Valorian cautiously touched the arrow shaft and turned it to mist before the sarturian’s astonished eyes. “That’s for the reprieve you gave me that night.” He twisted his mouth into a wry smile. “And for the information.”
The soldier grimaced at the memory. “If you’re still going to the Ramtharin Plains, you’re making a mistake. Your people will probably starve by winter.”
“It couldn’t be any worse than the Bloodiron Hills,” Valorian replied. He helped the sarturian to his feet and gestured to two other Tarns who were shuffling down toward the river. “Take him with you,” he ordered.
Aiden tilted his head to watch the Tarns hobble away. “He’ll never take a meal from a clansman again.”
“Not if I can help it,” Valorian said with hearty satisfaction. He was turning to mount Hunnul again when Aiden put a hand on his arm.
“Please, when you have a chance, will you find Linna and tell her I am well?”
The raw note of worry in his voice matched the same concern in Valorian. As chieftain, Valorian’s first responsibility was to his people. He knew, though, that he couldn’t give them his full effort until he had learned the fate of the rest of his family. He returned his brother’s clasp and jumped onto Hunnul to go on with his difficult duties.
He left Aiden busily organizing the able-bodied to bring in the wounded, find the Clan healers, and set up a makeshift shelter. Slowly he made his way down the jumbled line answering a myriad of questions, organizing people to help with the most pressing problems, finding boys to round up the livestock, and helping the wounded whenever he could.
He found Mordan still in the wagon, half-buried under the body of a dead Tarn. He despaired for the warrior’s life, until he hauled the body off and saw Mordan clutching his bloody dagger. The guardsman gave him a grateful smile.
“Have you been busy?” Valorian asked, relieved.
Mordan nodded once. “That Tarn thought I looked like easy prey. But even wounded, I’m still a match for one of them,” he replied hoarsely.
Valorian gestured to several men who came and lifted Mordan out of the wagon and carried him to the grove of trees.
The chief hurried on from one emergency or disaster to the next, lending his calm strength, optimism, and his enhanced magic wherever he could. There were many wounded among the clanspeople and more dead than he wanted to find. No age or group had been spared; men, women, and children had fallen to the merciless attack.
All of the Clan families had suffered casualties, but it wasn’t until Valorian reached the section of the caravan where his own family had been traveling that the toll of the dead sank in hard. Quiet, loyal Ranulf would never go beyond the pass he had found, for he had died defending his sisters. Other relatives were also dead or dying, and more were hurt. They cried out to him as he approached, and even though he wanted to help, his eyes could only search the wreckage of carts and the confusion of horses and people for the four faces he desperately wanted to see most.
Then a voice called out to him over the hubbub. “Valorian! We’re over here!”
He nearly threw himself off Hunnul to reach the speaker. Kierla ran through the carts to meet him, her dark hair loose and flying, her body sound and strong. She flung her arms around him, buried her face in his neck, and cried in joy.
Valorian was beyond words. He merely held her tightly while his heart sang a prayer of gratitude.
“We saw you go by,” Kierla said between tears and laughter. “That was quite a cavalry you found. ”
“Not bad for a thick-witted mortal,” the gorthling said, sneering. “Wait till you see what he can do when I give him some real training.”
Kierla sucked in a sharp breath and stepped back; her eyebrows shot up over her widened eyes. She hadn’t seen the gorthling until that moment.
“I’ll tell you later,” Valorian said hastily. “Are Linna, Mother Willa, and the baby safe?”
Kierla looked dubiously at the gorthling before answering. “Yes, they’re all right. Mother Willa made us cut the traces and turn our cart over. We crawled underneath it just before the soldiers reached us.”
“And that’s not all,” Mother Willa added. Valorian’s grandmother and Linna, carrying the baby, came up to them. Mother Willa went on. “Kierla stabbed a Tarn in the leg when he tried to push the cart over.”
The chief smiled at his wife. “The four of you seem to have handled things well.”
“We were lucky,” she answered and pushed her hair back out of her eyes with a sharp, tense gesture. “If you hadn’t come when you did, there wouldn’t have been much left.”
Linna agreed, her fair face still shadowed with the memory of fear. Then she added, “I didn’t see Aiden with you. Is he. . .” She couldn’t finish the words.
“He’s alive. He has a wounded leg, but it’s nothing serious. He’s over by those trees, helping the wounded.”
“Then that is where I will be,” Linna said firmly. She passed Khulinar over to Kierla.
Valorian hugged her in thanks. He knew with Linna there, Aiden wouldn’t be able to overexert himself. “Take Mother Willa with you. They need all the healers who can help.” When Linna was gone, Valorian kissed his wife soundly on the lips and forced himself to stand back. “Will you. . .” he began to say.
Kierla knew immediately what he was going to say and interrupted him. “We will be fine. Go! I will help here.” She recognized as well as he the responsibilities of a Clan chieftain, and she gave him a gentle push.
By nightfall, some semblance of order had been restored in the valley meadow. The Tarns had marched down the valley just before sunset in sullen, silent ranks. Valorian had allowed them to bring in their teams and provision wagons to haul away their dead and wounded—as long as they left half of their foodstuff..., and medical supplies behind. The clanspeople stopped what they were doing to watch the legion fall back, for it was a .sight no one had ever expected to see. When the last file faded down the trail into the twilight, the people burst out with a cheer that followed the Tarns far down the trail.
For the first time in three generations, the clanspeople were free to go, and they were jubilant.
Meanwhile, the survivors began to set up a camp of sorts beside the river. Gylden and some of the older boys, with the help of Hunnul, rounded up most of the loose horses and were slowly gathering in the scattered livestock. The dead clanspeople were placed in covered rows to be readied for burial, and a guard of honor was stationed to protect them from scavengers. The injured were lovingly tended in the shady grove; the able-bodied were fed. One by one, the young and the old put aside their grief, joy, gratitude, and pain and fell into deep, exhausted sleep.
Only Valorian could not find the rest he dearly needed. He still had to dispose of one small, tenacious problem. When the makeshift camp seemed quiet and a nearly full moon had risen, he rode Hunnul up the steep slopes to the top of a distant hill. The night was warm and muggy and undisturbed by any breeze. Far to the east, on the other side of the peaks, clouds obscured the stars, and a faint flicker of sheet lightning outlined the edges of the mountains.
Valorian paid little attention to the land around him. He simply stared for a long time over the scattered campfires in the dark camp below while the gorthling swayed soothingly on his shoulder.
Now that he had a chance to try sending the gorthling back, a strange reluctance overcame him, as intense as the hatred that had dogged him earlier. He knew he couldn’t leave this evil creature in the mortal world; every sentient particle of his soul believed it would be hideously dangerous and wrong. The gorthling belonged in Gormoth.
But he really didn’t know how to send it or take it back, and his mind was too tired to think. The effort would be so difficult. Maybe he could do this later.