Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

“I know he’s only trying to help,” the merchant muttered to himself, “but sometimes a man needs time to be alone, to think.”

There was certainly a good deal to think about. Zanna’s increasing taste for adventure, for instance—not to mention her growing partiality toward that blond young Nightrunner. Where would it all end? Though Vannor was forced to admit to an increasing liking for the lad, this was not the kind of future he had planned for his beloved daughter! And on a far more serious note, would Zanna even have a future? Would any of them? What would Aurian have in mind when she returned?

Vannor was looking forward to their reunion with a mixture of pleasure and trepidation. On one hand, he had always been remarkably fond of the lass—yet on the other, her return was sure to bring back sorrowful memories of Forral. Parric’s tidings had given Vannor time to grow accustomed to the notion of the Mage’s new attachment to Anvar, whom he had always liked in any case, and the merchant felt a great deal of sympathy with Aurian due to his own experiences of bereavement following the death of his first, beloved wife—and the resurgence, on meeting Sara, of feelings that he had thought were lost forever. Nonetheless, it would seem strange to see her with a lover other than his old friend. Also, though her news of his own faithless wife could cause him nothing but pain, how could he resist asking her about Sara? What was worse, the merchant dreaded the prospect of the Mage’s pity, when she saw how he had been maimed.

With such thoughts to torment him, the eventual arrival of the little smuggler fleet could only bring relief to Vannor. When the sound of shouted orders and the echoing creak and splash of oars finally reached him, he turned toward the shadowy cavern sea gate, the sound of his own racing heartbeat like thunder in his ears.

One by one, the lean gray Nightrunner vessels slipped into the great pool beneath the cliffs. Vannor was utterly oblivious to the crowd who, having been alerted by the sentinel on the cliff, were streaming out through the tunnels onto the beach in order to greet the homecomers. Though Zanna was hailing him from the deck of Tarnal’s craft, he only had eyes for the nearest ship—and the tall, flame-haired figure that stood watchfully in the prow.

Aurian did not wait for the boats to bring her ashore. Plunging from the bows of the ship with a joyous cry, she swam ashore with powerful strokes and engulfed Vannor in a hard—and very wet—embrace. Then, laying a gentle hand on the merchant’s arm, she looked down steadily at the mangled stump, and then back up into his eyes. “We’ll make them pay for that, you and I,” she said softly. “No matter how much they try to hurt us, they can never beat us down.”

In her demeanor there was no trace of the pity that the merchant had so dreaded: only a depth of sympathy and a steely determination to set the matter right in whatever way she could. Vannor suddenly thought of the night that Forral had been slain, and remembered what Parric had told him of Miathan’s curse upon the Mage’s son. Aurian’s understanding of his plight went far beyond any useless pity. Vannor swallowed the lump in his throat, and hugged her again. “Too bloody right, they can’t!” he muttered.

The next few days were busy ones for Aurian. Now that she had returned, she wanted to put her search for the Sword in motion, and she had no time to waste. Thanks to the generosity of the Nightrunners and Remana’s careful and efficient organization of supplies, she quickly arranged for the provisioning of her little band during the crossing of the moors. With Vannor, however, she had less success. He insisted on joining her, and would not be dissuaded. “I’m fine now,” he argued. “Getting my strength back by the day, and Parric is teaching me to fight left-handed. I wouldn’t be a burden to you.” From the tacit plea in his voice, she knew that was his greatest fear, now that he had lost his hand.

As Anvar—who had been spending a good deal of time improving his acquaintance with the older man, much to their mutual pleasure—pointed out to the Mage, there was more at stake than Vannor’s safety. He needed desperately to prove himself.

“He’s more upset about Wolf, too, than he’ll ever let you know,” Anvar added quietly. “And not just because Miathan’s curse has caused you so much heartache. Vannor wants to strike a blow at the Archmage, for what he did to Forral’s son.”

Sighing, Aurian gave in. She had always put up a brave front when it came to the matter of her child—only Anvar, of all her companions, knew what it had cost her to abandon him to the care of the wolves, who were so much better fitted to be his parents while he took this nonhuman form. Vannor had been far more perceptive than she had realized—who was she to deny him his chance at revenge? She only prayed that she had made the right decision, though Parric consoled her greatly by promising never to leave the merchant’s side. After that, of course, Zanna wanted to come, too—but this time the Mage put her foot down firmly, as did the girl’s father. “What?” Aurian teased Vannor afterward. “You want to stop her from being as big a fool as yourself?”

Though Yanis, Tarnal, and a dozen other smugglers volunteered to join her, Aurian reasoned that if the Sword was truly in the Vale, her success in finding it would not depend on numbers. Her Xandim were enough for her—and, besides, if things should go wrong, it was vital that some of Miathan’s opponents should survive. Besides, she particularly wanted Tarnal to stay behind, as he was clearly the best person to console Zanna, and to forestall any brave but foolish notions on her part of following her father into danger, as she had done before.

Parric and Sangra, with their greater military experience, were anxious to know what the next stage of the campaign would be, once Aurian had claimed the Sword of Flame, but the Mage was unable to answer their repeated queries. “Until I actually have the Sword, I can’t gauge the extent of its powers,” she told them. “I would guess that we’ll unite with the rebels in the Vale, and then come up with some kind of plan for marching on Nexis.”

“Will your rebels consent to fight with us, once they have learned the secret of the Xandim?” Schiannath asked. “Or will fear and suspicion prevent them? So far, we have kept our true natures hidden from these Nightrunners—but how much longer will we be able to do that?”

“Parric and the Mages will convince them—surely.” Chiamh put in hopefully. “At least, in these lands, the folk are no strangers to magic.”

“Schiannath could be right, though.” Anvar frowned. “They may be familiar with magic, but under the Archmage’s rule, they have no reason to love it.”

“If you let me take a force of Nightrunners to sail ,upriver, we can break into the city from the sewers,” Parric volunteered. “That way, while you attack the outer walls, we can already have men—Mortal fighters—inside the city.”

“I had hoped to avoid that kind of battle,” Aurian sighed.

“You may be right, though. If the Sword is so powerful that Anvar and I can’t overcome the Archmage without incurring the appalling magical destruction that took place during the Cataclysm, then we may be reduced to the efforts of our Mortal friends.”

Vannor, always an important and respected contributor to these discussions, looked at her long and hard. “It’s their world, too, Aurian,” he said quietly.

Aurian nodded her acceptance of his rebuke. For the moment, she was too ashamed to speak. She could only thank the gods that she had these good companions, who would always prevent her from falling into the arrogance and error that had been the curse of her forebears. She held out her hand to him in mute apology, and he grasped it with a smile.