The gorthling chuckled in anticipation.
Suddenly Valorian’s hand clamped down on his knee. He shoved his sword back in the scabbard, and with every ounce of his willpower forced his hatred deep down out of sight in the most hidden chambers of his heart. How could he even think of abusing Amara’s gift by slaughtering men who had already surrendered? Or breaking his vow before his people? It would have been a heinous thing to do, something better suited to a gorthling.
He cast a speculative look at the little beast on his shoulder. Valorian knew he wasn’t so easily overcome by his own emotions. Could this creature somehow be influencing his thoughts? If that was so, he thought, he had better get rid of it as soon as possible.
“Keep quiet,” he told the gorthling harshly. It subsided temporarily and hid behind Valorian’s back again.
The chieftain spoke another command, and the clansmen around the Tarnish prisoners lowered their swords. Hunnul walked over to the small group where Lord Valorian relieved the standard bearer of the XIIth Legion’s gilded eagle standard. He turned to face the Clan and held the tall standard high to catch the afternoon sun.
A loud cheer rose from the gathered Clan. It grew louder as the people began to realize that the danger from the Tarns was over and, in a stunning victory that boggled the imagination, the soldiers had become their prisoners.
General Sarjas glanced at the noisy caravan and back to the silent ranks of warriors behind the Clan chieftain. His brows knotted together. “Lord Valorian,” he finally asked, puzzled, “where were your other men hiding? We saw no sign of another troop of warriors before the battle.”
Valorian’s face slowly broke open in a wide grin. With a dramatic snap of his fingers and a muttered command, the images of the warriors vanished, leaving the chieftain with only his battered, smiling rear guard. “What men?” he asked.
The Tarns stared, unbelieving, at the empty field. General Sarjas swallowed hard. How was he going to explain this to the emperor?
Valorian’s grin faded and he turned brusque. It was time to get back to the Clan. “General, we are going to Ramtharin Plains as we had planned. If you leave your weapons and horses here, you and your men may leave I peacefully. If you do not, we will keep this man as a hostage,” and he pointed to Antonine. He still wasn’t certain who the soft-looking young official was, but he recognized the man’s ultimate authority over Sarjas.
The commander hesitated. To abandon their weapons and horses to the clanspeople was almost more than he could bear, but once again Antonine stepped in. “Do it, Sarjas! I’ll buy you new horses when we get out of this!”
Sarjas’s rough-hewn face was abruptly frozen by a powerful self-control. Tight-lipped, he dismounted and gestured to his men to do likewise. A Clan warrior came forward to take the reins of the seven horses.
Valorian was satisfied. He turned to Karez nearby and said, “Make sure the word is spread. Have them leave their weapons here and picket their horses by the river. They can take their dead and wounded if they like.”
Karez nodded, rather surprised and pleased that Valorian would give him such an important task.
Then the chieftain turned back to the legion general and saluted him. “It is on your honor that the legion obeys the terms of surrender. Good day, sir.”
Sarjas returned his salute reluctantly, but with a measure of respect in the crispness of his motion. .
At Valorian’s touch, Hunnul trotted back across the field of grass toward the caravan. The chieftain groaned when he finally took a good look at the mass of carts, wagons, people, and animals. It was a shambles. There was so much to do he hardly knew where to begin. Wagons were tipped over, damaged, or jammed together; horses ran loose everywhere, and the herds of livestock were scattered all over the fields and slopes. Gear and belongings were strewn over the ground. People were milling around in confusion, and frantic children and dogs were scampering underfoot.
Worst of all were the dead and wounded lying scattered along the trail, in the grass, and among the wagons. Many of them were clanspeople, but they had defended themselves fiercely against the Tarns, leaving quite a few soldiers among the numbers of the dead. They would all have to be dealt with: the dead buried and the wounded tended. Valorian could see it was going to be a long and difficult task to get the Clan back on its feet.
He began at the first group of people he reached, where he found the survivors of the vanguard trying to help the wounded around them. The retreating Tarns had actually saved the remnants of the vanguard when they rushed through the head of the caravan by throwing the remaining Tarnish forces into chaos and distracting the vanguard’s attackers.
A jolt of relief hit Valorian when he saw Aiden sitting on a rock, feebly wrapping a rag around a bad slash on his leg. “Thank the gods,” Valorian muttered fervently. His parents would have to wait awhile longer to see either one of them in the realm of the dead. He slid off Hunnul to help.
Aiden’s normally cheerful grin and snapping eyes were dulled with pain and exhaustion, but the spark wasn’t out entirely. The corners of his mouth turned up to greet Valorian, and his grip was strong on his brother’s arm. He was about to say something when he saw the gorthling peeking over Valorian’s shoulder and recoiled in disgust.
The creature snarled at him.
“Ignore it. It will be leaving soon,” Valorian said.
“That’s what you think,” hissed the gorthling.
Aiden looked disgusted and puzzled, but then a comprehending light came over his expression. “Is that how you did it? You used a gorthling to enhance your power?” Valorian nodded. “Gods above! You’ll have to tell me how you pulled that one off.”
“Another time,” the chieftain said, taking the rags from Aiden’s fingers, transforming them to clean strips, and wrapping them carefully around the wound. “You rest now.”
Aiden pulled himself to his feet. “Oh, no. There’s work to be done. I’ll rest later.”
“You need a healer,” Valorian protested.
“Then find one. And while you’re looking, I’ll get the wounded set up over there.” He pointed to a fairly smooth place under a cluster of trees by the river.
The chieftain frowned at his brother and reluctantly acquiesced. Short of tying Aiden down, there would be no stopping him, and. the Clan needed all the help it could get.
“What do we do about the Tarnish wounded?” Aiden asked, looking at the bodies lying around them.
Valorian felt the gorthling stir and its claws pinch at his skin through the fabric of his tunic. It hissed softly in his ear. The hatred he thought he had buried suddenly rose again to choke him in thick, viscid clots, and he almost told Aiden to slit their throats. The intensity of the feeling shook him badly—he wasn’t used to such powerful emotions. Was the gorthling doing this to him? He fought the feeling down again and said instead, “Take them to their officers. They can take care of their own better than we can.”
Before he could go on, a strange voice said bitterly behind him, “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”
Valorian whirled, drawing his sword, and scanned the people nearby. At first glance, he saw only the Clan warriors moving around to check the bodies. Then a Tarnish soldier lying close by moved in the dust. Painfully the man hauled himself to a sitting position and glared at the two clansmen. It took Valorian only a moment to see through the blood and the dirt to the man’s face and insignia. He recalled the night a year ago when he had last seen this man in a wet, dark clearing with four other hungry Tarns.
“Sarturian,” he said, sheathing his sword, “your chance is gone, but all of you seemed to enjoy the deer.” He knelt down beside the older man and examined the bloody wound beneath the soldier’s ribs.
The sarturian glared helplessly at him. Although he had been struck by a Clan arrow in the side and suffered cuts and bruises, he didn’t appear to be in danger of dying. He was panting, though, and in great pain.