they talking about?
Surgart nodded. “Yes. . . it is time.”
“Very well.” The mother goddess leaned over and picked up her shining crown. “Thank you, Valorian, for your courage. Your deed has won my eternal gratitude. I wish to reward you for your unselfishness and determination. Is there any boon you desire?”
The clansman slowly climbed to his feet. “I would wish something for my people.” He lifted his eyes to the goddess.
“Help them find a new home somewhere where they can flourish.”
A deep smile of satisfaction spread over Amara’s lovely face. She nodded once.
A deafening, shattering clap of thunder split Valorian’s world. The realm of the dead, the gods and goddesses, the peak of Ealgoden all vanished, and the man tumbled down into darkness. He cried out once and knew no more.
5
Somewhere nearby a bird was warbling a song. Its lilting notes lifted on the wings of the wind and mingled with the subtler rhythms of falling water in a distant stream and the sway of evergreen trees. The gentle sounds were familiar and comforting to the clansman as he lay motionless, still swathed in the darkness of his mind. He listened to the natural music for a long time while his consciousness gradually awakened and his other senses returned.
After a while, he became aware of other feelings he hadn’t noticed before: the cold of the stone beneath his stomach, the heavy, damp weight of his clothes, the unexpected warmth of sunshine on the side of his face. Very carefully he opened his eyes. Dark storm clouds filled the sky to the south, the direction he was facing, but to the west, the sky was clearing and the blessed sun was shining. The days of rain were finally over. And, praise the gods, there was Hunnul grazing on a patch of grass nearby.
Valorian managed a weak smile before he tried to sit up. Then his smile turned to a groan and he sagged back onto the wet ground, almost blinded by a severe pain that rocked his head. Nausea settled like a cold, squirming thing in his stomach. The rest of his body felt stiff, as weak as a newborn, and achy in every joint. Strangest of all, he felt very warm inside. Not feverish, just hot.
What’s happened to me? he wondered. He lay still again to let the pain subside while he tried to revive his memory. He remembered searching for the mountain pass, and he remembered coming up the ridge to see the range of peaks. Everything after that was extremely hazy. There had been rain and thunder, and then something had happened. He clenched his fists in an effort to remember, but he couldn’t recall what had occurred or why he should be lying there feeling as if he had just fallen down the mountainside.
The oddest visions passed through his head. . . Harbingers and goddesses. . . the realm of the dead. . . Ealgoden . . . gorthlings . . . and clearest of all, a golden crown that gleamed with the light of the sun. Yet the images were unfocused and jumbled together. None of them made sense. If he had truly died, then what was he doing still lying on the top of the ridge? The visions had to be a dream, and a bad one at that.