Something incredible had happened to it. The blade had been burned black by some powerful heat that not only scorched the blade down to the hilt, but also melted the edges in ripples at the point. Instead of a straight, hammered blade, the sword looked much like a long flame. In disgust, Valorian slammed the weapon back in its sheath. The sword had been his father’s and grandfather’s before him. Now it was probably useless, and short of stealing a Tarnish blade, he had no means of getting another.
“I don’t know what did that,” he snapped. “Now, where is everyone?”
Aiden gazed at the man for a long moment. He loved his brother too much to doubt him, but this mystery of Valorian’s reappearance was beginning to bother him. He gestured toward the camp. “Most of the men and boys are’ either out hunting or looking for you, and Mother Willa said something about taking the women out to gather herbs and greens. I don’t know about everyone else.”
The sharp tone in Aiden’s voice brought Valorian’s irritation up short. He didn’t need to take his frustrations out on his brother. He was about to apologize when he heard a sound that turned his blood cold.
Voices had suddenly raised in anger from the corrals where the camp’s best horses and breeding stock were kept.
The pens were near the stream and out of his sight behind some trees, yet he still recognized the shouting voices. One was Kierla, yelling at another voice that belonged to Sergius Valentius, General Tyrranis’s tax collector.
“Oh, gods,” groaned Aiden. “He came early! That weasel came two days early!”
All at once, Kierla’s shout changed to a cry of fury and fear, and Valorian’s heart fell to his knees. He reacted instantly by clamping his legs to Hunnul’s sides and grabbing the black mane. The stallion rocketed forward from a standstill to a full gallop down the trail through the trees, with Aiden right behind.
Like a thunderbolt, the black charged through the edge of camp, past the refuse pile, and out of the trees into the wide clearing where the corrals stood. At his master’s command, he came sliding to a stop almost on his haunches and neighed in excitement. His sudden appearance brought everyone in the corrals to a shocked standstill.
Valorian’s face tightened with rage when he took in the scene in the nearest large corral. One Tarnish soldier was leading four pregnant mares out through the gate with the obvious intention of taking them, and two more soldiers held a small group of clanspeople at bay with swords. The mares were the family’s last brood mares of pure Harachan blood, the ancient strain of Clan-bred horse, and the finest of Valorian’s breeding stock.
Kierla had apparently tried to stop the Tarns with little success. She lay struggling on her back in the dust of the corral where Sergius had knocked her. The Tarnish tax collector was tying her wrists together.
He looked up when Hunnul burst into the clearing, and an arrogant smirk crossed his swarthy, pinched features. “You’re late with your tribute, Valorian,” he shouted. “I’ve had to come collect it myself, and that will cost you.”
Kierla started violently, nearly pulling her wrists free. Her fact twisted toward her husband with a crazy combination of hope, joy, anger, and outrage as she fought to escape the Tarn’s grip.
Sergius merely chuckled with appreciation before he hauled her to her feet and shoved her toward his saddled horse.
Deep within Valorian’s mind, an unconscious power flickered to existence. It surged hotter in his anger, coursing through his veins and energizing his tired body. Fiercer and stronger it grew until his skin tingled with its energy. But Valorian didn’t recognize the magic. He saw only his beloved wife being pushed toward the Tarn’s horse. There had been other women forcibly taken from the Clan to satisfy Tyrranis’s lust, and they had never returned. He kicked Hunnul forward.
Sergius saw the movement and drew his knife on Kierla.
“One more move, clansman, and this woman will feed the buzzards.” He curled his lip at the expression on Valorian’s face, then deliberately shoved Kierla up against his horse and ripped the bodice of her dress.
Valorian gave no thought to what he did next; he simply reacted. A fragment of his dream suddenly came into sharp clarity, revealing in his mind the picture of a deadly blue bolt of energy. He raised his hand and threw it forward.
Out of his body, formed by the goddess’s gift, came a sizzling blast of magic that seared through the afternoon air, struck Sergius full on the chest, and slammed him to the ground. Kierla was knocked off her feet, and the Tarn’s horse reared in terror, snapped its rein, and galloped away.
For a long, silent breath, the tableau froze in time. No one moved, no one spoke. They could only gape at Valorian.
The clansman was staring at his hand. In one stunning instant the remaining pieces of his dream fell into place, and he knew with utter certainty that what had happened in his memory was true. He had been struck by lightning and died; he had rescued the crown of Amara from the gorthlings, and she in gratitude had returned him to life with his power to wield magic intact. The enormity of his ability suddenly struck him like a blow, and he lifted his eyes to Sergius’s smoking body, appalled by what he had done.
The small movement shattered the shocked silence. The three Tarnish soldiers bolted as one for their horses, but Aiden moved faster. He yanked out his bow and shouted, “Stop them!” The soldier nearest Valorian staggered and fell with two of Aiden’s arrows in his back. The second was killed with a dagger thrown by one of the elderly men in the group. The third nearly made it to his horse before he was brought down by a well-aimed rock from a sling.
Valorian didn’t move during the killing. He was too overwhelmed by his own thoughts. It wasn’t until Kierla walked over to stand in front of Hunnul that he forced himself to look down at her.
Her green eyes were snapping with suspicion, and her expression was cold. Kierla wasn’t a beauty at any time in her life, least of all when she was angry. Her look of outrage set over her straight nose, large teeth, and longish face gave her a faint resemblance to a horse ready to snap. The freckles on her fair skin were lost in a red flush, and her dark eyebrows glowered over her eyes. The long, dark hair that hung in a single plait over her shoulder was tangled and dusty. She paid no attention to her torn bodice, letting the shreds hang open.
Valorian thought he had never seen her look so lovely.
“Who are you?” she hissed fiercely. “You look like Valorian, but he cannot do what you have done. Who are you?” The clansman dismounted like a weary old man and stood by Hunnul’s head. The other clanspeople—his two aunts, some cousins, Kierla’s uncle, and several children gathered around him. Their faces were wary and fearful. The look of relief and welcome had even faded from Aiden’s expression.
Valorian could hardly blame them. He had appeared out of nowhere with a power only the gods had heretofore wielded.
“Perhaps it’s a gorthling,” he heard a young cousin say softly.
“Too big,” Kierla’s uncle stated. “Could be a ghost.”
“Maybe he’s a Harbinger,” an aunt murmured. The people sucked in their breath at that possibility and took a step backward.
Only Kierla didn’t back away. She faced the man before her, scrutinizing every detail of his face. She looked past the dirt and the bruise on his temple and the scruffy beard to the unchanging characteristics of the man’s face. If this wasn’t Valorian, it was an exact copy of him down to the cleft in his chin, the straight line of his nose, and the scar on his forehead. The eyes were the same brilliant blue, too, but there was a cast about them that was subtly different. They were harder, more piercing, as if forged in fire and set with the farseeing vision of an eagle. Her anger began to fade to confusion. She moved closer, and, trembling, she reached out to touch his cheek.