Valorian hesitated for the space of a breath. He didn’t know Amara had allowed his talent to be passed on to his children. Was the gorthling right? Could it possibly place a curse on his descendants?
Then the air began to tingle on his skin and in his lungs from a new charge of lightning that was building in the clouds. It was now or never. The chieftain shut out the gorthling’s screaming voice and its imprecations and set his spell in motion. Let the future happen as it will, the gorthling had to return to Gormoth.
A split second later the energies within the turbulent storm instantly fused into a brilliant white streak that was hotter than the sun and faster than the eye could follow. It arced down through the black sky like a spear thrown from the hand of the god Surgart and was caught by the magic of the clansman. In one swift, smooth motion, he pulled the bolt into his right hand. He felt its searing power rage through him to Hunnul and safely into the ground, and only then did he know that Hunnul was right.
Triumphantly he channeled his spell into the furious energy of the lightning and threw the bolt with all his might at the cowering gorthling. There was a tremendous explosion of sparks and light, a howl of rage and despair, and a deafening crack of thunder that shook the hills. Almost simultaneously the backlash slammed into Hunnul and the foals, sending them staggering. Valorian was thrown sideways, and before he could catch himself, he fell from the stallion’s back. His head struck a rock, and the night, the horses, and the storm disappeared into black oblivion.
Gylden found him the next morning lying in the wet grass with blood on the side of his head and Hunnul standing over him. Gently his friend roused him and lifted his head to offer him a sip of Mother Willa’s herbal drink from a small waterskin.
Valorian drank gratefully. Groaning, he sat up and put his pounding head in his hands. He knew the gorthling was gone without even asking or looking; he could feel its absence in every fiber of his body. Without the gorthling to feed his power, the effects of his constant use of magic had taken their toll. Every muscle ached, his limbs were sore, and he felt completely and utterly exhausted. His head throbbed with each heartbeat, and he was soaked from head to toe. He wasn’t sure he could even walk, he felt so tired.
A soft muzzle touched his arm, and he cocked an eye sideways to see one of the older Hunnul foals peering at him with obvious concern.
Gylden scratched the little fellow fondly. “I don’t know what you’re doing up here,” he said to Valorian, “but the foals were awfully worried about you. They brought me, to find you.” When Valorian didn’t answer, he sat down beside his friend to wait for the medicinal drink to take effect.
It was a glorious morning, fresh and cool, with a light breeze and a sky of perfect blue. Before long the sunshine, the drink, and the realization of his victory brought strength pumping back into the chieftain’s mind and body.
It was over. The struggle to unite the Clan, the long journey through Chadar and Sarcithia, the race for survival, the battle against the Tarns, and the summoning of the gorthling. It was all finished. The gorthling was banished. Valorian had lost his armband, too, but he was sure Kierla would understand. The Tarns were defeated. Now the Clan faced a new beginning. Valorian wasn’t foolish enough to believe the path would be easy, but from this day forward, anything the Clan did, they did for themselves. The thought was euphoric.
He hauled himself to his feet, clasped Gylden’s hand in thanks, and walked slowly down the hill with the black stallion at his side.
The moon was new and the summer had well begun by the time the Clan left the meadow for the final trek to the top of Wolfeared Pass. They left behind a large mound crowned with spears and flowers, where almost two hundred of their people lay. With them went several wagonloads of wounded still too hurt to ride, a horse herd nearly doubled in size, and almost one hundred black Hunnul foals. Safely hidden in the dark, warm wombs of the brood mares were nearly a hundred more. The black stallion’s dynasty was well begun.
A light of joy mingled with sadness glowed on the faces of the clanspeople as they climbed higher into the mountains. The peaks, gleaming with snow, reared above them, and a sharp alpine scent filled their nostrils. They crossed the pass in the late afternoon, and everyone from the youngest to the oldest stared at the hazy, purplish land to the east where they would build a new home.
Valorian deliberately chose to be the last clansman over the pass. He brought Hunnul to a stop on the highest point of the stony trail and watched the last wagon, several riders, and the warriors of the rear guard pass by him and move on down the trail toward a broad, flat plateau where the Clan was setting camp for the night.
He couldn’t have described his feelings to anyone at that moment if he had tried. His entire being was a jumble of memories, dreams, and emotions that washed through him in an uncontrollable flood. Foremost, he decided, was gratitude to the Mother Goddess. Without Amara, they would still be scratching out a bare survival in Chadar.
The memory of his discovery of the stone temple on the mountain peak far to the north brightened in his mind, and he suddenly decided that the Clan would begin to leave their own legacy here and now. They would build a monument of their own to Amara, a symbol of their journey and their gratitude that would remain for generations to come.
Perhaps down there on the wide plateau would be a good place.
At that moment, a soft wind blew up around him, lifting Hunnul’s mane and tugging at Valorian’s clothes. It bore a fragrance of incredible delicacy and sweetness that Valorian had only smelled once before in his existence. The flower that shattered the stone. The power of life.
“Amara,” he breathed.
The wind wafted past, tickling his face. He felt the same feeling of comfort and familiarity that had nurtured him previously in Amara’s presence, and he looked around, trying to see her.
Hunnul tossed his head, neighing a welcome.
You have done well, my son, the wind whispered in his ear.
“Because of you,” Valorian replied.
The voice laughed like a breeze dancing through leaves. I gave you the tools; it was you who put them to use.
The man felt himself grow warm from the goddess’s praise, but there was still something he had to know. “Is it true,” he asked, “that you have given this talent to my son?”
To all of them. And to their children after them.
Unfamiliar tears sprang to Valorian’s eyes. The goddess had entrusted him with a great gift, and he had ruined it with his weakness and stupidity. “Then the gorthling was right,” he murmured.
Yes, my son, and his curse cannot be revoked, for it was spoken by an immortal. But I will give you this promise: Not all of your blood will be destroyed. A few I can save, and ; when the time is right, they will return your gift to the Clans.
He hung his head and whispered, “Thank you.”
In a sudden, gusty twirl, the wind whisked away with its fragrance and its comfort, leaving Valorian and Hunnul alone on the pass.
The chieftain raised his fist in farewell, then he and the black stallion left the Tarnish Empire behind forever and walked the path to join the Clan.
Epilogue
The last word of Gabria’s tale fell softly away into silence. Gently she touched the cheek of the golden mask on her lap and looked up at her audience. The tale had taken several hours in telling, but everyone was watching her in rapt attention, the spell of her story still coloring their imaginations. A few people began to stir and stretch. They blinked, and soft voices spoke into the quiet.
Yet one person was staring at her as if he realized a truth he had known but never believed until that moment.