Dark Horse (25 page)

But it was not the cult's bloodlust the clansmen despised, it was the subterfuge its members practiced. The stealth in the dark night, the garrote in the throat, the subtle poisons, and furtive kil ings were incomprehensible to a clansman. No one knew when an Oathbreaker would strike. There was never warning.

And now they wanted to join the council.

Lord Branth pushed his way forward and stared down at Seth. "How dare you return here."

Seth's cold eyes shriveled Branth's brashness to dust. "Medb dared us," he said in a voice sharpened with malice.

Branth fell back a step, and the other chiefs looked upset. Medb's involvement with the Cult of the Lash was something they had not considered. The tension built like a storm.

"You have my word that my brother and his men wil not disrupt the council. They are here under my protection,” Savaric said soothingly.

Malech's mouth tightened. "They must leave their weapons outside and may only speak on the matter that brought them here.”

Seth agreed, and the four men piled their whips by the entrance, knowing no man would dare touch them. The chiefs and their men filed into the council tent.

Nara nudged Gabria.
Remember.

The girl nodded and moved numbly after Savaric. Inside, Medb was waiting for her. Her determination burned whiter; her fingers itched for the feel of a sword. She tried not to crowd Savaric through the entrance, but craned over his shoulder for her first glimpse of the Wylfling lord. Gabria had never seen' him before, and her imagination had created many faces and forms for the man she knew only by reputation.

As the men sorted themselves and found their places, Gabria stared wildly about, trying to spot the murderer. He had to be there! Yet there was no one that fit her perception of an evil sorcerer. The only Wylfling she saw were sitting together near the head of the tent, and one she noticed with surprise, was seated on a litter with a brown blanket wrapped around his legs. She sat down by Athlone, her heart hammering. Maybe Medb was waiting to make an appearance. She clenched her hands and tried to stil her trembling.

Lord Malech stood, his broad face sweating profusely, and held up his hand to quiet the talking.

"Lord Medb, we have several strangers who have requested to join the council.”

Gabria froze. Her eyes raked the assembled Wylfling to find the chief who responded. On the litter, the man with the brown blanket idly waved away a fly and inclined his head.

"So I heard." He turned to Gabria. "On behalf of the council, may I express our delight and relief in the survival of a son of Dathlar. Your father's death was a blow to us all."

Gabria's mouth dropped open. She stared and stared until her head swam and the fury began to boil in her stomach. She had been cheated! The days of humiliation and grief and sweat had gone for nothing! She wanted to shriek at the injustice of it. The last, bitter, blood-soaked laugh had gone to Medb, for now her clan's honor would have to be sacrificed to a cripple. She started to stand, not knowing what she would do, but Athlone slammed her down and gripped her arm like a vise.

"Don't move,” he hissed. "Don't say a word,”

Gabria could not have spoken if she wanted to. Her breath seemed to be strangling her.

The chieftains looked at her curiously, expecting a response. When she said nothing, Malech cleared his throat nervously and said, "The Corin massacre is a subject we have been avoiding . . . to our shame. Now we discover a Corin has survived. We cannot sidestep this hideous crime any longer. Boy, will you tell us what happened at your treld?" Malech averted his eyes from Medb and waved at Gabria to stand.

Athlone released the girl's arm with a warning squeeze, and she slowly climbed to her feet. Over the heads of the men, she could see Medb clearly, and her hatred fumed. No one had told her the truth.

They had let her run wildly into a trap where the only escape was to retreat. She could not duel with a crippled man in any way; there was no other avenue of revenge that would satisfy her weir-geld. She could hire the Oathbreakers to assassinate him, if they would, or she could attack him herself one dark night, but both thoughts were repugnant and would not honorably settle the debt of vengeance.

Gabria could think of nothing else to do. Perhaps, if she convinced the council that Medb was responsible for the heinous crime, they would discipline him. Unfortunately, she doubted the chieftains would do much. It was obvious, even in the first few minutes she had been with them, that the chiefs were afraid.

The realization startled her. As Gabria looked about her and saw the men's grim mouths and tense postures, a small feeling of pride began to grow in her mind. These men who boasted so loudly around the fires at night quailed before a single chief, a man of their own standing, while she, a woman, was a rider of a great Hunnuli and had survived the worst doom a clansman could inflict on another. If she could survive that, she could endure this hideous disappointment.

Keeping her voice low and level, Gabria told the council everything she had told the Khulinin, as well as her vision of the massacre. She disregarded the growing agitation of the men and kept her eyes pinned on Lord Medb as she talked. Her gaze did not waver when she detailed her evidence of his guilt.

The Wylfling chief sat motionless through the telling, returning her silent challenge with his gray eyes narrowed like a wolf’s. Still, Gabria could see the angry glints in the gray of Medb's eyes and a tic in the muscles of his rigid neck.

Despite his shattered legs, Medb was still a powerful, vibrant man. His energy pulsed in every muscle and made him look younger than his forty winters. He was very different from anything Gabria had imagined and, in other circumstances, she would have thought him handsome. His features were chiseled on a broad face and were framed by a short beard and curly brown hair. It was a face meant to be open and friendly, not twisted into a mask that hid malice and unconscionable deceit.

When Gabria finished speaking, an uproar erupted from the council. The men shouted and gestured angrily. Several leaped to their feet. In the deafening outbursts, it was difficult to understand their arguments. Lord Malech tried to quiet them, but his efforts were wasted in the chaos.

Savaric stood up. "Silence!" he bel owed, and the racket died down. "The Corin have been dead for four months. Why do you show your outrage only now?"

The men slowly quieted.

"Why do you just now bring forth this survivor?" Lord Branth asked, adding a sneer of disbelief to his last word.

"To guard against his untimely demise. He is, after all, the last of the Corin. Now that we all are witness to his existence, we cannot ignore the reasons for the annihilation of his entire clan."

"The evidence I have heard condemns the greed and bloodlust in a few exiles who unlawful y banded together to harry our clans,” Branth retorted.

Shouts of agreement met Branth's statement, and Lord Caurus of the Reidhar slammed a horn cup on the ground.

"Ten of my best mares were stolen by that pack of jackals and thirty sheep were slaughtered and left to rot."

Lord Ferron of Clan Amnok said immediately, "This has never happened in the memory of our clans.

We must deal with these marauders swiftly before they massacre another clan."

"The Corin were not massacred for simple greed,” Savaric said.

Branth snorted. "Then why? Because the exiles did not like the color of their cloaks?"

"I should think that would be clear, especially to you, Branth, whose holdings lie next to Dathlar's.

And to all of you who have listened to Medb's promises of wealth and power. There is only so much power to go around."

Lord Jol, oldest of the chieftains, said fiercely, "I received no offer from Lord Medb. What is this?"

"Empire building, Jol,” Koshyn said.

The chief barked a laugh. "Absurd. No one man can rule the clans; they are too far apart. Mine is almost in the northern forests."

Savaric turned to Medb. "But it is true, isn't it, Medb? Why didn't you negotiate with Jol's Murjik?

Are they too distant to be of use . . . or were they next for the sword?"

Jol paled, and the warriors began arguing heatedly about the exiles, Savaric's accusations, Gabria's evidence, suspicions of others---everything but Lord Medb's complicity. Some wanted to believe Savaric was right. Despite Medb's offers, most of the chieftains were appalled by the idea of the clans in the chains of an overlord. They knew in their hearts why Clan Corin had died, but they did not know what to do about it. One of their own had never turned on them in this manner.

Even if Medb did confess to ordering the exile band to massacre the clan, the chieftains were fearful of punishing him. His strength had grown beyond any imagining and, with his mercenaries, he outnumbered every individual clan. The chiefs were also afraid of knowing the truth about his sorcery. If Medb truly had reconstructed the ancient spells, the clans were doomed. There was no one left who could fight him.

But Savaric would not let the chieftains evade the truth forever. He strode to the center of the tent and glared at Medb. "My blood brother died at Lord Medb's order. I cannot chal enge him to a duel, but I demand the council take action to punish this most hideous crime."

For the first time since his greeting to Gabria, Medb spoke. "Fools," he hissed quietly. He held out his hand, palm up, and began to speak. His voice was gently compelling, as if he were speaking to a group of rebel ious children.

Gabria looked at Medb in surprise as the noise ended abruptly and every man turned to listen.

Their faces were blank and their eyes seemed to yearn toward him. The girl looked at Athlone and he, too, was staring at Medb with rapt attention. Even Medb's own men were craning over his shoulder to hear what he would say next.

"Are you weak-kneed girls who must hang on every word mumbled by a simple boy? For reasons I cannot fathom, I am being unjustly charged with a crime that is most foul. I had no cause to slaughter the Corin. They were fellow clansmen, horsemen like myself. Would I cut off my own fingers?" He sounded aggrieved. "And to what purpose? Their lands lie far beyond the farthest hoof prints of my outriders. It is absurd." He settled back on his litter and curled his lip in a smile. "Yet I can understand how you could be deceived by this boy's fable. You are blinded by the red cloak and an earnest air. The boy was coached well by Savaric, was he not?"

The men murmured to themselves, their eyes stil pinned on Medb. His words made sense to them.

Gabria's and Savaric's arguments began to melt away like ice in the warmth of the sun. Medb's voice was so pleasant, so logical. He could not have harmed the Corin; it had to have been the exiles acting on their own. Athlone, too, looked puzzled and wondered if maybe his father were wrong.

Gabria felt confused. She knew that Medb was lying, but his words were sensible and his tone was so sincere that she wanted to believe him. Something strange was happening in her mind, and she struggled to find the cause.

"I cannot help but wonder why Lord Savaric is trying to lay the blame at my feet. I have done nothing to him." Medb paused as if in thought, letting the warriors feel his wounded innocence. “And yet if I were to be deposed by this illustrious council, who would care for the interest of my clan? I have no son. Would my considerate neighbor thus feel charitable and watch the Wylfling's holdings while a new chief is chosen?"

Savaric struggled to utter a word, but his voice seemed to be lost. Furiously he stepped toward the Wylfling. Medb lifted his hand and the Khulinin stopped abruptly, as if walking into a wall.

Medb came to his point with slow relish. "I am not the only one who is threatened by Lord Savaric's greed. Even the Turic may fall to his guile. Already he is making plans to overthrow the tribes and steal the southern foothil s of the Darkhorns, lands that border mine!"

Suddenly, Gabria laughed. This man, perched on his litter, bloated with his own monstrous arrogance, was daring to sully another man with accusations of deceit and greed? And these warriors, taken in by Medb's spells, were sitting like enchanted frogs, taking in every word. It was more than Gabria's battered self-control could tolerate, The effects of Medb's spell evaporated in Gabria's mind, and she stared around her and laughed again.

The sound of her mockery was bare of humor and sharp with frustration, and it sliced through the clansmen's stupor like a scythe. They started in surprise and looked at each other guiltily. Savaric's body jerked as the spell broke and he nearly fell. Seth reached out and caught him by the arm.

Medb's face tightened unpleasantly. He shot a considering look at Gabria. He gestured to two of his guards, whispered an order, and turned back to the chiefs to continue the thread of thought he had spun in their minds. This time, he set aside his spel s and fanned the flames that he hoped would bring the council to his feet. His two guards slipped out of the tent.

"Corin," Medb addressed Gabria. "There were valid reasons for forbidding uninitiated boys into the council; your outburst is one of them. Please contain yourself."

"So, you do recognize my blood,” she replied, holding her cloak up in her fist. "And I shal soon know yours." With the sorcerer beyond her reach, her obsession for revenge burned in her head. It warped her common sense into a blind carelessness.

Malech glanced apologetically at Savaric, missing the imperceptible movement of Medb's hands.

But Seth noticed it, and he recognized the forming of an arcane spell. He quickly leaned over to Gabria.

"Take this,” he whispered and thrust a smal bal into her hand. "Keep it with you."

Gabria opened her hand and found a white stone ball, intricately carved. Within its hollow core were three other balls of graduating sizes, one inside the other. It took a moment before she recognized the object and then she nearly dropped it. The Oathbreaker had given her an arcane ward. But when she raised her eyes, she too saw the strange movement of Medb's hand. The air hummed briefly in the tent; one warrior slapped at an imagined fly, and Gabria felt a slight pressure in her head. Then it passed and she sighed in relief. She should have known better than to tamper with the anger of a sorcerer. Her carelessness had almost cost her. Gabria hid the arcane ward in her tunic and threw Medb a look of pure hatred.