Free Winged Magic by Mary H. Herbert Page A

commander bellowed in credible Clannish.
    Eurus slid to a halt, his hooves sliding in the muddy earth. Lord Athlone carefully unbuckled his sword and held it out to show he came in peace. “I am Athlone, Lord of the Khulinin. I came only to learn of your trouble and offer our help.”
    “I know you,” the officer snapped. “You are one of those sorcerers, so you already know what disaster has overtaken us. Begone from here before I have your horses brought down.”
    Kelene felt her fury rise. Hunnuli were impervious to magic, but not to normal weapons. To her, the Turic’s threat was underhanded and unwarranted. She opened her mouth to say so when another figure appeared on the path behind the guards. The tall form stopped when he saw the clanspeople and shook his fist at them.
    “You!” he bellowed over the sounds of the storm. “Curse you for your deeds! What you have done this night will plunge our people into war!”
    It took the magic-wielders a moment to recognize Zukhara in the wild night; then Athlone raised his voice. “Whatever has happened, Counsellor, we have had no part in it. We came only to give our aid to the Shar-Ja.”
    “He will not see you,” Zukhara answered wrathfully. “He lies crushed in grief. His eldest son, the Shar-Yon, is dead.”
    A small, heartsick moan escaped Gabria’s lips, and she leaned over Nara’s neck. Her dream had been right.
    At that moment Sayyed galloped up on Afer, his head bare to the pouring rain. He had heard the counsellor’s last words, and his hand clenched tight on his stallion’s mane. Like most clansmen, he was unafraid to speak his mind before his chief or any other figure of authority. Immediately he shouted back, “Prove it, Counsellor! Show us the Shar-Yon’s body that we may see you do not lie for your own devices!”
    A roar of dissension burst from the guards, but Zukhara raised his hand to silence them. “I grant the Khulinin that right. Lord Athlone, you and your guard may enter if the others remain here. I want your word that you will keep your people under control. No weapons, no magic while you are in this camp.”
    Although the clanspeople could not see it, Zukhara’s mouth twisted into a smile of satisfaction while Lord Athlone gave his bond. “I must attend the Shar-Ja,” Zukhara called. “Officer, take the infidels to the Shar-Yon, then escort them off our land.” He turned on his heel and strode out of sight, his cloak snapping in the wind.
    The commander of the guards looked as if he would burst with outrage, but the Turics were more reserved and strict in their ranks, and he managed to stifle his objections to trusting a clansman. Grudgingly the guards parted before the Hunnuli.
    Athlone glanced apologetically at Gabria before jerking his head to Sayyed. The two men slid off their Hunnuli and followed the fuming commander. Five guards fell in behind them and followed them into the heart of the camp to the Shar-Yon’s large tent.
    On the riverbank, Gabria, Kelene, and Rafnir waited in growing impatience. The rain soaked them quickly in a cold, drenching downpour, and the Turic guards made no move to offer them shelter. The guardsmen simply stared balefully at them and kept their spears lowered. A long time passed before Athlone and Sayyed came trudging down the slope to rejoin them.
    Both men were speechless with anger and frustration. Curtly they took leave of the Turics, remounted their Hunnuli, and trotted down to the ford. Kelene, Gabria, and Rafnir traded glances, but they would not ask any questions until Athlone was ready to talk. They fell in behind and thankfully recrossed the river.
    As soon as they reached the opposite bank, Gaalney, Morad, and several chiefs came running to meet them. Athlone spoke a vehement curse and slid off Eurus. His anger smouldered in his movements and in his words. “The Shar-Yon is dead,” he told the listening people.
    “How did it happen?” Rafnir demanded.
    The reply came hard and