Lightnings Daughter

by Mary H. Herbert

  Gabria shrugged and turned the mask over in her hands. "I don't know. It holds some kind of arcane power, but I can't tel what the spel is supposed to do."

  The Turic rose to his feet and flashed his grin. "Too bad it can't talk."

  The young woman nodded absently. She studied the gold mask while the others ate their meal and watered the horses, yet she discovered nothing that was useful. There were no inscriptions, etched designs, or markings of any kind on the metal. It was simply a man's face with an enigmatic expression.

  Final y she wrapped the mask back in its cloth and packed it with her belongings. For the rest of the day she mul ed over the puzzle of the mask and stil could find no answer.

  *****

  The party trailed Branth for seven days after leaving Moy Tura and drew no closer to the elusive exile. He was moving faster now that he knew someone was following him, and the travelers were hard pressed to keep pace with him. To their dismay, he seemed to be pul ing ahead of them as he trekked south across the plains. Al of them wondered where he was going and what he would do next. On the eighth day they found part of their answer.

  That morning dawned clear and warm, hinting of the hot afternoon to come. A light breeze blew about the hills, and meadowlarks dipped and fluttered after grasshoppers. The party was riding south, following Branth's trail along the flank of a long, low ridge, when the Hunnuli abruptly stopped and neighed an alarm.

  Gabria, death birds! Nara warned her rider.

  The sorceress saw the birds then---a large flock of black vultures circling low over a place beyond the hil s ahead. "Look," she cried, pointing them out to everyone.

  They gal oped urgently toward the place, rode to the top of a high hil , and looked down upon a small valley lined with trees. The birds were swinging over a clear space not far from a meandering creek.

  "Oh, gods,” Athlone breathed.

  Gabria bit her lip to stifle the sick feeling that rose in her stomach. The scene in the clearing below looked hideously familiar to her.

  "Keth, stay here with Tam and the horses,” Athlone ordered. The warrior was glad to comply.

  The rest dismounted and walked down the long slope to the clearing by the creek. Several vultures squawked and flapped into the trees.

  Twelve people lay scattered in huddled, lifeless heaps-five men, four women, and three children wearing the orange clan cloaks of the Bahedin. Their carts and belongings were torn apart and thrown carelessly among the bodies. The horses and other animals were gone.

  Piers hurried to examine them, but as he turned the mangled bodies over and checked their pal id faces, it became very clear they were al dead.

  While the healer was occupied with the corpses, Athlone and the others looked for signs of Branth.

  They had little doubt that he was responsible for the massacre.

  "They were traveling with ful carts and their tents. They must have been latecomers trying to catch up with their clan on the way to the Tir Samod,” Athlone said bitterly as he examined the wreckage of a cart. This slaughter sickened him.

  The Bahedin had long been al ies of the Khulinin, and they had stood with Athlone's father against Lord Medb at Ab-Chakan.

  Gabria's face was pale under her tan. "On their way to the gathering." She turned away from the body of a young woman and swallowed hard. Flies were swarming around the dead girl’s face, and vultures had been pecking at her eyes.

  Secen joined Athlone and said, "Lord, I can only find sign of one man other than the Bahedin. It is as we suspected.”

  The chief cursed. "Branth."

  "The hoof prints are from the same horse we have been fol owing, and the boot prints seem to match the ones we saw in Moy Tura."

  Piers hurried over, his face strained and white.

  "They're all dead,” Athlone stated rather than asked.

  The healer nodded. "Yesterday. They were tortured."

  Secen looked sick. Athlone raised his fist and brought it down on the side of the cart. "Why! Why is he doing this?" he shouted.

  Treader began to bark furiously. Come! I am at the creek! his barks told the magic-wielders.

  At the same moment, Sayyed yelled, "Gabria, Lord Athlone, over here. Quick'" Something in his voice spurred Gabria and the men into an instant response. They ran toward the sound of the Turic's shouts and Treader's excited barking. As they passed beyond a copse of trees sheltering the riverbank, they came to a sudden halt.

  Sayyed stood on the bank, holding the frantic dog by the scruff of the neck. In shocked silence, he stared at a corpse that had been impaled on a sword against the trunk of a tree. The, man's body hung so high his feet did not touch the ground, and they could tel his death had been painful by his wide, staring eyes and the hideous grimace twisting his features. He was an older man, with a lined, weathered face. His filthy, bloodstained tunic had a golden horse, the emblem of a herdsman, embroidered on the left breast.

  "I tried to loosen the sword," Sayyed said, his voice tight with fear and wonder. "But he . . . moved."

  "That's impossible," Athlone snapped. "He's dead."

  The chieftain reached out to grasp the sword pinning the dead Bahedin. He yanked at it several times, then, as Sayyed had warned, the man jerked to life. As Athlone fell back in horror, the herdsman lifted his head. His lifeless eyes stared down at the travelers, and the pain-racked mouth groaned a.

  horrible, bubbling sound of agony.

  The warriors backed away, their eyes wide with shock. Treader cowered down against Sayyed's feet. Only Piers stepped forward. He reached up to find the man's pulse.

  "By the holy gods,” Piers exclaimed, snatching his hand away. "This man is dead! His skin is as cold as stone. He has no heartbeat. Look, he's not even breathing."

  "Greetings, hunters. I know you are following me.”

  They turned back to the corpse, who spoke again, his voice raspy and hollow. "I have left this message for you so you will know with whom you are dealing. If you are smart, you will turn back while you are still able."

  The dead man looked from one clansman to another. "I was brought here from the realm of Sorh by one of your kind---Lord Branth. I intend to remain here. I have learned from the people who lie dead nearby that there is only one magic-wielder left in the clans, and only she might possess the power to challenge me. I intend to seek her out."

  Gabria gasped, and Athlone moved closer to her.

  The corpse added, "If you wish to find me, I am going to the gathering of the clans." The dead man emitted a harsh, hideous laugh. "I have plans for the people of Valorian."

  Abruptly the herdsman's head jerked, his voice stopped and his body sagged against the sword.

  There was a long, silent pause before Piers tentatively reached up and closed the dead man's eyes.

  "Good gods, what was that?" Secen murmured.

  "A spell," Gabria replied, her voice as hollow as the dead man's. She was staring at the corpse. Her skin had gone deathly pale, and her knees were weak. "Branth---or whatever he has become---put a spel on this man to speak that message.”

  "Whatever he has become,” Athlone repeated. "What do you mean?"

  Gabria's shoulders sagged. "It claims to be from the realm of Sorh. I'm not sure, but I think there is only one such creature that can be summoned by sorcery: a gorthling."

  “What's a gorthling?" Sayyed demanded.

  When the woman did not answer, Athlone said, "They're monsters from our ancient stories.

  They're supposed to be creatures of immortal evil."

  "They're not just stories. Gorthlings exist,” Gabria whispered. "The Woman of the Marsh warned me about them." Her eyes held a faraway look. She crossed her arms over her chest and took a deep breath.

  The men were silent as they tried to absorb the meaning of what they had heard. Athlone and Piers moved to the tree to take the dead Bahedin down. This time when the chieftain yanked at the sword, the man remained lifeless, his soul forever lost to death. They pulled the sword free
and gently lowered him to the ground.

  They carried the dead herdsman to the spot where his fellow Bahedin lay. A vulture squawked as they approached the bodies, and a few others that had landed nearby sidled away from the Khulinin.

  "What do we do with them?" Sayyed asked, indicating the dead clanspeople.

  "Bury them,” Gabria said flatly.

  "We don't have time. That wil put us farther behind Branth,” Athlone reminded her.

  She looked down at the dead herdsman. "Someone buried my clan when I could not. Maybe it was the Bahedin. We could at least burn them. Someone else can build their mound." The chief nodded. As badly as he wanted to catch up with Branth---or the gorthling that had sided with him---he knew she was right. They could not leave the slain clanspeople to the scavengers.

  The task took Gabria and the men the rest of the morning. Using wood from the Bahedin's carts, dead tree limbs, dried brush, or anything that would burn, they built a bier and laid the thirteen men and women side by side with their tools, weapons, jewelry, and the necessities for their journey out of man’s world. Keth and Tam brought the horses down, and the little girl watched solemnly as Gabria sang the songs of the dead and lit the fire under the bier. The smoke rose high above the plains, its acrid smel driving the vultures away one by one.

  By noon the party was on Branth's trail again, heading south. They rode hard, their anger and worry following at their heels. They found a place to camp at sunset in a hollow between two hills. Gabria built a fire, and everyone gathered around the bright warmth. No one felt like talking.

  It was Gabria who finally broke the silence. She lifted her head and stared up at the brilliant stars overhead. "Athlone, I want to go see the Oathbreakers." The men started in surprise.

  "No," the chief said automatically.

  Gabria continued to look at the sky, her mind busy behind her eyes. "I wil go without you if I have to."

  Athlone closed his eyes and swal owed the anger he felt at her defiant tone. "Why? Why them?"

  "They may be the only ones who can help me."

  "Help you what?" he demanded.

  Gabria lowered her eyes and shook her head. "They have a few books from the days of the old sorcerers in their citadel. I think Seth might be able to help me find something I could use to fight the gorthling."

  "How can you be sure this is a gorthling? All you have are the magic words of a dead man,” Athlone said angrily.

  "I'm not certain, but everything fits. Branth summoned something evil and now he is slaughtering every human in his sight. He has changed, we have al sensed that. I think he has been overcome by a gorthling. That's how they work; they possess a host body and wreak havoc using it as a tool."

  "So why don't we kil its host body?" Sayyed suggested.

  "We could do that, but a gorthling is immortal. It would simply take another body as host.”

  Athlone leaned forward. "Then how do we destroy it?"

  Gabria threw her hands up in the air and cried, "I don't know! The gorthling is a creature of magic and must be fought with magic. That's why I must see the Oathbreakers.”

  The Turic gestured to himself and Athlone. "We are magic-wielders. We can help."

  The woman shook her head wildly. "I can't teach you enough to fight something as powerful as a gorthling. Look at what it did to al of those people. It would slaughter you. I couldn't bear that."

  "And what if it kills you?" Athlone said. "Who will fight it then? Do you expect us to just stand by and watch you face it alone?”

  Gabria felt her heart leap. This was the first time Athlone had spoken to her about using his talent.

  Nevertheless, she forced her excitement down and shook her head. She did not want him learning sorcery just so he could die at the hand of a gorthling. "Athlone, let's start by learning how to fight this creature. Then we will worry about who will destroy it.”

  Athlone drew a deep breath. "All right. We'll go talk to the Oathbreakers. Just you and I. The others will follow Branth so we won't lose his trail.”

  The hearthguard warriors protested. They feared the Oathbreakers, as did any sensible man of the Dark Horse Plains, but they were equally intent on fulfilling their duty to protect their chieftain.

  "That's an order," Athlone told them. "There's no sense angering Seth and his fellow cultists by bringing all of you. Gabria and I will be all right. You'll have enough to worry about just keeping up with Branth."

  The three warriors agreed reluctantly, and Gabria nodded with relief. She knew Sayyed was not happy to be left with the other warriors, but he, too, had to accept the decision.

  Later, as she packed the death mask in the smal bag of belongings she would take with her, the sorceress wondered if Seth could tell her something about the golden artifact, too. She dismissed that hope immediately; it was possible that the Oathbreakers would refuse to talk to her at all.

  * * * * *

  The Khulinin left their camp shortly after sunrise the next morning. Secen led his group south on Branth's trail while Athlone, Gabria, and the three Hunnuli turned west to seek the citadel of Krath in the northern tip of the Himachal Mountains.

  Athlone estimated it would take almost four days to reach the citadel, talk to Seth, and catch up again with the rest of the party. He hoped with all his heart that this trip to see the Oathbreakers was worthwhile. He had his doubts. The cult of Krath guarded their secrets jealously. They had gained the title' Oathbreakers by forsaking their vows of fealty to clan and chieftain and shunning their own people for the desolation of their mountain temple. Even if they had the information Gabria sought, they would not help her out of loyalty to the clans.

  Athlone could not stifle a cold feeling of dread at the thought of the Men of the Lash, as the cultists were known. A cloak of suspicion born of whispered rumors and stories of heinous deeds hung on the Oathbreakers' shoulders. Unlike the men of the clans, who worshiped two male gods, the Men of the Lash worshiped Krath, the dark sister of Amara. But where the goddess Amara embodied the positive aspects of femininity, her sister represented the dark, less predictable facets.

  Krath was the ruler of unbridled passion and violence, of secrecy and jealousy. Her power to destroy lay in ways that were either slow and subtle or sudden and unexpected.

  Accordingly, Krath's followers became highly trained killers whose religious goals were to perform perfect murders in the service of their bloodthirsty mistress. The men used no metal in their arts. Their only weapons were their bodies, their whips, and their finely crafted killing instruments of leather and stone. It was said an Oathbreaker could snap a man's neck with his bare hands or remove a head with a flick of a vicious black whip.

  The clanspeople looked on the Cult with aversion and fear. It was not the Oathbreakers' bloodlust that the clans despised, but the subterfuge they practiced. Their silent, furtive, deliberate style of killing was incomprehensible to the men of the clans. The cultists, for their part, preserved their secretive ways. They had scorned the clans for generations and held themselves aloof in their secret stronghold.

  As he approached that stronghold, Athlone missed Bregan's strong, solid presence more than ever.

  The loss of the warrior was a real blow. Athlone would have appreciated Bregan's level head and experience when the time came to deal with the Oathbreakers. The chief’s hand tightened unconsciously around his sword hilt. If he had to, he would tear down the citadel of Krath stone by stone to get the help Gabria needed to destroy Branth. That murderer had too much clan blood on his hands to remain in this world.

  The next day, Gabria and Athlone saw the gray-blue humps of the Himachal Mountains rise above the horizon. The Himachals were a much smal er mountain range than the mighty Darkhorns. They did not have the tal peaks and snow-covered summits, and they rose only to a modest height above the plains, yet their slopes were steep and rugged with an almost impenetrable wilderness of heavy timber and underbrush.

  Fortunately, Gabria and Athlone did not have to
enter the wildness of the mountainside. The citadel of Krath was located in the northern end of the range, in the foothills not far from Geldring Treld.

  The citadel was not hard to find, but almost impossible to enter.

  The weather had been clear and warm for several days, but that afternoon the wind shifted and began to pile clouds together. The horizon to the north turned iron-gray, its line edged with towering, white-capped clouds. Gabria and Athlone did not need to urge the Hunnuli faster to avoid the storm.

  The animals sensed the coming rain and picked up their pace. By late afternoon the riders spotted the citadel of Krath on a promontory a few leagues to the south in the tree-clad flanks of the mountains.

  They altered their route and hurried south ahead of the rain.

  Before long, they came to an old stone road that paralleled the mountain peaks. Gabria and the chieftain recognized the stonework immediately as that of the ancient men, the Sons of the Eagle, who had conquered the plains long before the clans had arrived. The men from the west had also built the fortress of Ab-Chakan, which lay only a few days' journey to the south. The road ran past Ab-Chakan and the Isin River, then vanished somewhere near Dangari Treld in the southern end of the mountains.

  For much of its length, the road was very old and concealed beneath a net of grass and shrubs, but it was clear and easy to follow in the rough foothills. Gratefully the Hunnuli took to the road and hurried on.

  Gradual y they drew closer to the citadel. The horses came to a stop at the foot of the mass of rock upon which it rested, and Gabria and Athlone looked up in dread at the black towers. The two riders could not help but shudder. Neither of them had ever been there before, for the clanspeople avoided the stronghold like a plague camp. Few men who dared enter the confines of the citadel survived to tell of the adventure.

  The citadel sat on top of a rocky promontory overlooking a wooded valley. A trail forked off the main road and wound up the precipitous slope to the only visible entrance into the closely guarded stronghold. As far as the travelers could see, the citadel consisted of a massive central keep topped by needle-sharp towers of black granite and surrounded by a high, crenellated wall of the same dark stone.