Mary Herbert: Dark Horse

Gabria slumped in frustration. “I have told you everything I can.”

“It is not enough. You are bringing serious charges against a clan chieftain. How can you know what happened at the encampment? Or that it was an exile band that slaughtered the clan? You say you were not there.”

“No, I was not there during the killing, but I know! I can read the signs of battle and I know what led up to the massacre,” she cried.

Gabria was sitting before the dais, facing Savaric, Athlone, and the clan’s elders, who were seated in a semicircle before her. They had been interrogating her for several hours, and she had told them repeatedly everything she could remember of that awful day at Corin Treld and the days following. Still they were not satisfied.

Behind her, the men of the werod had gathered to hear her story. They clustered in silent groups around the fire pit. Gabria was very self-conscious sitting before this large crowd of men. It seemed as if any second, one of them would see through her disguise. They were so quiet and watchful. If she turned her head slightly she could see them, their dark, muscular faces regarding her with a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and speculation. A flagon of wine was being passed around, but few of the warriors were enjoying it.

The girl wished they would finish this inquisition. It was night and getting quite late. During the day she had had a chance to eat, clean off a little of the dirt, and rest. But now she was getting tired. Gabria had refused to part with her cloak and sat with it bunched up on her lap.

“Can’t you understand?” she asked sadly. “Lord Medb needed my father’s cooperation. Our clan was small, but we were the first he had attempted to win to his favor. The other chieftains in the north respected Father. With his support, Medb would have had some control in the northwest.” Savaric nodded to himself. He had been following Medb’s plots for some time, but even he was shocked by how far the chieftain seemed willing to go. .. And your father refused these overtures of friendship?”

“Violently.” She laughed bitterly, remembering her father’s exact words. “Medb only made one offer. When that was rejected, he resorted to coercion and threats and finally an ultimatum.”

Athlone was sitting on a leather stool near his father. His hand idly scratched the ears of a large deer hound as his eyes watched Gabria and the reactions of the men around him. “What sort of ultimatum?” he demanded.

Gabria spoke slowly, stressing each word. “Lord Medb made it clear that he wants to be overlord of the clans. To that end, he offered Father the lordship of all the northern lands. If Father refused, our clan would die.”

The men burst out in a loud clamor of outrage. Whispers of Medb’s bid for absolute power over all the clans had been blown from one encampment to another all winter, but the idea of a sole monarch was so far-fetched to the clansmen that few people had paid close attention.

“No!” The herd-master’s voice cut through the noise. “I cannot believe this. No chieftain would have such audacity. How can he offer power that is not his to give?”

“The power is not his yet,” Gabria interjected. “But he made good his threat to my father.”

The master turned to Savaric, who was watching Gabria thoughtfully. “Lord, how can you listen to this. Lord Medb’s clan is many days’ ride from the Corin range. It would be senseless for him to look so far afield.”

“Yet, you agree he is looking,” Savaric replied.

The man shifted uneasily. “We have all heard the rumors of Medb’s growing ambitions. But this is absurd.”

Savaric stood up and paced in front of the dais. “Is it?” He posed the question to all the men. “Think about it. Medb needs allies to help him hold the vital regions of the grasslands. The Corin were a perfect choice. If Dathlar had agreed to his offer, Medb would have held a valuable hammer in the north, a hammer he could have used with his clan in the south to crush us in the middle. But,” Savaric said as he gestured at Gabria, “when the Corin refused, Medb used them as an example to the other clans. He is proving he is deadly serious.”

The warriors’ voices quieted and even the herd-master looked pensive as the full impact of Savaric’s words sank in. The chieftain stood by the stone seat, momentarily lost in his own thoughts.

Gabria closed her eyes and let her head droop. The chief seemed to understand after all, and if he did, that was all that mattered. She was too exhausted to worry about the others. Sleep was all she wanted now. The girl felt her body sag and her head seemed to grow heavier. She heard Athlone get to his feet and say something to his father.

Then someone dropped a cup on the floor, and the metal rang dully as it struck the hard-packed earth. The clang caught Gabria’s attention like the distant clash of swords. She dragged open her eyes. Her glance fell into the fire burning in the center of the hearth. Everything was silent; she could feel the eyes of the men upon her, but she could not see them. She could only see the flames. The girl began to breathe faster and her heart raced.

In the back of her mind Gabria heard a faint thunder, like hoof beats, that mingled with the crackle and roar of the fire. She tried to move as the sound grew louder, to escape the noise and the terror that came with it, but the thunder engulfed her and swept her into the light of the fire. The flames bounded high, burning away her self-awareness. The men, the hall, even the fire faded into obscurity while her consciousness fell helplessly through the lurid gloom and touched a dying link with Gabran, her twin brother. Born together, they had always shared a special bond, and now, like the touch of a dead hand, his presence coalesced out of the chaos and led her back to the paths of Corin Treld.

Her vision cleared and the familiar encampment lay before her, shrouded in a veil of thickening mist. “Fog,” she mumbled. “Fog is coming in. Where did it come from?” Her voice changed and seemed to take on another personality.

Athlone tapped Savaric’s arm and nodded at the girl. The chieftain suddenly frowned and stepped forward, motioning his men to keep silent.

Gabria swayed, her eyes pinned in the fire. “The herds are in. Everyone is here, but. . . wait. What is that noise? Taleon, get Father. I must find Gabria. There are horses coming. It sounds like a large troop,” Her words came faster and her face drained like a pale corpse. The men about her watched in fascination.

“Oh, my gods, they are attacking us!” she shouted and stood up, gesturing wildly. “They are burning the tents. We must get to Father. Where is Gabria? Who are these men?”

Abruptly her voice went heavy with grief and rage. “No! Father is down. We must stand and fight. The women and children run, but it is too late. We are surrounded by horsemen. Fire everywhere. We cannot see in this smoke and fog.

“Oh, gods. I know that man with the scar. These men are exiles! Medb sent them. He swore to kill us and he has. The cowards, they are bringing lances. Oh, Gabria, be safe. . .”

The words rose to a cry of agony and instantly died into a silence of emptiness and despair. Gabria’s link with her brother snapped and the vision was gone. She trembled violently, then crumpled to the floor. A sigh, like a suppressed breath, wavered through the listening men.

For a long moment, Savaric stood staring into the fire. Finally he said, “Take him to the healer. We have heard enough for tonight.”

Without a word, Athlone and another man wrapped Gabria in the scarlet cloak and carried her from the hall.

The healer, a tall, wiry man in a pale rose robe, touched Gabria’s forehead with a cool hand and glanced at Savaric. “Forgive me, Lord, but you pushed him too hard. The boy is exhausted.”