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played.
    The girl laughed and, for a moment, she leaned gratefully against the mare's strong shoulder.
    They returned to their camp, and Gabria added the final touch to her disguise. She had not washed her clothes, so they were stil filthy with mud, sweat, and dried blood. She wrinkled her nose as she slipped on the black tunic. It smelled horrible and three days had not inured her nose to the stink. She rubbed din onto her face and hands and into her hair. If al went wel , no one would look past the filth to realize she was not a boy. Later, she would have to devise another trick to hide her face until the clansmen became used to her. She did not want to remain filthy forever.
    She fastened her short sword to the leather belt around her waist. Her father's dagger, with its silver hilt encrusted with garnets, was thrust into her boot. She picked up her pack, threw her cloak over her shoulder, and took a deep breath.

    Nara sprang to the top of the ridge and neighed a bold, resounding cal of greeting. The Hunnuli's call pealed through the pastures of Khulinin field and echoed from the far hills. Every horse below raised its head, and Nara's cry was greeted by the clarion neigh of a stallion.
    The game had begun.

CHAPTER THREE
    The stranger rode into the treld at morning, just as the horns were recalling the dawn watch. He was flanked by two outriders, who kept a wary and respectful distance from the Hunnuli mare which dwarfed the Harachan stal ions they rode. The people froze, appal ed, as he passed by, and they stared at his back in utter dismay. The news spread quickly through the tents. Men and women, whispering in fearful speculation, gathered behind the three riders and fol owed them up the main road through the encampment.
    The stranger appeared to be a boy of fourteen or fifteen years with a lithe figure and features obscured by a mask of dirt. His light gold hair was chopped shorter than normal for a boy his age and was just as filthy as his face. He sat on the Hunnuli easily, his body relaxed, but his face was tense and he stared fixedly ahead, ignoring the crowd behind him. On his shoulders, like a blazon of fire and death, was a scarlet cloak.
    The cloak was nothing unusual. Every clansman of the steppes wore one, but only one small clan, the Corin, wore cloaks of blood red. According to recent messengers, that clan had been completely massacred only twelve days before. Some said by sorcery.
    Who was this strange boy who wore the cloak of a murdered clan? And to ride a Hunnuli! Not even in the tales told by the bards had anyone known of a boy taming a wild Hunnuli, especially one as magnificent as this mare. She shone like black lacquer overlayed on silver and walked with the tense, wary pride of a war horse. She wore no trappings arid would tolerate none. The observers could not help but marvel how a boy, not even a warrior yet, had won the friendship of one such as she. That tale alone would be worth the listening.
    By the time the three riders reached the circular gathering place before the werod hal , most of the clan had gathered and were waiting. The boy and his escort dismounted. No words were spoken and the silence was heavy. Then five men, their swords drawn and their golden cloaks rippling down their backs, appeared in the arched doorway of the hal and gestured to the boy. They took his sword and pack and, with a curt command, ordered him to attend the chieftain. The outriders followed.
    The Hunnuli moved to stand by herself and snorted menacingly at the clanspeople. They understood well to leave her strictly alone. They settled into noisy, talking groups and waited patiently for the meeting's outcome.
    Unlike many of the clans' wintering camps, Khulinin Treld had been established centuries ago.
    Generations of Khulinin had returned to the natural protection of the valley until it became instilled in the clan as the symbol of home. For the semi nomadic people, the valley was their place of permanence and