By the time the sun lifted its rays over the mountain peaks the next day, Valorian began to believe they would be able to leave on time. Every person in the Clan was accounted for and doing what needed to be done to get ready to go. A caravan was taking shape in the fields below Stonehelm, where wagons and carts jostled for position and the herds waited in nervous expectation. People hurried everywhere, looking for lost children, fetching forgotten belongings, running for last-minute items. Dogs scurried underfoot, and the children were wild with excitement.
Valorian rode Hunnul from one end of the forming caravan to the other, helping wherever he could, full of calm and Courage. He lifted the hearts of all his people and spurred them on to greater efforts.
At noon, Mordan, at the front of the long caravan, sounded a deep, undulating signal on a ram’s horn that soared over the fields and meadows and swept through the empty buildings of Stonehelm. The Clan priests and priestesses gathered together with Valorian to call on the gods for protection and goodwill.
When the prayers were finished, Valorian stepped forward, raised his arms to the sun, and cried, “Amara, Mother of All, lead us into the hills with your truth and your light. Guide us on the path of our destiny.”
Every clansperson’s eye automatically lifted to scan the sky or the horizon for some omen that the gods were listening. Every breath was held, and the only movements in the caravan were the restless shifting of animals.
Then the omen came on the wings of a pair of rare golden eagles—the birds of Surgart, the color of Amara. They came from the west and slowly soared on the upper air currents until they were over the line of wagons. The two birds flew lazily side by side, their gleaming heads seeming to look down on the people below. In unison, the birds wheeled over the procession of carts, wagons, packhorses, and herds. When they reached Valorian, they seemed to swoop lower to let the light of their wings shine upon his, face. Finally the eagles turned south, and the clanspeople watched them until the pair vanished in the distance.
“The gods have sent their oracles to point the way!” a priest shouted into the awed silence. An uproar of cheering, whistling, and shouting broke loose from the entire Clan.
In the next moment, whips cracked, reins popped, horses neighed; gradually the train of animals and vehicles began to move. They headed south after the eagles, slowly at first, then faster as the people and the animals settled into a steady pace.
Valorian had long before decided what path they would take, should the Clan ever decide to leave, so he and a group of armed warriors rode to the front of the caravan and led the long string of herds and wagons deeper into the Bloodiron Hills. He knew it would have been easier to take the Clan to the flatter lowlands and skirt the foothills, but the Tarns would expect that and search for them there. By using the rougher, lesser known paths, the caravan would move slower, but they would stand a greater chance of evading Tyrranis and his soldiers.
As the wagons one by one crested a ridge and Stonehelm fell behind, it seemed every person turned to take one last look at the abandoned town and the large blackened spot in its center where Lord Fearral and his men rested in the ashes. In the rear guard, Aiden, too, paused to bid a silent farewell. Wordlessly he raised his hand to salute his dead chieftain. Without a regret, he turned his back on the forlorn town and followed his new chief over the ridge toward a future known only to the gods.
A haze of thickening clouds obscured the sun two days later when General Tyrranis led his mounted soldiers up the road toward Stonehelm. They made no effort to hide their approach, trotting in fully armed ranks up the hills to the town. Some resistance from the clanspeople was expected but not enough to worry the Tarnish troops, who had superior arms, training, and numbers.
What worried the soldiers more was their leader. After summarily nailing the garrison commander to the city wall by his hands and feet for his abysmal failure to prevent the Clan raid, General Tyrranis had taken over direct command of the troops himself. Before roll call the day before, he had made a vitriolic speech to the regular troops and the new draftees, telling them that they were charged with the duty of washing the hills with Clan blood. Not a single clansperson of any age was to be spared anywhere in Chadar.
Some of the men didn’t like the idea of slaughtering innocent women, children or elders, but no one could look into the brutally cold darkness of Tyrranis’s eyes and suggest otherwise. They would rather face a cornered pack of clansmen or a murdered pile of corpses than draw the attention of his merciless fury.
The troops were silent as they rode, unchallenged, into Stonehelm. Their eyes flicked nervously from the empty, abandoned buildings to their general’s face, and they waited in ranks, holding their breath for his reaction.
Tyrranis said nothing at first. Irritably he looked over the burned ruins of Fearral’s hall, the lifeless paths, and the empty corrals before reining his horse around. He rode to the gate of the palisade, pulled off his helmet, and studied the churned-up fields below. His skin seemed to tighten across his hard face as his mouth tightened into a grimace of anger.
“So,” he murmured under his breath like the hiss of a snake, “the quarry has flown.” With his eyes, he followed the the trail of hoof prints and wagon ruts leading out of the valley. “No matter. They cannot go far.”
A sudden, violent feeling of hatred and rage stabbed through his self-control at the thought of Valorian and his people. Never in his successful and perfectly ordered career had Tyrranis ever been so deceived and humiliated. A worthless clansman had tricked him and ruined his prestige throughout the provinces. When word of this got back to Tarnow and the emperor’s ears, his reputation could well be stained beyond redemption. He would never be able to gather the support and funds necessary for his bid for the throne.
His only hope of repairing the damage and taking his revenge for this insult dealt to his self-respect was to slaughter the clanspeople to a man. They were useless anyway; their tribute was pitiful, and their horses could survive just as well without them. Only their deaths had any value now.
Tyrranis’s hands tightened unconsciously on the reins and until his horse jigged its head in pain and shied sideways to escape the brutal pressure on the bit in its mouth. The general angrily lashed it to a trembling standstill. When the horse was quiet again, Tyrranis slowly forced his emotions back under control. Fury and hatred were exhausting if allowed to burn freely. He would save his strength for the day that his troops cornered Valorian and the people who followed him; then he would release his rage and cool it in Clan blood. Only Valorian would live, just long enough to impart the secret of his magic. Tyrranis had no idea how Valorian had suffered through the night of torture without revealing his power, but the general swore that wouldn’t happen again. If he had to tear apart every member of Valorian’s family with his bare hands to get the man’s secret of magic, he was prepared to do so.
“Maxum Lucius!” he snapped.
The man now second-in-command of the Actigorium garrison rode forward hurriedly and saluted.
“Raze this pitiful village to the ground. I want nothing left of it!” ordered the general. “Then dispatch scouts to all known Clan camps. Search every hiding place in these hills until you find those people. The rest of the force will come with me to follow their trail.” His eyes suddenly narrowed, and the veins bulged dangerously in his neck. “If any those clanspeople escape, I will personally send you to copper mines of Scartha. I will not tolerate any more incompetence. Is that understood?”