City of Sorcerers (22 page)

The big black made one last valiant plunge into the ruined gateway and wheeled to a stop within the stone walls. There Afer paused, and he and Sayyed faced the apparition on the other side of the entrance. The white cat, who was clinging to the saddle pad and packs behind Sayyed, poked her head around his side and spat at the dead priest.

The warrior raised his hand. "Come no farther, priest," he commanded. "You do not belong here!"

The wraith hesitated, his glowing eyes staring at the high gateway. A flash of doubt crossed his enraged face as if he had seen those gates before. But the doubt was gone in a flash of arrogance and scorn, and he laughed out loud. "Neither do you, sorcerer. Your ways are dead." He kicked his mount forward.

The clanspeople tensed, ready to come to Sayyed's aid. Sayyed did not move. He was too weary to run any longer and too angry to try. If the wraith wanted to enter Moy Tura to fight the magic-wielders, he would have to get past him. He watched coolly as the grotesque horse came closer and closer. The wraith's phosphorescent outline gleamed with a sickening hue in the dark twilight; the stench of death saturated the air.

Sayyed felt his guts twist as the wraith came within two paces of the gate. His warrior's instincts brought his hand to the hilt of his sword. Although he doubted the blade would help him against this fearsome apparition, the familiar grip of the leather-bound hilt felt comforting in his hand. He was about to unsheathe it when the dead Hunnuli stopped.

It was almost nose to nose with Afer, but it could not seem to come any closer.

The wraith shouted furiously and leaped off the Hunnuli, letting the dead horse collapse back to the ground in a heap. On foot, the apparition lunged at Sayyed and was brought up short by some unseen power.

Sayyed raised his head to the thick stone roof of the gateway and silently breathed a prayer of thanks to Amara and to the ancient builders of Moy Turn. Some of the old wards of the city were still intact.

Screeching with rage, the wraith tried again and again to force his way into the entrance, only to be thrown back every time. The old wards were as powerful as the wards that had guarded his tomb; he could not overwhelm them.

Finally he stood back and glared balefully at Sayyed. "So. Not all of the magic was destroyed. No matter. You are trapped." His expression shifted to one of gloating contempt.

"I have been watching you, magic-wielder. I know you are here to seek help for your dying people. But you won't find it in this dead shell! Soon you will have to leave. ". . and I will be waiting." He turned on his heel and strode into the night.

The clanspeople stayed still until the red phosphorescence of the wraith's robes disappeared in the dark. Then Sayyed's hand fell from his sword. That slight movement was like a signal that broke the tension. The younger people gathered around the warrior and Afer, talking all at once in loud, excited voices until their leader held up his hand. For the first time in days, he gave them a weary smile. "Let's find a place to rest," he suggested.

They were very willing to do that and were just turning back into the city when a deep roar echoed in the distance, the voice of a hunting lion.

"The Korg," Niela whispered.

Rafnir looked around at his companions' sooty faces and at the sweating, drooping Hunnuli. "I think we just jumped out of the fire into the cooking pot," he said.

CHAPTER NINE

The clanspeople went no farther that night. They found shelter in the ground-floor room of a tumbled-down tower beside the old city wall and made camp as best they could. No fire was lit and no one spoke above a whisper for fear of attracting the guardian lion of Moy Tura.

Sayyed was the only one of the group, and one of only three people still alive in the clans, who had ever seen the Korg. Nevertheless, he did not need to impress a sense of caution and danger on his companions. They had all heard the legends of the Korg and listened to the tales of Gabria's journey through Moy Tura over twenty years before. They knew the huge stone lion defended the ruins against any intruders and would kill as mercilessly as any real lion.

With the wraith outside the walls and the Korg prowling somewhere in the ruins, the travelers felt like rabbits trapped between a hawk and a fox. Still, they were grateful for the shelter and the chance to rest. Each Hunnuli and rider took a turn at standing watch while the others slept. For the first time in three nights they were able to sleep long and well without terrors stalking their dreams.

Daylight was streaming through broken timbers in the roof when Sayyed came slowly awake to find a warm, rough tongue licking his cheek. He felt a soft weight standing on his chest, and paws that gently kneaded his neck.

Get up,
the white cat insisted noisily
. You are awake, and I am hungry.

He cracked an eye and saw her golden orbs staring at him intently. "Did you ever have a name?" he whispered, speaking more to himself than the cat. Tam had always felt an animal should name itself, but she had not had enough time to learn her cat's name, and Sayyed had not thought about it until that moment.

The cat tilted her head and meowed.
Name? No name yet. I am she who walks
with the moon. I am Tam's friend. I am Sayyed's friend.
Afer stuck his nose close and gently nudged her. She swatted at the big horse, knocking herself down and rolling over on Sayyed's face.
I am Afer's friend, too,
she growled playfully.

Sayyed plucked the cat off his head and sat up. "Do you want a name? You have certainly earned one."

Like a weasel, she slipped from his grasp and sat down on the ground, her regal eyes unblinking.
l will think about it.

"Good. Meanwhile, we must get to work," The warrior climbed to his feet and roused the others. Savaron was already outside, keeping a watch for unwelcome intruders. The rest of the party stretched and yawned their way to their feet. As quietly as possible, they ate some trail bread, cheese, and dried fruit, then readied themselves to begin the search for the healers' records.

When they were set to go, Sayyed picked up a broken stick and began to sketch in the dust. "This is just a rough map of the city, since the last time I was here I was only trying to get out. From what I remember, the city was built like a twelve sided geometric shape with four gateways, one here in the south and three more to the west, north, and east." He pointed his stick at each place and drew lines from the gates to the middle of his map. "These broad streets go straight from the entrances to the center of the city. We know this area must have been the heart of Moy Tura, since the Sorcerers' Hall and a large temple are there. That's a good place to begin."

Niela asked, "What exactly are we looking for?"

"Anything that could be connected to healing. Look for places where the healers might have stored records, for libraries, houses of healing, shops that sold herbs, or even burial places. Use your eyes and your imaginations, Don't disregard anything that catches your attention," Sayyed ran his fingers over his bearded chin and looked at each face in turn. "We'll start at the center and work our way out. I don't need to tell you the Korg is dangerous. Just be alert. If we get separated, meet back here," he finished.

The others nodded, their expressions a blend of nervousness, apprehension, and excitement. They tied strips of cloth around the horses' hooves to muffle the sound of their movements on the stone streets and removed any metal objects on their persons that could jingle or rattle. When everyone was finished, they rode from the tower room in single file.

The sun was well up as they gathered by the shattered gate. The light gleamed on the stones and filled the ruins with bright heat. A flawless sky soared overhead, and the wind was breathlessly still. Other than the dead Hunnuli still lying by the gate, there was no sign of the wraith, and no evidence of the Korg, either. The city was eerily silent.

The Hunnuli left the shadow of the city wall and walked out onto the wide, rubble-strewn road that led into the heart of the city. For once the white cat did not ride with Sayyed but trotted ahead of the horses, her tail held high.

For a long while it was a very quiet group that rode through the ruins, their eyes wide with awe and curiosity. They stared at the remnants of what had once been the most beautiful city on the Ramtharin Plains.

Built by the clan sorcerers over three hundred years ago, Moy Tura had been the epitome of their skill and love of beauty. Within its walls had lived the finest of the clan magic-wielders: the teachers and apprentices, the healers, the shapeshifters, craftsmen, and the all-powerful Council of Twelve. They had loved their city so well, they had introverted themselves in its isolated beauty. They never recognized their own clans' distrust, envy, and hate until it was too late.

Through treachery and betrayal, an army of clansmen broached the city's defenses and took Moy Tura by storm. The army slaughtered almost all of the inhabitants, plundered the city, and razed the buildings so Moy Tura would never be used again. After that, they marched on the summer gathering and massacred every known magic-wielder in the clans.

What became known as the Purge proved horribly effective. Only a few magic-wielders escaped death by fleeing the Ramtharin Plains or going into hiding. Magic became reviled and despised, sorcery was forbidden on pain of death, and Moy Tura, the once glorious jewel of the plains, crumbled into dust and faded into legend. For two hundred years it had lain abandoned, shrouded in mystery and guarded only by a lonely stone lion.

Gabria and her companions had been there once, years before, on the trail of Lord Branth. Sayyed remembered that journey well. It was on that expedition that he had met Tam, learned to use his power, and found Afer. Moy Tura had been only a brief and terrifying stop on a long journey, but the memories of the place were burned indelibly into his mind.

He thought he would not be bothered by the emptiness and desolation, yet the old ruins touched him more poignantly than they had that morning so long ago. He stared as hard as his young companions at the piles of rubble covered in dust and clambering vines, at the weed-choked streets, the roofless towers, and the empty gaping windows.

He saw piles of broken statuary blotched with lichen, shattered fountains, and gardens long overgrown and filled with debris. The city looked so bleak and forlorn in the morning sun it made him heartsick, and he cursed the terrible waste of life, talent, and wisdom.

Behind him, the other magic-wielders were studying the ruins with mixed emotions. Morad saw only heaps of rocks and places where enemies could hide. Niela was ready to leave at her first chance. She had a cold, sick feeling about this place, and although she wouldn't speak of it, she was badly frightened. Savaron and Rafnir were curious, but they were too busy checking their surroundings to see beyond the narrow streets and the ruined buildings that crowded around them.

Only Kelene looked into her imagination and tried to see the city as it might have been---whole, clean, alive with people, crackling with the magical energy of hundreds of magic-wielders. It must have been lovely, she mused, before the gray and white granite buildings were torn down and covered with dust, before the flowers and gardens were trampled, before the streets ran with blood and became barren stream beds wending their way to extinction.

Sorrow tightened Kelene's throat with unshed tears. The images in her mind were so vivid, she stared around at the destruction, half expecting to see a face in one of the dark doorways or hear footsteps in an alley. But there was no life to see beyond a lizard that scuttled into a crevice and the flies that followed the Hunnuli. The emptiness hit her like a sharp ache.

Tears filled her eyes. Her feelings were startling in their intensity, for until this journey, she had never been deeply moved by the history of her people, especially the magic-wielders. Now she found herself mourning the murdered sorcerers and their families almost as deeply as she grieved for her brother. Blind and thoughtless to their clans though they might have been, they had not deserved their fate.

Kelene shook her head. This is ridiculous, she chided herself. Why should I weep for people whose bones have turned to dust, when my own family is dying two hundred leagues away? Her fingers clutched the gem on her tunic, and she remembered that in all the haste to reach Moy Tura, she had not checked on her mother in two days. Anything could have happened in that length of time. She promised herself to do it that night when she could concentrate on the stone in the peace and relative safety of their shelter.

The little party rode deeper into the vast ruins. They said nothing to each other since it seemed better to ride in quiet haste and start their search as soon as possible.

The silence around them was oppressive, the emptiness thoroughly depressing.

Clanspeople were accustomed to busy camps and open spaces; this dead city was almost intolerable.

They were all relieved when the Hunnuli came to a high stone wall with four arches opening into the spacious courtyard of a large temple. The temple, once a magnificent, multi-columned edifice, was now only a heap of old stone.

"I recognize this," Sayyed murmured. "We almost caught Branth here. The Sorcerers' Hall should be just beyond."

The Hunnuli picked their way around several piles of rubble, went past the stone wall, and walked into a wide, sunny square where the four main roads converged.

Two hundred years ago the square had probably been an open-air market and gathering place for the entire city. Its wide expanse had been skillfully paved with slabs of granite that had withstood years of trampling feet, wagon wheels, and horses'

hooves, only to be stained with blood and left to the mercy of sun and weather. The stones were pitted, cracked, and worn, but they were mute evidence to the love and labor of the artisans who had laid them.

"Look over there," Rafnir said softly, pointing to the center of the square. The others followed his gaze and saw a black obelisk topped by a golden, rayed sun. The sun design was easily recognizable since it had been used by the clans for generations to honor Amara, the mother goddess. The clanspeople gathered around the pillar and stared up at the sun shape towering nearly twenty feet over their heads. It was lovely even through its cloak of grime and bird droppings. Its gold gleamed in the clear sunlight, and its rays were straight and intact.