Mary Herbert - City of Sorcerers

As Kelene had hoped, Lord Fiergan marched himself into the effort. He found every chieftain who still lived and alerted them to what was happening. In just a few short hours, the rest of the surviving magic-wielders had come to help, and one older woman from the Wylfling clan surprised everyone by revealing a talent to heal. She joined Kelene and Alanar with the last Lion’s Eye and calmly settled into the routine as if she had known all along she would be a healer.

Before long, the word that help had arrived spread; people came clamoring to the magic-wielders to come to their camps first. The situation could have gotten out of hand, but Lord Fiergan found warriors to escort the small party of healers and organized the healthy clanspeople into groups to find the most seriously ill victims for faster treatment.

Midnight came and went with few noticing it was late night. There was too much to do, too many sick to treat, too many living who felt the first stirrings of hope in days. The camps came alive with activity as people came from every corner and cranny. Some passed on information, some started cooking fires and heated food, and some furnished wine and honey for Gabria’s tonic. Many others just watched in a welter of emotions while the clans crawled slowly back to life.

Rafnir looked up at the three men watching him and grinned triumphantly. “Kelene and Demira made it,” he said, pinning the Watcher to his tunic. “They’re at the gathering.”

Sayyed slapped his knee. “That’s it, then. We’re leaving. Kelene is at the Tir Samod, and the wraith is right behind her. We can’t wait any longer.”

Rafnir opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. He and Savaron had been arguing with Sayyed for two days to keep him in bed and resting. Their insistence had worked for a while, but no longer. Although Sayyed was still weak, he was able to ride. Nothing was going to keep him from returning to the gathering. Rafnir glanced at Savaron and shrugged. Sayyed was already on his feet, dressing and packing his gear. The white cat sat patiently by his bedroll. There was nothing Rafnir could do but get ready for the journey.

While the Korg packed food for them, the three men collected their belongings and ate a quick breakfast. When they were prepared to leave, Sayyed clasped the Korg’s hand in thanks and climbed slowly onto Afer’s back.

“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” Rafnir asked the old sorcerer one last time.

The Korg bowed his head. “There is little I could do to help. I will be here if you decide to come back.”

“Come back?” Morad snorted. “I never want to see this pile of rocks again!”

The men waved good-bye and rode rapidly through the ruins toward the southern gate. Morning sun from a perfect summer sky streamed on their backs, but the men paid no attention to the beauty of the day. All they saw was the road ahead and the open archway leading from the city. The four horsemen charged out the gate and galloped away from Moy Tura as if all the fury of Gormoth were at their heels.

Kelene, Alanar, and the Wylfling woman, Pena, finished with the patients in the council grove shortly after sunrise. They were about to move into the camps when there was a stir on the sacred island in the rivers and a group of priests came wading through the rapids to the grove.

A worn, thin, and weary priest came slowly up to Kelene and Gabria and bowed before them, leaning on his staff for support. The priests behind him were silent, but the clanspeople watching murmured in surprise. Ordan, the holy one, had never before accorded obvious respect to magic-wielders.

Kelene and Gabria were taken aback and quickly returned his bow.

“I won’t keep you for long,” Priest Ordan said in his dry voice. “There is much to do and we have come to share in the work. But I must ask you something.” He spoke to Kelene.

“We have seen strange visions in the smoke and felt the wrath of our god. Lord Sorh is angry, and we do not know why. Did you learn of something that could have caused this plague?”

Kelene arched an eyebrow in a gesture so like her father’s that Gabria had to smother a smile. “Do you know the name Bitorn?” she countered.

Ordan visibly paled. His eyelids lifted, and he straightened slowly. “We are aware of the name,” he said warily.

“It was he who lay in the mound we opened. It was he who followed us all the way to Moy Tura to stop us from finding the help we so desperately needed. He is growing stronger, Priest Ordan, and I’m afraid he’s coming back.”

Ordan couldn’t have known all the details about Bitorn’s imprisonment and his powers as a wraith, but he obviously knew enough to understand their danger for he asked, “How long do we have?”

“A day, seven days, I’m not sure. The Korg said he would keep him there for as long as he could.”

Gabria nearly choked. “The Korg?”

Kelene smiled. “The legends were right, Mother. He was a shapeshifter and a very sad, old man. He and Bitorn were sworn enemies.”

“Gods above!” Gabria exclaimed.

Ordan made no further comment about the wraith. He only said, “We shall have to talk of this later.” Then he and the remaining priests and priestesses rolled up the sleeves of their robes and joined the work.

By late afternoon Kelene and her two companions had attended to the worst cases in the eleven camps. Bone-tired, they stopped long enough to sleep and eat, and by nightfall they were again visiting the clans to treat the remaining sick. Although some of the sicker patients died before they could be helped, and some succumbed in spite of the stones’ magic, the old spells proved to be reliably effectual. A few new cases of the plague appeared around the camps, but not in the previous uncontrollable numbers. Slowly and surely the plague was losing its grip on the clans.

Activity in the clan camps began to reflect the new hope. Everywhere people were taking stock of the devastation and working hard to bring the clans back to order. One of the first and most distressing problems the living had to face was the vast numbers of the dead.

“We gave up burning and burying the bodies when we ran out of people to do the work,” Lord Sha Tajan told Kelene that afternoon while she aided the sick in the Jehanan camp. “Sorh knows how many people have actually died. We’ve burned them and buried them and piled them in the meadow and left them in their tents. Some crawled away to die, and a few even threw themselves in the river.”

Kelene looked alarmed. She hadn’t had time to think about anything other than the sick, and now she realized the clans had to get busy on something else very important. “The bodies should be removed immediately!” Kelene told the chief.

“Piers told me a long time ago that bodies left to rot can cause more diseases.”

That threat so horrified the Jehanan chief he wasted no time forming grave parties to find, identify, and remove every corpse in the gathering. The leaders of the clans went from tent to tent, taking names and counting those who had died.

When night came most of the camps were cleared, and the meadow where the funeral pyres had burned was filled with wrapped bodies. While most of the people went to their beds for the first good night’s sleep in days, the priests began the dismal task of compiling the sobering tallies.

At noon the next day the surviving clanspeople gathered in the meadow to make their final farewells to the dead. Overhead, the sun beat down on the meadow and on the heads of the mourners. It glinted on the spears and polished mail of the honor guard from each clan and gleamed on the colored banners. Its bright beams streamed into the huge pit that lay at the clans’ feet, filling it with warmth and light for the very last time.