Dark Horse (11 page)

"Stop it!" she shouted. "Leave me alone."

"Leave me alone," Cor mocked. "Poor little worm is not so brave after all. He needs his mama. But she's dead and rotting with the other Corin." He rocked back and forth in front of Gabria, exuding wine fumes. His muscles seemed to bunch beneath his tunic.

Without warning, Cor slapped her. Gabria gazed at him speechlessly. "You brought the lion. It is your fault the mare died and I lost my duty. No one would listen to me . . . but you wil . You are going to listen to me until you are crushed beneath my boot." He chuckled at himself. Getting no reaction from Gabria, Cor hit her again savagely. She tried to avoid it, but she was too late. The blow sent her reeling, and blood spattered her tunic from her split lip. The other men looked on, neither helping nor hindering.

Cor came at her again.

"Stop it!" Gabria cried, stumbling away from him. "Go away,"

"Go away," he sneered. "Not for a while, my little man, not until you crawl at my feet and plead for my forgiveness." He swung at her again and smashed her in the face. Gabria crashed into the wall and collapsed on the floor, her head ringing with pain, blood pouring from her nose.

"Crawl, worm," Cor shouted gleefully. He kicked her in the side. Waving to the others in victory, Cor stood over Gabria like a conqueror, gloating at his prize. He reached down for her again.

Gabria was lying still, panting in shock and fear. Then she saw Cor's hand coming. Deep within her emotional prisons, the frustration and anxiety she had suffered the past few days fused together in a furious surge of power. Unbeknownst to her, an aura began to glow faintly around her hands as the white-hot energy of her emotions burst outward to every muscle and nerve ending, overcoming her pain and weakness. The, power ignited in her eyes. She screamed like a cat.

Without a conscious thought, Gabria reached behind her shoulder and grasped her new bow. The unseen aura in her hands flowed up the weapon. Before Cor could react, she rolled off the bow and, with both hands, swung it upward between his legs. The stave caught him neatly in the groin. Just for a second, there was a burst of pale blue sparks.

Cor howled in agony and doubled over. Gabria rolled away, stood up, and crouched, her bow held before her like an axe. But Cor could barely move. He slowly toppled to the ground and lay curled in a ball, moaning. As the warriors moved to him, Gabria backed into the corner, still gripping her bow and trembling with rage. Her green eyes glinted dangerously.

"Nicely swung, boy," one of the warriors said with a grin.

"Cor won't be riding for a day or two," added another man. "Especially the wenches." They all laughed uproariously.

Gabria stared at them speechlessly. The warriors shook their She heads and left her alone while they picked up their whimpering companion and tossed him unceremoniously on his blanket. Then, the sleepers returned to sleep, the chess players continued their game, and a subdued quiet settled over the hall—all as if nothing had happened. Only Cor’s soft moaning was out of place in the illusion of friendly peace.

Gabria stood in her corner without moving. Her anger and the pale blue aura that no one had noticed subsided, leaving her drained and empty. She dared not move for fear of disturbing the fragile peace.

Gabria knew fist fights and brawls happened constantly in the hal , often just for the fun of competition. But the violence and hatred of Cor's attack was not pan of the camaraderie. He blamed his disgrace on her and wanted his revenge. Gabria glanced at Cor, as if he might jump on her again, but he remained curled like an infant, whimpering and weeping. She dreaded to think what Cor would do when he recovered. He did not have the manner of a man who forgave readily.

Gabria shuddered and sank to her knees. Maybe she should accept Athlone's tent. At least he would not beat her.
No,
she reminded herself sharply
, he will kill me if l reveal my identity.
And it will be much more difficult to hide in the confines of a tent. But is it safer here with more ears to listen and eyes to watch? Safer with Cor's dagger within easy reach of my heart? Oh, gods, what am I going to do?

Either choice could mean death.

The girl clutched her blanket about her shoulders, thankful for its warm comfort, and huddled into the corner. Her face felt horrible—swol en and caked with blood—but she was not going to move from her corner. She was safe there, for the night at least. Perhaps she could decide what to do tomorrow.

Cor might decide to leave her alone, although she doubted it, or perhaps her goddess would provide a way to protect her. Amara had always been with her. Gabria took solace in that, and, after a long while, when the fire had died down, she fel asleep.

Gabria awoke long before dawn. In the deepest hour of the night, she dreamed of a blue fire in the core of her mind tried to banish it, but it was a pan of her and it would not be denied. It grew in intensity and surged outward from her hands, taking the form of a lightning bolt that seared a path through the surrounding darkness and burned with the vengeance of a dying star. Unerring, it struck a half-seen figure of a man and burst him into countless flaming fragments.

Gabria bolted awake in horror. She knew without question what that deadly flare had been.

Sorcery. She cringed as she gazed at her hands in the dim light of the single lamp that stil burned. She vaguely expected to see a glow of blue stil on her fingers where the bolt had sprung.

How could it be? Why had she dreamed of magic? She knew nothing about the arcane except the half-truths of legends and the clan strictures that forbade its profane use. Sorcery had been eradicated generations ago and anyone guilty of trying to resurrect it was put to immediate death. So where had that dream sprung from? Gabria had never considered using such power, and she did not think wielding magic was an inherent ability.

Since birth, Gabria had been taught that sorcery was an evil heresy. The priests claimed sorcery was an abominable sham of the gods' power, an insult to the deities and the cause of hideous retribution upon anyone who tried to use it.

Gabria shuddered at the memory of her dream. It was impossible that she could create that blue fire herself. She did not have the knowledge or desire to do so. Yet why had she dreamed of that power now? She sat frozen in a crouch, musing over the fading images of her dream, very afraid of falling asleep and dreaming again.

When the horn of morning faintly echoed in the hall, Gabria was still awake. The warriors rose from sleep, laughing, yawning, and grumbling. They rolled their gear out of sight, into a storeroom behind a tapestry, and prepared themselves for another day. A serving girl brought cups of steaming wine and heaps of meat-stuffed rolls. Gabria remained still.

Athlone, back from the night's hunt, found her as she had been most of the night, hunched in the comer beneath her blanket, her eyes fixed on something in the distance. The wer-tain breezed into the room, smelling of morning dew and horse's sweat, and greeted the men. He saw Gabria in the corner and anger pul ed at his mouth. Muttering a curse, he ripped off the blanket and yanked her to her feet.

"I warned you about shirking. . ." His voice trailed off as she slumped against him and he saw the bruises and dried blood on her battered face. She feebly pushed against him and tried to stand alone, but a searing pain melted her ankle. With a moan she could not stop, she fell to the floor. Sometime during the fight with Cor, she had wrenched her barely healed ankle again.

"What happened?" A look of pity intruded into. Athlone's stony eyes.

"I fell down the steps last night," Gabria answered listlessly. She shoved against the wall and painfully levered herself to a standing position. She teetered on one foot, glaring at the wer-tain, daring him to gainsay her.

The pity faded and Athlone turned to the warriors who were watching as they ate. "What happened?" he repeated harshly.

One man jerked a thumb at Cor, who was stil lying curled on his bed, apparently asleep. Athlone's brow lifted, and he strode over to the recumbent warrior. He leaned over to shake Cor's shoulder. At the first touch, his hand leaped back as if scorched.

"Good gods," Athlone said in astonishment. "This man is burning with fever. Tabran, call the healer quickly." Then he remembered Gabria standing in the comer with blood on her face, and his nagging suspicions turned to a noisy warning. But he still was not sure why.

"The rest of you men get to your duties," Athlone ordered. "Now."

The men glanced at each other uneasily, and fetching their weapons, filed out the door. Athlone stayed by Cor. The wer-tain's face was bleak and his body was tense with his unnamed suspicions.

"I am going to ask you again," he said without turning around. "What happened?"

Gabria heard the change in his voice immediately. He suspected something strange had happened between her and Cor. "I hit him with a bow," she snapped.

"Why?"

"I should think that is obvious, Wer-tain." Piers's voice came from the entrance. "Just look at him.

The boy was being beaten."

Athlone and Gabria turned to the healer as he came into the hall. "I asked the boy,” Athlone said, rankled by the man's immediate defense of Gabria. "I want to know what happened to Cor."

"I know what you meant." Piers's pale eyes were like the clouds of a winter storm as he helped Gabria to the fire pit and made her sit on the stone rim.

Gabria watched the two men surreptitiously. Even through her listlessness and pain, she could recognize the signs of a long-lived dislike between the healer and the wer-tain. Piers's movements were hurried and brusque. It was as if he could not wait to be away from Athlone's demanding presence.

Athlone, on the other hand, seemed to be edgy and impatient dealing with the quiet foreigner. Gabria found Athlone's discomfort interesting, and she drew closer to Piers's supporting arm.

Athlone glared at them both, annoyed that the boy had found such a quick al y in the healer. "The boy will live. I called you here to see to Cor."

"If Gabran lives, it will not be because of your efforts. I asked you to go easy on him yesterday until he recovered, but you deliberately ran him into the ground." Piers squeezed Gabria's shoulder and went to examine the unconscious warrior. The healer's mouth opened slightly in surprise when he touched Cor. He quickly straightened out the man's body and checked him over carefully.

"How strange. I have never seen anything quite like this,” Piers said worriedly. "What did you say happened to him?"

Athlone gestured to Gabria. "He hit him with a bow."

"Certainly a mere blow could not have caused this." Piers checked Cor again, and a small frown creased his forehead. "Hmmm. I wonder. . . have some men take him to my tent."

Athlone called the guard and gave his orders. He asked Piers, "What is wrong with him?"

"I am not sure. He has a high fever, among other things, but this is something quite unusual.

Gabran, you had better come, too."

"He has work to do,” Athlone said flatly.

The healer shook his head. "Not today. Not in his condition."

"Your defense of him is misplaced, Healer. He can obviously care for himself,” Athlone stated as he picked up Gabria's fallen bow.

Gabria could not look at Cor. She stared at the floor, and the memory of her dream returned like a hidden shame. A pang of guilt made her shiver, but she could not believe it was possible that the dream held any truth. She had only hit Cor with a wooden bow, not magic. There was something else wrong with him, something very easy to explain.

"The healer is right, Athlone,” a woman's voice came from the back of the hall.

"Good morning, Mother." Athlone smiled at the small, fair-haired woman standing by the curtain to the chieftain's quarters.

"Good morning, son, Piers, and you, Gabran. I am Tungoli, lady of Lord Savaric."

Gabria returned her greeting and, for the first time since she came to Khulinin Treld, she felt that she was meeting a friend. Tungoli's eyes were as open and as green as summer, and her expression was warm and smiling. She was a comely woman whose true age was hidden by a gentle beauty that grew old with grace and radiated from her contentment within. Her hair was braided and wound with a dark gold veil. Her hands were slender, yet strong and confident. She walked toward them with a loose-jointed stride that swirled her green skirt about her feet.

"The boy needs rest,” Tungoli said to Athlone. "There is no sense having two warriors ill. But,” she added soothingly, cutting off Athlone's next words, "if you insist he stay busy, I have a few things he can help me with." She slipped her arm through Athlone's and led him aside, continuing to talk to him all the while.

Piers sighed, an audible sound Gabria barely caught, and he shook his head. "Tungoli and Savaric are the only ones Athlone bows to,” he said softly to Gabria. "Tread carefully around him."

Several men arrived then and helped Piers lift Cor's body onto a makeshift stretcher. The healer said, "Wait here, Gabran. I'll send them back for you."

In the corner of her eye, Gabria saw Athlone watching them, and her pride dragged her to her feet.

The pain sucked the breath through her teeth. "No. I'll come now,” she managed to gasp.

"Do not be long about it,” Athlone demanded.

Tungoli lifted her eyes to her son in mild reproof. "Athlone, your thoughtlessness is atrocious.

Gabran, let them come for you. When the healer is through with you, come to see me."

"Mother, you are interfering again."

"I know. But if I do not, who will? The entire treld is terrified of you,” she said, laughter in her voice.

Gabria collapsed on the stone rim again and gazed at the woman thankfully. Tungoli reminded Gabria of her own mother, in a vague, comforting way, and it would be delightful to spend some time with this lady and be out from under Athlone's iron hand.

Piers nodded to Gabria and fol owed the stretcher bearers out the door. Gabria did not respond, for she was too engrossed watching Tungoli and Athlone. The smal woman looked so incongruous standing up to the tall, muscular warrior, but Gabria was certain the mother won most of their battles. In her own gentle way, Tungoli was just as stubborn as Athlone.