Valorian (3 page)

"What if he's heard everything we've said?"

Their leader laughed a sharp sound of derision. "He's a clansman. He can't do anything about it, and the rest of the empire wil know soon enough."

Even the sarturian's scorn couldn't stifle the thin smile that twitched across Valorian's lips. Fully alert now, the hunter continued to feign sleep while the Tarnish soldiers bedded down under their blankets and the fire died to embers.

When the men were snoring and the clearing was dense with mist and darkness, the clansman rose from his place under the tree. He retrieved his saddle and slipped away silently into the night.

At dawn, Valorian found Hunnul in a meadow down the valley, not far from the clearing where the Tarnish soldiers were beginning to stir. The hunter whistled to the stal ion, and he watched with satisfaction as the big horse came cantering toward him, his mane and tail flowing like black smoke.

Quickly he saddled Hunnul, then turned his mount south, away from his home camp.

Valorian had some time to think about what he had heard that night as he tried to sleep in the meager shelter of a thicket. He mulled over the soldiers' words with growing excitement until he had decided to extend his hunt. His family's winter camp lay to the north, and he had already been gone longer than he had intended; his wife, Kierla, would be worrying. But he still had no meat, and somewhere—to the south, he believed—was a pass—the only pass he had ever heard of that was low and wide enough to al ow wagons to travel over the towering Darkhorn Mountains. He would hunt to the south. Perhaps if the gods were watching over him, he would find both meat and the pass.

For two more days, the hunter rode south toward the borders between Chadar and Sarcithia, deep into country where he had never traveled before. He studied the unfamiliar peaks with the practiced eye of a man born in the shadows of the mountains and saw nothing that resembled a usable pass. He searched for game, any game that would feed his people, but he didn't even see a hoof print. The rain continued to fall from a low, dismal roof of clouds, washing the streams out of their banks, turning the earth to glutinous mud, and washing out all signs of game. Valorian's clothes and gear grew sodden, and even his skill as a woodsman couldn't coax the soaking wood to flame.

On the third day, he turned Hunnul deeper into the foothil s. Throughout the morning, they rode higher and higher into the skirts of the towering Darkhorns toward a tall, bare ridge that afforded an unobstructed view of the long range of peaks.

"If we don't find something soon, Hunnul, we'll have to go back home empty-handed," Valorian remarked as the horse struggled up the steep slope of the ridge.

Hunnul scrambled up to the top of the crest before he paused to snort as if in reply. His sides heaved with his exertion, and his nostrils flared red.

Valorian patted the stallion's damp neck. He saw nothing strange in talking to his horse as if to a good friend. Hunnul was an intel igent animal and seemed to understand much of what his master said to him. The hunter only regretted that the stal ion couldn't respond in kind. He spent so much time on horseback, it would be pleasant to have someone to talk to once in a while.

The clansman let his horse rest for a time while he gazed at the land around him in disgust. There wasn't much to see. Rain was everywhere. It hid the mountains in an impenetrable cloud, effectively blocking any hope Valorian had of spotting the pass or any game.

He slammed his fist against the pommel of his saddle. "By the gods," he exclaimed. "It's rained for fourteen days! When is it going to stop?"

A sudden crack of thunder made him flinch. He stared up at the iron-gray sky in surprise. This was early spring, rather soon for thunderstorms. But al clanspeople knew the thunder was real y the sound of the steeds of Nebiros, the messenger of the god of the dead. Perhaps Nebiros himself had been sent to fetch a soul.

Another bolt of lightning seared across the sky, fol owed by a tremendous crack of thunder. The wind suddenly gusted over the ridge, snapping at Valorian's cloak. Hunnul flattened his ears and pranced sideways.

Valorian felt his muscles tighten with nervousness. He had never liked lightning. "Come on, boy.

Let's get off this ridge and find some shelter."

The horse was quick to obey. They found an outcropping on a hil side nearby that offered some relief from the wind and the torrent of rain that poured from the sky. The lightning and thunder continued unabated for a long time until the hil s reverberated with the sound and fury.

Irritably Valorian stood by Hunnul's steaming side and ate the last of his trail bread while his thoughts slogged morosely through his mind. When the afternoon was late and the rain was still falling, Valorian reluctantly decided that, meat or no meat, it was time to go home. He would have to try again some other time to find the pass.

At last the rain eased to an intermittent drizzle, and the wind died to mere gusts. The lightning and thunder seemed to move farther to the south.

Depressed and weary, the clansman rode his horse to the top of the ridge again for one final look at the mountains. The clouds had lifted a little with the passing of the thunderstorm, revealing a glimpse of the imposing ramparts of the Darkhorns.

Valorian's mouth tightened. He hated those mountains. As long as those great peaks blocked his people to the east and the Tarnish Empire forced them out of the west, they had no hope of survival. If the Clan was to continue, they had to escape. They had to find a way over the mountains and out of the grasp of the Tarns.

"We have to locate that pass, Hunnul," Valorian said forcefully. The stallion's ears cocked back to listen. "If we could just find it, I could give Lord Fearral positive proof that a path over the mountains real y exists. Then he'd have no excuse not to bring the Clan together and seek the Ramtharin Plains!"

There was a pause, then the man threw his hands wide. "Imagine it, Hunnul! A realm of sky and grass, there for the taking. No Tarns, no tribute or taxes, no General Tyrranis. Freedom to raise our horses and our families. Freedom to be as we once were! If I could only convince Lord Fearral . . ."

Valorian lapsed into silence and stared morosely at the curtains of clouds and rain to the south. If the clanspeople deserved the ridicule and scorn of the Tarnish Empire, Lord Fearral was one reason why.

In the time of Valorian's grandfather, the Clans had been a proud people who had roamed the fertile lands of Chadar in large, loosely knit nomadic bands, each ruled by a lord chieftain. They had been fierce warriors, excellent stockmen, and good neighbors to the sedentary tribes of Chadarians who populated the riverbanks and valleys of the country.

Clan life had followed a smooth and natural course, until the armies of the Tarn had invaded Chadar. The clansmen had tried ferociously to defend their land, but the Chadarians surrendered to the armies and refused to help. The large, heavily armed infantry legions decimated the mounted Clan warriors, massacred entire camps of women and children, and drove the survivors into the bleak and barren Bloodiron Hil s in the northern Darkhorns. The people had remained there ever since, penned in, isolated, and rejected.

Since that time, nearly eighty years ago, the Clans had lost many of their traditions and much of their pride. They had dwindled to a single Clan composed of a few ragged family bands who paid homage to one old lord chieftain. Their rich pastures, large herds, and the accumulated wealth of generations were gone. They managed to eke out a bare subsistence through hunting, foraging, and petty thievery.

Everything else they had went as tribute to General Tyrranis.

Valorian recognized the futility of fighting the Tarnish Empire to regain what was lost, but he couldn't give up hope for his people. If they couldn't survive where they were, then he firmly believed they had to seek a new home.

The problem was convincing his wife's uncle, Lord Fearral. The timorous old chieftain was as hidebound as an old cow. Valorian had tried several times to plead with the chieftain to bring the scattered families together and lead them somewhere to new lands. Fearral had refused. Without more definite hope and specific information about their destination, the aged lord wouldn't even attempt a move. The Darkhorns were too dangerous, he told Valorian repeatedly, to warrant such a foolhardy journey. Besides, General Tyrranis would never allow the Clan to leave their place in the hills. The chieftain was adamant.

Now, though, Valorian hoped that if he could bring news of a pass over the mountains and a land free of Tarn's grip, it would sway Fearral to at least send out scouts and begin making plans.

If only he could find the pass so he could be certain. A sudden impulse born of deep emotion brought his hand to his sword. With the ancient war cry of his people, Valorian drew his weapon and flourished it at the sky.

"Hear me, O gods!" he shouted. "Our people are dying! Show me a way to save them. Help me find Wolfeared Pass!"

At that instant, in the heart of the thunderstorm south of the high ridge, an incredible power burst into incandescent existence. Brilliantly hot and deadly, it knifed through the cold air like a divine bolt and exploded out of the confines of the storm. In the space of a heartbeat, the lightning arced to earth and found a conductor of metal as its target.

With unearthly force, it struck the helmet and sword of the clansman. Its power seared down his arm, through his head, into his body, and continued down through his horse.

Valorian arched over backward, connected for an eternal second to the power of the gods, and then his world exploded in fire and light. The thunder boomed around him, but he didn't hear it. Both horse and rider were dead before their bodies crashed to earth.

The first thing Valorian grew aware of was a vast, unutterable silence. It pressed against his senses with a strange heaviness as empty and still as death. Gone were the sounds of the wind and rain, of wet leather creaking, and the clop of Hunnul's hooves on stone. There was simply nothing.

Ever so slowly Valorian raised his head and opened his eyes. The world he had known was still there, but it seemed to be fading into a pale, slightly luminous light, like a dream that ends before waking. Valorian was shocked to realize that he was standing upright, yet he couldn't feel anything. He had no weight on his legs, or soggy clothing on his cold skin, or even a headache from his fall.

All at once the revelation hit him as hard as the lightning. With a cry, he whirled around and saw his body lying twisted and motionless beside the still form of his horse. A wisp of smoke rose from his broken helmet.

There was a feeling in Valorian's mind like the shattering of glass that shook him to the depths of his soul. Fury fil ed him, and he bel owed with al his might, "No! This cannot be!" His voice sounded strange in the unearthly stillness, yet it was a relief to hear any noise. He shouted again just to break up the frightening silence.

Something moved close by, causing him to turn again, and he came face-to-face with Hunnul. The black stallion, apparently unmarked by the drastic change that had befallen them, nickered nervously and crowded close to his master. The saddle, or the image of the saddle, with all of his gear, was still cinched to Hunnul's back.

Valorian's anger receded a little in the comfort of the stallion's presence. He reached out to touch Hunnul, and his fingers felt the warm, black hide—until he pushed a little harder and his hand went right through the horse.

Frightened and furious again, Valorian shook his fist at the sky and shouted.
"We're dead!
All you holy gods, is this how you answer a prayer? Why now? Why us?"

The clansman abruptly paused. A faint sound intruded into the silence, a sound like distant thunder. Gradually it grew louder, drawing closer from a distance that had no direction.

Valorian drew a harsh breath. "The Harbingers." He should have remembered they would come.

They were the riders of Nebiros's steeds and the messengers of Sorh, the god of the dead, who came to escort every soul that passed beyond the mortal world. They took the newly deceased to the realm of the dead to face the judgment of Lord Sorh.

"Not this time," Valorian cried. "I won't go. I can't, Hunnul. I won't leave my wife and family to the Tarns and starvation. Not while I can bring the hope of escape." Even as he spoke, the thundering noise became audible as hoof beats.

From out of the glimmering light where the mountain range had vanished came four white riders on pale steeds galloping toward him with the speed of diving eagles.

The hunter looked around angrily for a weapon or some means of holding off the Harbingers. He spotted his sword lying several paces away from his dead body, and in more hope than knowledge, he lunged for it. His hand closed around the hilt and hefted it. It felt real enough to him.

Forged of braided iron and decorated with silver, the weapon had been burned black and its tip warped by the power of the lightning. At that moment, Valorian didn't care. The hilt still fit comfortably into his grip, and the weapon sang through the air as he swung it in a wide arc.

The clansman shouted with relief, sprang to his horse, and brandished his weapon at the oncoming steeds. "Sorh honors me by sending four," he shouted to Hunnul, "but they wil have to return without me."

Hunnul pranced sideways, infected by his master's agitation. Together they watched the four immortal escorts come gal oping out of the sky to take them to the realm of Sorh. As the Harbingers drew closer, Valorian could see they were male in appearance, dressed in battle gear that shone with an icy light, and apparently unarmed. He studied them curiously. No living person knew what the Harbingers looked like, for very, very few souls died and returned to life. Valorian had never personally known a man or woman who had come back from death. Nevertheless, it was said that others had done it, and their success gave him hope. If he could just hold off the shining riders, they might let him go.

The four riders were almost upon him when he kicked Hunnul and shouted the Clan war cry. The stallion lunged forward into the midst of the white horses, squealing and snapping like a maddened creature. Valorian, his expression carved in adamant fury, swung his sword left and right at the riders.