Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

D’arvan and Maya, as was their custom, were watching the sun rise over the lake, seeking comfort in one another’s company and the peace of the fresh new morning. They had taken to avoiding the rebel encampment lately, unable to bear the grief of Vannor’s friends at the news, brought by Bern, of their leader’s death at the hands of the Magefolk. D’arvan sighed, wishing his worries wouldn’t intrude themselves upon this magical moment of the day. It seemed that the heart had gone out of the rebels when they had heard that the merchant no longer lived. The Mage wanted to help them, but how could he? They could neither see him nor hear him—and even if they could, what words of his would be sufficient to allay their grief?

Suddenly the unicorn stiffened, her silver ears pricked forward, as D’arvan caught the sound of an agitated murmuring among the ranks of trees behind him. The word was being passed back through the forest of an armed and mounted troop who were circling the Wildwood from the west. A moment later came the word of another wave of invaders, riding down like the wind out of the east.

“From the east?” the Mage muttered to Maya, frowning in puzzlement. “But there’s nothing that way but fishing settlements. Where can they be coming from—and who in the name of all the gods can they be?” He felt a stab of anxiety. Eliseth and the Archmage had been quiet far too long—he had been half expecting something of this kind for some time. “This has surely got to be some kind of trick!” Leaving the unicorn to guard the bridge according to her task, he hastened away toward the eastern side of the vale.

Neck and neck, the two Horsefolk with the Mages that they carried came bounding to an abrupt halt, almost beneath the very eaves of the forest, with their companions racing up behind them. There was a moment’s hesitation. There was no obvious way into the Wildwood through the dense and tangled growth, and the sinister darkness of the forest was bristling with threat. Anvar looked at Aurian. “What do we do now?”

Aurian shrugged helplessly. “You were the one who met the Forest Lord—I was hoping that you might know.”

Already they could hear the thunder of hoofbeats growing ever louder as the enemy drew closer. Already they were near enough for the Mages to make out the flash of sunlight on naked steel, and to recognize the tall figure that rode at the head of the advancing foes, her silver hair streaming behind her in the wind.

Vannor shouldered his way to the front of the crowding Xandim. “Don’t worry—if the forest remembers me, I’m sure it’ll let us in. It had better.” He stepped forward. “Hey,” he yelled, sending a flock of startled birds rocketing out of the treetops with shrill cries and a reverberant clatter of wings. “It’s me—Vannor. Let me pass!”

Even as he hurried toward the edge of the forest, D’arvan stopped, his mind reeling in shock to hear the sound of Vannor’s voice. But Vannor was dead—or was he? The Mage had harbored suspicions about Bern when the man had first arrived. Had the wretch been lying all along? Or was this simply a ruse of the Archmage’s devising, to trick his way into the Wildwood and try to seize the Sword? D’arvan broke into a run. He would have to find out—and quickly.

The companions stood at bay at the edge of the forest as Eliseth and her cohorts hurtled down upon them. Parric leapt from his mount and positioned himself at Vannor’s vulnerable right side. Half of the Xandim, most of whom had been in horse-shape to travel more speedily, began to change quickly back to human form, taking bows and swords from the packs they had been carrying strapped to their backs. Grim-faced, they leapt astride their equine companions and turned to face the foe. Iscalda—in horse-shape with Yazour on her back—took up a position close to Aurian and her brother. Shia snarled and flexed her claws, positioning herself in front of the Mages. Aurian, on the plunging Schiannath, drew her sword. “Don’t use the Artifacts yet—not until we have no choice,” she called to Anvar. “Wherever Miathan is, it’s better if he doesn’t know we’ve got them.” She turned to the merchant. “Vannor—whatever happens, you stay here. Keep trying to get us into the forest, no matter what.”

The Windeye, who had been carrying Sangra, whinnied shrilly and tossed his head. As the woman slid from his back, he resumed his human shape. “Lady—let me…” Stepping out into the path of Eliseth’s approaching warriors, he moved his hands rapidly in the air. The foremost horses reared and screamed, dislodging their terrified riders as the shape of Chiamh’s demon materialized in the air in front of them. The charge disintegrated into a rout as horses hurtled into one another and men fled, screaming in terror.

Only Eliseth was unmoved by the vision. “Come back, you fools,” she shrieked, wrenching the head of her plunging horse and holding in the panic-striken beast so mercilessly that blood dripped from its torn mouth. “There’s nothing there! It’s only an illusion!” Suddenly she looked past Chiamh and caught sight of Vannor, and her face turned white with rage. “How?” she hissed. “How did you escape me, Mortal? Well, you shall not escape me again!”

Lifting her hand, she reached up to the gathering clouds and launched a sizzling bolt of lightning through the air at the unprotected Windeye. Aurian, moving more quickly than she had ever moved before, flung up a magical shield to surround him, and the bolt impacted against the barrier, dissipating in a shower of spitting sparks. But because the shield was also blocking Chiamh’s powers, the demon vanished abruptly, and the attackers began to take heart once more.

Anvar, in the meantime, had launched his own bolt of force at the Weather-Mage, forcing her to abandon her attack and shield herself—until the captain of the mercenaries picked himself up off the ground and unslung his bow from his back, firing arrow after arrow into the ranks of the companions who stood at bay, trapped against the forest’s wall. Two, three, four of the Xandim screamed and fell. Urged on by their commander’s shouted orders, his remaining troops followed his example, and in moments a deadly hail of arrows was streaking down upon the Xandim, forcing the Mages to extend their shields to protect their companions.

Now that both Aurian and Anvar were on the defensive, the Weather-Mage was free to act once more. Again and again, she launched her deadly bolts at the fragile barrier of the shielding, while the arrows kept raining down. Schiannath and Esselnath displayed their own remarkable brand of courage, standing firm with the Mages on their backs, though they rolled their eyes and trembled at the barrage of magic that was so terrifying to them while they were in equine form. The white mare Iscalda, stalwart as ever, remained firmly by her brother.

Though she was warmed by her companions’ courage, Aurian’s heart was sinking. Despite the fact that they were two to Eliseth’s one, she and Anvar were hampered by the need to protect so many. They were forced to spread their powers so thinly to cover everyone that gradually, inexorably, their magical barrier began to waver and fade beneath the repeated onslaughts of their foe.

Grimly, Aurian and Anvar held firm—until suddenly, to their horror, they realized that Eliseth was drawing on more and more power to oppose them. Where is she getting it from? Aurian thought desperately—and then she recognized the surging, barely controllable power of the High Magic. “Anvar,” she whispered, her voice cracking in horror. “She’s got the Caldron!”

“Why don’t you just give up?” Eliseth taunted, her eyes ablaze with triumph and her flawless face disfigured by a gloating sneer. “You pathetic, soft-hearted, spineless fools—you can’t keep this up much longer! If you surrender now I may spare the miserable lives of the rabble that follow you. Miathan can always use more Mortal slaves.”