Mary Herbert - Lightning's Daughter

He went no further. Lord Athlone had had enough. The chief raised his hand, spoke a single word, and the priest’s voice caught in his throat. Thalar’s face turned from red to a sickly white, and his eyes bulged as he attempted to speak. Sha Umar and Sayyed grinned; the other chiefs looked stunned.

“No,” said Athlone calmly. “As you can see, the stain of magic is spreading.” Thalar gasped and gagged with a mighty effort to say something, but the words would not come.

“You will listen now,” Athlone ordered, a bite of steel in his tone. “I am a magic-wielder, too. I intend to help Lady Gabria as best I can to remove that gorthling.”

Thalar abruptly stilled, and his body stiffened.

The chieftain saw his reaction and pushed the point home. “That’s right. That creature is not Branth, but a beast of Sorh, and Lady Gabria was trying to save the clans from its evil. Do you understand?” Thalar nodded, his eyes narrowed.

“Good. If you wish to remain with the Khulinin, I suggest you think about your position on sorcery. There are two sides to every argument.” Athlone spoke a second command, and the priest put his hand to his throat. He cleared it a few times to make certain that he could speak again.

“So,” Thalar said, his tone low and cold, “you, too, have succumbed to the heresy. Are you here to fight the gorthling or help it?” He glared ferociously at Athlone and stalked away from the group.

The men standing nearby stared at Athlone in amazement. “That was very interesting,” Sha Umar said.

Gabria touched Athlone’s arm. “You have been practicing,” she said reproachfully.

“A little,” he admitted. “Enough to get a feel for the way magic works.”

She turned to Sayyed. “I suppose you have, too?”

He grinned. “Of course.”

“How? You two don’t know enough to teach yourselves.”

Athlone replied, “By listening and watching you.”

“You’re lucky you did not destroy yourselves with an uncontrolled spell,” she said.

Sayyed lifted his hands and shrugged. “You can’t show us a feast and expect us to be happy with crumbs.”

Gabria was about to reply when a shadow passed over the council grove. Nervously she glanced up, but it was only a cloud passing overhead, formed by the growing afternoon heat.

The sorceress was still gazing at the sky when an agonized scream tore through the camps. Everyone within hearing froze in their tracks. As the scream died away, Gabria, Athlone, and the others ran to the riverbank and stared at the island where the gorthling was standing. He had dissolved his force field and had dragged a woman out of the circle of standing stones to the graveled bank. The other eight hostages still huddled in the ring.

“Sorceress!” Branth yelled. He yanked his prisoner to her feet and held her out at arm’s length. “Come to me or this female dies!” He shook the young woman viciously to make her scream again.

“Let her go!” Gabria shouted. “Let them all go, and I will come.”

“You come now!” he screamed. “I will not wait.” So saying, he shoved the sobbing woman toward the water. She ran frantically to escape, but the gorthling’s spell caught her before she had taken five steps. The magic seared through her. The creature did not kill her with a quick, explosive burst of Trymian Force. Instead, he used an agonizing power that arched through the woman’s body in a slow, massive, disintegrating wave.

Scream after scream ripped from her throat as she thrashed and writhed in the shallow water. The clanspeople watched, motionless with horror. The woman gave a final shriek, then sagged face-first into the water. The current tugged gently at her lifeless body and swirled her fair hair.

Branth did not give the clanspeople time to react. Instantly he shouted a command, and the nearest hostage in the circle stumbled to his feet and began to walk helplessly toward the gorthling. It was Guthlac, the Khulinin wer-tain.

Gabria’s eyes blazed with green fury. “Athlone . . .” she began to say, but something interrupted her.

A man stepped off the council grove riverbank into the water. His robes swirled around his short legs, and his face was red with righteous fury. He held his priest’s staff over his head like a spear pointed at the gorthling.

“Begone, foul heretic! Beast of Sorh, leave this holy place!” Thalar shouted with all his rage and indignation as he waded toward the island.

“Thalar!” Athlone yelled. “Get back here.”

The priest did not hear him. His mind was focused on driving the evil from the blessed island. The Tir Samod was the gods’ holy temple, the sanctuary of the priests and the sacred heart of the clans, not a hiding hole for a creature of profane powers. If no one else was going to rid the island of this evil, Thalar swore he would do it himself.

He raised his staff higher. “Go, you gods-cursed worm. By the power of Surgart, I command you to leave.”

The gorthling laughed and, without a word, struck the priest with a brilliant blue bolt of Trymian Force. Thalar shrieked once, threw his arms up, and toppled into the river. The rippling water caught his scorched body and carried him gently downstream.

“That’s two, Sorceress,” the gorthling yelled. “Do you want more bodies to clog the river?”

Gabria spun on her heel and whistled for Nara. Both Hunnuli came at her summons. “That beast must be stopped,” she said as she sprang to Nara’s back.

Athlone immediately mounted Eurus, and the big stallion blocked Nara’s way. “We’re going with you,” the chieftain said calmly.

Gabria looked from Athlone to Sayyed and saw the same look of determination on both faces. She could not leave them behind this time, even if she wanted to. She inclined her head once in gratitude and shoved her fear for them out of the way. Now, however, she hesitated, for she was uncertain how to mount an attack that would use the skills of the two men. Sayyed had no mount, and neither man was very proficient with the Trymian Force.

She was still trying to think of a way when Nara perked up her ears. Eurus lifted his head high, and his nostrils flared. On the edge of her senses, Gabria felt something, a faint vibration like distant thunder, or . . . horses’ hooves. She raised herself up on Nara’s back and saw a plume of dust on the ridge of hills to the west. The vibrations grew louder. A dark form appeared on the horizon, then another, then many more. Nara and Eurus suddenly neighed a joyful greeting that pealed through e gathering and was echoed by every horse in the valley.

A herd of horses galloped down the hills and across the valley, then black coats shining in the sun. A small rider on a little Hunnuli ran just behind their leader. The clanspeople saw them, shouted in awe and delight, and stood aside to let them pass.

The gorthling, too, stared at the approaching horses, and for the first time since he had taken his mortal guise, he felt a pang of apprehension.

The herd thundered down to the river and plunged in with a tremendous, sparkling splash. They ran through the water as easily as air until the entire herd had encircled the island, cutting off the gorthling from the clans. Then the Hunnuli stopped, their heads turned toward the island. Sunlight glistened on their wet coats; their lightning marks gleamed on their shoulders. They pawed the water and snorted in anger.

Five of the horses charged toward the island, their hooves flashing, and their teeth bared. The gorthling clasped his hostage in front of him like a shield. He backed away to the shelter of the temple just as the enraged Hunnuli burst up on the shore, then swiftly revived his protective shield of magical energy. The five horses circled the temple warily and waited for their Icing’s command.