Athlone glanced apologetically at Gabria before jerking his head to Sayyed. The two men slid off their Hunnuli and followed the fuming commander. Five guards fell in behind them and followed them into the heart of the camp to the Shar-Yon’s large tent.
On the riverbank, Gabria, Kelene, and Rafnir waited in growing impatience. The rain soaked them quickly in a cold, drenching downpour, and the Turic guards made no move to offer them shelter. The guardsmen simply stared balefully at them and kept their spears lowered. A long time passed before Athlone and Sayyed came trudging down the slope to rejoin them.
Both men were speechless with anger and frustration. Curtly they took leave of the Turics, remounted their Hunnuli, and trotted down to the ford. Kelene, Gabria, and Rafnir traded glances, but they would not ask any questions until Athlone was ready to talk. They fell in behind and thankfully recrossed the river.
As soon as they reached the opposite bank, Gaalney, Morad, and several chiefs came running to meet them. Athlone spoke a vehement curse and slid off Eurus. His anger smoldered in his movements and in his words. “The Shar-Yon is dead,” he told the listening people.
“How did it happen?” Rafnir demanded.
The reply came hard and dagger-sharp. “The Turics think we did it.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Fiergan snarled. “They can’t think we’re that stupid. That boy’s the best thing they have.”
Rafnir looked searchingly at his father-in-law. “Something made them think it was us. What was it?”
Athlone clenched his fists as if he were trying to crush his impotent wrath. “Oh. there was something all right. Something only seven of us here can use. Sorcery. The Shar-Yon was killed by the Trymmian force.”
“Bad news comes in threes,” the clanspeople often said, and the second piece of ill-tidings came at dawn on a frigid wind from the north. The temperatures, which had been falling steadily throughout the night, took a plunge, and the rain gradually slowed to a heavy drizzle and began to freeze. The sunrise came reluctantly, lightening the darkness to a gloomy morning heavily cloaked in cloud and mist that showed no signs of thawing the building ice.
The clansmen cursed and struggled against the freezing sleet to reinforce their tents, bring the horses into shelters hurriedly erected in the lee of the tents, and gather up any firewood that was not already encrusted in sheets of ice. Ice storms were rare on the northern plains, which made them that much more dangerous, and the clanspeople hated them almost more than the blinding blizzards that often swept the grasslands.
Across the river there seemed to be a furious swarm of activity in the Turic camp. Tents were coming down, wagons were being loaded, and horses were being saddled in spite of the weather. A constant, heavy guard patrolled the banks, and no one would answer Lord Athlone’s frequent requests to meet with the Shar-Ja or any of his counselors.
The chiefs, meanwhile, tried to solve the mystery of the young Shar-Yon’s death. He had been, Athlone reported, burned almost beyond recognition by a blast of the Trymmian Force, a power used only by magic-wielders.
“But that’s impossible,” Rafnir said for the third time. “We were all in our tents. Gaalney and Morad have witnesses to their whereabouts, Father was on watch, and the four of us were asleep.”
The other chiefs, who had crowded into Athlone’s spacious tent for a quick council, looked at one another in grim confusion. There were only seven known magic-wielders in their midst. Three of them had excellent alibis and the other four, while not necessarily witnessed by other clan members to be in their tents, were too well-known to be conceivable murderers.
“That leaves two possibilities,” said Athlone. “There is either a clansman with the talent to wield magic whom we have not yet detected, or there is one we do know who is hiding close by.”
Sayyed glanced up, his eyes unreadable in the dim light. “There is one other possibility, my lord.” He paused and held up his own hands. “Another Turic half-breed with clan blood.”
“Now how could any untrained Turic use the Trymmian force to kill?” Lord Terod wanted to know. Terod, chief of Clan Amnok, had no magic-wielders in his clan and little practical knowledge of magic.
Lord Sha Tajan of Clan Jehanan, on the other hand, knew sorcery well. “The Trymmian force is easy to use, especially during a thunderstorm. It wouldn’t take much skill to blast the unprotected Shar-Yon.”
“There certainly wasn’t much skill involved,” Athlone growled. He remembered the seared corpse vividly. “Bashan was struck by an uncontrolled blow.”
“Then, too, there is the question of why,” said Bendinor the Dangari. Like most of his clan, he had a blue-dotted design tattooed along his forehead and down his left cheek. Unconsciously he rubbed at the dots as he deliberated aloud.
“We have no real motive to dispose of the most capable son the Shar-Ja has; that would be harmful to our own cause. But what if Sayyed is right? What if there is a Turic with enough talent to wield the Trymmian force and enough ambition to use it? Why kill the heir? Why make it look as if we did it? Perhaps someone wants to interrupt succession to the high throne, cause further trouble with the clans, or open the way for a new leader.”
“The Fel Azureth have been threatening to do that for almost a year,” Lord Athlone pointed out. “Maybe they found a way.”
“So what do we do?” Rafnir grumbled. “We’re in the middle of an ice storm, the Turics are preparing to leave without the treaty, the Shar-Ja won’t speak with us, and the Turic nobles think we killed their heir.”
“Short of attacking their camp and forcing our way in to the Shar-Ja’s presence, the only thing we can do is keep trying to talk to someone in authority and make them see reason,” suggested Bendinor reluctantly.
Cursing at the sleet, the ten chieftains, Sayyed, and Peoren mounted their horses, called the hearthguard warriors, and rode to the river ford. The Altai ran fast and turgid, swollen by the earlier rains. The ford was still serviceable, but the clansmen rode warily across, watchful of the current that now reached their legs.
On the southern bank, the tribal guards eyed the riders suspiciously and stood in ranks across the road with their hands on their sword hilts. A row of archers stood in the line of trees by the bank and held their crossbows ready to fire at a second’s notice. The Turics waited silently while the clansmen drew to a halt at the water’s edge.
This time the Lords Fiergan and Sha Tajan approached the guard together. The big, red-headed Reidhar and the tall, cool-eyed Jehanan presented an attitude of determined commitment as they spoke to the guards’ commander.
This man was a different officer from the belligerent one of the night before, and though he gave no orders to move his ranks, he sent a man to deliver the chieftains’ message.
With nowhere else to go, the clansmen sat on their restive horses and waited impatiently in the steady, freezing drizzle. They drew their hoods low over their faces, but it did not seem to do much good. The wet sleet soaked through their cloaks to their clothes, trickled down their boots, and spattered on their hands and faces until all but the sorcerers were chilled and miserable. Athlone, Sayyed, and Rafnir were slightly drier and warmer from the vibrant, glowing warmth exuded by their big Hunnuli.
Finally a lone figure followed by a large and shaggy brown dog wandered down the path to the guard post. The person looked like a boy of twelve or thirteen, well dressed and fine-featured, with thick black hair and an irrepressible grin. He greeted the commander of the guards with cheery enthusiasm. The officer saluted him peremptorily and promptly ignored him.
Undaunted, the boy patted his dog and studied the uncomfortable chieftains for a moment; then he called, “Hello!” in a merry voice.
Sayyed lifted his head, surprised that the boy spoke Clannish. He glanced at Athlone, who gave a nod, and returned the greeting in Turic.