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

and looked down at him. The man, an old weaver from the Bahedin, felt a strange shiver run down his back. "Oh, I thought you were someone else." He looked curiously at the tal , silent man, then took a closer look. His eyebrows drew together with consternation. "That cloak. Where did you get it? The embroidery on the hem looks like my son's."

The stranger did not answer. He shoved off the weaver's arm and started to walk away.

"Wait!" the Bahedin cal ed loudly. Alarmed now, he caught up again with the man and yanked him around. "Answer me! You're not Bahedin. Who are you?"

The stranger clamped his hand around the weaver's neck and snarled, "The sorceress. Where is she?"

The old man's eyes bugged out in fear. He tried to pull away, but the merciless grip only tightened around his neck.

"Where is the sorceress?" the stranger hissed. He lifted the struggling weaver into the air with one hand. The Bahedin's face went red, then blue.

Someone screamed close by. Al the people in the vicinity turned to stare and several came out of their tents. A short, elderly woman charged up the path, flung herself at the stranger's back, and pummeled him with her fists. She was screaming with fright and fury, and her cries brought people running.

The gorthling cursed. He was not ready yet to draw so much attention to himself or his powers. He wanted to find the sorceress first. Annoyed, he threw the weaver to the ground and backhanded the woman with a stunning blow that sent her reeling into a wicker corral. His violent motion knocked his hood off, and the sun shone ful on his face. He paid no attention to the shocked clanspeople who gathered around the fal en couple. He ignored the shouts of the people behind him and continued walking down the path. Close by, a voice cried in stunned disbelief, "Branth! That's Lord Branth."

Other clanspeople stared at the gorthling in open disbelief as he strode by. A loud, angry commotion was building in the two camps and spreading outward in ripples of outrage and disbelief as word of Branth's arrival flew from tent to tent.

The gorthling's lips curled in a wicked grin. Let them yap, he thought. Perhaps the uproar would attract the sorceress and bring her to him. He was growing impatient. Although he studied every female he saw, he did not see any that matched the description of the clan's only magic-wielder. He passed the fringes of the Dangari camp and went down to the banks of the Goldrine.

He glanced back and saw armed men advancing on him from the Dangari camp, sunlight glinting off their blades. Across the river, where the council tent stood in its grove of cottonwood trees, several clansmen were attracted by the loud commotion and gathered on the bank.

Branth hesitated, looking up and down the river where other camps were clustered along the shores. Several women were standing in the shallows nearby, staring at him, their washing hanging from their hands. He was about to turn and head for another camp, when the armed warriors jumped him.

Jubilantly they bound his hands behind his back and searched him for weapons. To their surprise, all they found was a heavy, leather-bound book in a pack slung on his shoulder. A huge crowd gathered, and many of the people shouted threats. Here at last was a scapegoat for some of their pent-up anger, grief, and resentment for the previous summer's bloodshed.

The gorthling watched them with an ugly sneer on his face. He would go along with this farce for a little while longer, just to see if these noisy humans would take him to those who commanded their tribes. Their leaders might know where the sorceress was hiding.

The Dangari warriors shoved Branth down the bank and hauled him across the river to where their chieftain stood, framed by the open entrance of the council tent. Much of the crowd fol owed, trampling through the water like a herd of horses. The Dangari brought their prisoner to stand before Lord Koshyn, Lord Sha Umar, Lord Wortan of the Geldring, old Lord Jol of the Murjik, and Wer-tain Guthlac. Together the men faced the bound prisoner while the crowd pushed around in a shouting, gesturing ring.

Lord Koshyn held up his hand for silence. The onlookers gradually fell quiet as their curiosity got the better of their hostility.

Koshyn studied the man before him and tried to quel a growing uneasiness. He did not like Branth's strange arrival. No exiled man under penalty of death just wanders into a clan gathering without a powerful reason. Then, too, if Athlone went to Pra Desh to find Branth and Branth appeared at the Tic Samod---what did that say of Lord Athlone's fate? The Dangari narrowed his eyes. There was a strange aura of menace about the prisoner that made the hairs rise on Koshyn's neck. Something about Branth was very different.

The chieftain turned to his men. "Was he armed?"

"No, Lord. He only had this with him." One of the warriors handed the leather bag to the chief.

Koshyn felt his hands grow cold when he looked in the bag. “The Book of Matrah," he said aloud.

His uneasiness boiled into full alarm.

Lord Jol drew a sharp breath and edged away from the book. The other chiefs looked at one another with mixed expressions of suspicion and confusion.

After he handed the bag back to his warrior, Koshyn squared his shoulders. "You are under penalty of death,” he said to Branth. "Why did you come back?"

The gorthling sneered. Death? That was a joke. He drew himself up to Branth's ful height and stared out over the crowd, looking for the sorceress. He still wanted to find her before he blasted these annoying mortals to burned bits.

"Branth," Sha Umar said sharply, "you are condemned to die for conspiracy, treason, and murder.

You can choose your own manner of death