Mary Herbert - City of Sorcerers

The pit had been a joint effort of every clan. Excavated with magic and dug with shovels, knives, and even bare hands, it represented the last effort made for all the fathers, mothers, sons, and daughters that had died. In its cavity were the ashes from previous funeral pyres and on top of that lay the dead, wrapped in their blankets or cloaks like so many colorful cords of wood.

All that remained was to bless the mass grave and fill it in. Before the priests began their chants, however, Ordan climbed to the top of the big pile of excavated earth and raised his hands to the crowd. “We have finished counting the grievous toll of our losses,” he said in a voice that filled the meadow. “Of our clan chieftains, Lords Morbiar, Koshyn, Maxin, Dormar, and Gerrand have died. The healers and the magic-wielders who worked so hard to help our people lost half of their numbers—ten healers and fifteen magic-wielders.”

A sad, angry silence filled the meadow as the dreadful list went on. Ordan read the numbers of visiting merchants who had died, of the clanspeople who had secretly fled and were missing, and of the members of each clan that had succumbed to the dreadful pestilence. When he was through, the total rang like a clap of thunder in their ears. Over three thousand warriors, sorcerers, midwives, healers, mothers, children, priests, herdsmen, weavers, elders, people of every age and rank were gone.

And for what reason?

That question pounded in the mind of every person who watched Priest Ordan lift his arms high and begin the songs for the dead. The daily give-and-take of life and death, the constant competition between Amara and Sorh, was something every clansperson accepted. Life on the plains was never easy, but its risks had a certain familiarity. Wars, weather, accidents, age, and common illness were all faced and taken for granted.

But this plague was an unknown, unseen adversary that had struck three thousand people while the clans had stood by and helplessly watched.

Three thousand! Almost as many as killed in the Corin massacre, the war with Lord Medb, and the last twenty years combined. Not since the fall of Moy Tura had so many people died all at once, and even in that horrible slaughter there had been a visible enemy wielding very real swords.

A slow rage began to kindle in the grieving survivors. The dying had stopped, thanks to the magic-wielders, and life was returning to some semblance of normality. But the anger ran deep, and the clanspeople wanted to strike out at someone, or something, for all the pain and loss and despair they had suffered.

Lord Athlone understood that reaction well. He had lost his youngest son, his daughter, two very dear friends, and more kin and clansfolk than he cared to think about. Still weak and barely upright, he climbed the mound to stand beside Priest Ordan.

The white-haired priest bowed low in respect to the Khulinin lord. “Between the two of us, we unleashed a great wrong on our people,” Ordan said very quietly.

Athlone, his face and neck stiff with healing sores, returned the bow and replied, “Then together we must put it right.”

They stood side by side, the priest and the sorcerer, and faced their people. Loudly, and hiding nothing, Athlone and Ordan gave the clanspeople an enemy to blame. They told the gathered clans everything about the sealed burial mound and its undead occupant, how he had been released, and how the plague had sprung from his cruelty.

Just as they were finishing their speech, Athlone saw a large shadow pass over the heads of the people, and he smiled. She was right on time.

Someone shouted and everyone looked up to see a black Hunnuli wing gracefully over the meadow. Voices burst out in surprised cries and fingers pointed. No one had seen Demira since her arrival two days before. Rumors of her altered appearance had run rife through the gathering, but this was the first time everyone had been able to observe her.

Shouting and pushing for a better look, the people stared as Demira glided down and made an easy landing at the foot of the dirt mound. Only then did the crowd notice Kelene on the filly’s back.

Two nights and days of rest had worked wonders on the filly. Her coat was shining, and her wings gleamed in the sunlight. Well aware of the effect she was having on the crowd, she arched her ebony neck proudly and lifted her wings in a gentle curve for all to see.

Kelene sat quietly. As soon as the crowd had calmed a little, she urged the Hunnuli to climb halfway up the mound of dirt. From that vantage point, Kelene took up where her father had left off. She described the journey to Moy Tura and the attacks of the wraith. She spoke of the Korg, the healing stones, and Demira’s wings. And last of all she warned of the dead priest’s history, his power, and his terrible danger.

The telling was long, but the clanspeople were so enraptured by the story they did not seem to mind the heat, the flies, or the passage of time. As Athlone had hoped, the presence of Demira gave added credence to Kelene’s story, and his daughter’s firm, serious voice, a voice so many people had heard and come to trust lately, brought the truth home more effectively than anything he could have said or done.

“I wanted to tell you all of this today,” Kelene finished, “so you would know the full story of this disaster that stole so many lives. It is my belief that the wraith will be returning to finish what he began. He is obsessed with destroying every magic-wielder in the clans; he does not care who has to die to achieve that end. His pestilence killed magic-wielders, yes, but it struck mercilessly into our people, destroying everyone it touched. This is not just a problem for magic-wielders to solve, it is a crisis for all of us.”

Lord Athlone looked out over the crowd and saw by the darkening expressions that the warning had not been lost. Satisfied, he, Ordan, Kelene, and Demira withdrew from their places and began the final burial.

The clanspeople were pensive while they piled the earth back over the grave and shaped it into an oblong mound. The Plague Mound, as it was always called thereafter, was crowned with a ring of spears and seeded with wildflowers to make a fitting tribute to the dead. Afterward the clanspeople returned to their many tasks, but what they had heard at the burial stuck in their thoughts and stoked their anger like a hot wind. Everywhere, in all eleven clans, people were talking of little but the wraith and his return. There was no mention of leaving the gathering, only of vengeance.

Later that evening, while the clans settled down for the night, Gabria and Kelene slowly walked through the council grove on their way back to the Khulinin camp. Kelene was so weary her crippled foot would barely hold her weight, and she had to lean on her mother’s arm. Never had Kelene worked so hard for such a long time and never had she expended so much strength wielding magic. The days of struggling to save the clanspeople had paid off, but the effort had left her totally drained. When Gabria finally insisted that she go home to sleep, Kelene had to agree.

Gratefully, she leaned on her mother’s support and drew a long breath of the evening air. The fires and the smoke of the burning incense were gone, the stench of the council grove had virtually dissipated, and a fresh breeze blew from the west. The air smelled of familiar things again: dust, animals, dry grass, the rivers. It was a combination Kelene savored as never before.

She was still enjoying the breeze when she felt her mother stiffen. Kelene stopped. “What is it?” she asked.

Gabria was frowning. “I don’t know. I felt something odd.”

“Like what?”

“I’m not sure. This happened when you and the others left for May Tura. I felt a lightening, as if a dread had left me. But this time. . . a feeling of dread has come back. It’s very vague, but,” she said, shivering, “I feel so cold.”