Lightnings Daughter, Mary Herbert [year 7 reading list .TXT] 📗

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