Lightnings Daughter

BY MARY H. HERBERT

PROLOGUE

Lord Branth slid into the shadowed entrance of a storage tent just as several enemy warriors dashed by. He drew a long, ragged breath and, for a moment, savored the warm darkness of his shelter.

Events were happening so fast. He could hardly believe he was hiding in the middle of this huge encampment---a camp that up until a little while ago had been the center of a victorious force of clan warriors and mercenaries under the ironfisted command of Lord Medb. Now, the camp was nothing more than a place of chaotic retreat.

Branth cocked his head to listen to the sounds outside the tent. He could stil hear the clash and yells of battle from the broad valley beyond the camp. His fingers curled tighter around the dagger he held.

The fools! he thought to himself. The Wylfling clan was still fighting. Didn't they realize the day had been lost when the sorceress had destroyed Lord Medb? Had they missed that stunning duel of magic?

Even now the forces of Medb's enemies, led by the Khulinin chieftain, Savaric, were sweeping over the val ey into the big camp to destroy the army.

Branth shrank back into the tent while more clan warriors ran by. Their gray cloaks identified them as Amnok. The Amnok had been Medb's al ies until the fury of the Khulinin and their forces had fallen upon them. Branth curled his lip. Cowards, all of them! His own clan, too, had betrayed him, laying down their weapons and leaving him alone to face his doom.

He had not stood idly by while that doom strove to catch him, however. Branth was Medb's second-in-command and would be executed without question if he were captured by Savaric's men. He was also practical and self-serving, a man who did not believe in wasting energy and blood on a lost cause.

No sooner had his clan abandoned him in the val ey, than Branth had decided it was time to grab what he could and leave. He had already packed a saddlebag with his own gear and two bags of gold taken from another chieftain's tent.

There was just one more thing Branth wanted before he left, a thing that would ensure the prosperity of his future. He wanted Lord Medb's
Book of Matrah.
The book was an ancient compilation of two hundred years of arcane study. The knowledge contained on its pages was priceless. Lord Medb had kept the book under close guard, but Branth knew where it was and he wanted to get his hands on it before it was discovered by anyone else.

Branth had a strong feeling that he had the inborn talent to wield magic, and, with the tome. he could learn the forbidden arts of sorcery. He would then exact his own revenge on the clans and the sorceress, Gabria, for the defeat and dishonor he had suffered this day. Al he had to do was get the book and escape before anyone found him.

Escaping was not going to be easy. He shifted an eye cautiously around the edge of the tent flap.

The way was clear for the moment, so he ran, zigzagging between the black felt tents toward the biggest dwel ing in the encampment.

More enemy warriors raced by, and several groups of Medb's mercenaries ran past, heading for the horses picketed at the east end of the camp. Branth avoided them al and kept moving until he reached the circle of tents around Lord Medb's big shelter.

He stopped abruptly and swerved behind an open tent flap.

Five warriors were standing by Medb's tent, watching another man take down the chieftain's brown banner. Branth swore furiously in a barely controlled whisper. The warriors wore the gold cloaks of the Khulinin.

One of the men turned sideways, and Branth recognized the handsome, hawk-nosed profile of Lord Savaric, the man who had stood up to Medb's unlawful bid for rule of the Ramtharin Plains.

Branth's curses died on his lips as he studied the chieftain and the tent where the book lay hidden, Savaric obviously felt the victory was his, for his sword was sheathed and only five of his hearthguard, his personal bodyguard, were with him.

Branth could not see anyone else close by. He pressed back into the shadows and wondered what to do. There was very little time left.

Suddenly a great roar of victory resounded through the val ey. Branth glanced out toward the mountains where the ruins of the ancient fortress of Ab-Chakan sat on its hill, overlooking the valley of the Isin River and the encampment of Medb's army. He could not see the val ey floor, where the battle was being fought, but he could make out the remnants of the four clans, who had taken refuge in the ruins, standing by the wal s and cheering. He glanced back at the six Khulinin and saw that they, too, were watching the spectacle. One man, a respected warrior named Bregan, was standing close to Lord Savaric.

At that moment, a commotion snared the warriors' attention. Several mercenaries were riding furiously through the tents toward Lord Savaric. It was unclear if they meant to attack or surrender, for their swords were drawn, but the blades were behind their backs. The hearthguard took no chances with the riders' intentions. They drew their own weapons and ran out to head off the mercenaries, leaving Savaric temporarily alone.

Branth did not waste a second. As soft-footed as a stalking cat he ran across the space between the tents and slipped up behind Savaric.

The Khulinin chieftain sensed his enemy's presence too late. As Savaric started to turn, Branth rammed his dagger into the man's back and up into his heart.

The chieftain grunted, a hard, surprised sound, and sagged to the ground. Branth jumped over the body, ran into the tent, and snatched the book from its hiding place. He was out and running before the other warriors realized what had happened.

His pleasure in the murder was confirmed when he heard Bregan's agonized cry, "Lord Savaric!" In a matter of moments, Branth found a saddled horse and was galloping out of the valley toward the east.

A vague idea formed in his mind as he rode. He would leave the plains for a while, until the clans'

emotions cooled and the events of this battle were mere memories. Maybe he would go to the city of Pra Desh in the kingdom of Calah. There he could study his book and perhaps sell his services to wealthy Pra Deshians willing to overlook the laws forbidding sorcery.

In time he would return to the Ramtharin Plains and remind the clans that their troubles had not ended with the death of Lord Medb.

CHAPTER ONE

Gabria stood motionless on the hard-packed floor and watched the faces of the clanspeople crowded in front of her in the chieftain's hall at Khulinin Treld.

Many she knew had come to the trial, and some of those she loved. Piers Arganosta, the healer of the Khulinin; Cantrell, the great bard; and Lady Tungoli, widow of Lord Savaric and mother of the new chieftain, were seated in the front rows, their faces creased in worry. Sadly, too many other faces in the crowd did not show worry. They wore looks of confusion, hostility, and unhappiness.

To her left, Gabria could see eight men and women seated on benches against the whitewashed wal s of the hal . Their expressions were deliberately blank as they attempted to watch the proceedings with open minds. Thalar, priest of the god Surgart, stood before the Khulinin and exhorted the chieftain and the people to reject the foul heresies of magic and to cast the evil sorceress out.

"Sorcery is an abomination!" he shouted. The priest was a short, squat man who made up for the inadequacies of his height with the volume of his voice.

Thalar had been shouting for some time now, and Gabria could sense Lord Athlone's mounting rage and frustration. Unfortunately the chief was behind her on his dais, and she was forbidden by the laws of the
getyne
to look at him. She must face her accusers and leave the chieftain free to act as an impartial' judge.

Gabria sighed and shifted her weight a little to ease her stiff back. The doors of the huge earthen hal were closed, and the heat from the crowd and the fire in the central hearth was growing uncomfortable. The smell of resin from the numerous torches overwhelmed the smells of leather, wood smoke, and sweat that usually permeated the meeting hall. Gabria badly wanted a drink of water, but she was not permitted to speak during the
getyne
, so she tried to ignore her thirst and concentrate on the faces before her.

This ordeal is all too familiar, she thought. Half a year ago, at the start of spring, her clan had been massacred by followers of Lord Medb. Without family or friends, she had come to Khulinin Treld and stood before the chieftain to ask for acceptance into the clan. Instead of revealing her identity as a woman and risking rejection, she had disguised herself as a boy and brought with her a legendary and rare Hunnuli horse she had rescued from wolves. The Khulinin had reluctantly chosen to take her in on Lord Savaric's recommendation.

Now, months later, the Khulinin had to choose again, but this time they knew the ful truth of Gabria's identity and her powers as a sorceress. Under normal circumstances, clan law prescribed death for a woman found guilty of hiding her sex in order to join a werod, the tribes' fighting units. The penalty for practicing the heretical arts of sorcery was also death. Yet in Gabria's case, the circumstances were far from normal. She had been the only person in the eleven clans able to face Lord Medb's sorcery and she had saved them all from annihilation or slavery. In thanks, the council of chieftains had released her from the punishment due a sorceress, but only under the condition that she not use magic again until the laws were revised. However, they did not release her from punishment within her new clan for her
other
crimes.

The new chieftain of the Khulinin, Lord Athlone, had made his feelings for Gabria known to his clan and had already paid the bride price to the priestess of the goddess, Amara.

The Khulinin knew they could not anger their chieftain or ruin the honor of the clan by putting Gabria to death. Nevertheless, the ancient laws could not be maintained if Gabria was allowed to go unpunished. Some penalty had to be meted out to calm the anger and resentment of the clanspeople.

Many of them, incited by Thalar, wanted Gabria exiled. Others wanted her tongue cut out so she could not speak the words needed to cast spells. Still others, though only a minority, felt she deserved a mild sentence. The controversy raged through the Khulinin during their trek home and continued even as they prepared the treld for the coming winter.

The emotions grew so high, Lord Athlone had finally stepped in to put an end to the furor. As chieftain, his powers were bound by the limits of clan law. He could have simply released Gabria from any judgment, but he was the son of a chief and had been wer-tain, commander of warriors, for several years. He knew when it was time to acquiesce to the demands of his people. Reluctantly, he had agreed several days past to hold a
getyne
, a form of clan trial in which a
tyne
, or jury, of eight decided the accused's guilt and punishment.

To Priest Thalar's fury, Lady Tungoli had insisted that the
tyne
be composed of four men and four women. Women did not usual y serve on a
tyne
, but the lady reasoned that, since Gabria's crimes encompassed so many issues, it was only fair that clanswomen should help judge her. Lord Athlone had agreed. And so four men---two elders, a warrior, and a weaver---and four women---the priestess of Amara, two wives, and a grandmother-gathered on a chilly autumn afternoon to decide Gabria's fate.

The sorceress shifted her weight again and pushed a strand of flaxen hair out of her eyes. The heat was growing worse. Beads of perspiration gathered on her forehead, and her long skirts hung on her like a heavy blanket. She wished the people would hurry and get this over.

Particularly Thalar. The priest's voice was still ringing loudly through the hall. With a small frown, Gabria tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

"I do not condemn the council of chieftains for releasing this woman from her justifiable execution," he cried, his voice thick with righteousness. "The chiefs were overcome with joy and relief at their release from the evil ambitions of Lord Medb. But they did not see then that they had only traded one evil for another. This magic-wielder," he pointed a finger at Gabria "still lives! The responsibility of wiping out this heretic has now fal en into our hands. We have a gods-given opportunity to show the clans of the Ramtharin Plains how we deal with magic-wielders. We do not tolerate them!" Thalar's voice rose to a thundering shout. "Khulinin, we must blot out this stain of sorcery before it spreads.

Fulfill the penalty of death. Kil the sorceress!" The words were barely out of the priest's mouth when the healer, Piers, leaped to his feet and demanded the right to speak.

"No! I am not finished,” Thalar shouted. He had the crowd's attention and wanted to press home his point.

Lord Athlone, however, had had enough of Thalar's rantings. "We have heard you for some time, Priest. Give the right to someone else. Piers, you may speak." The healer, ignoring Thalar's infuriated glare, turned to face the
tyne
. His pale skin and light, graying hair looked almost colorless in the dim light of the hal , but there was nothing lackluster about his speech. The old healer loved Gabria like a daughter and would have done anything to save her.