Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

Soft curls of morning mist drifted around the feet of Incondor’s Tower. The jingle of bits and the impatient stamp of horses’ hooves carried clearly through the cool, damp air, while cloaked and hooded figures, their voices hushed and low in the predawn stillness, hurried to and fro from the tower to complete their last-minute preparations for departure. Others, such as Jharav—the veteran Khazalim captain who had befriended Nereni during her captivity—had been more efficiently organized than their tardy companions and were already mounted and waiting, impatient to leave. At the edge of the thicket, away from the bustle in the tower, sorrowful farewells were taking place.

“I’m sorry you can’t go on with us, but I understand your reasons.” Anvar clasped Eliizar’s hand. “Go well, my friend. Take good care of yourself—and Nereni.” He glanced across at the little woman who stood nearby, deep in conversation with Aurian. “You have a very special lady, there, Eliizar. If you find, in the days to come, that she’s full of surprises, try to understand how much she has been growing in these last hard months.” The Mage grinned wryly. “It’s strange, but traveling with Aurian tends to have that effect on people.”

Eliizar shook his head ruefully. “Her changes will take a good deal of getting used to. The way she went off like that, alone to Aerillia—my timid Nereni, of all people! But how could I be angry with her?” He spread his hands helplessly. “I was so afraid that something dreadful had happened to her or…” Anvar could see the struggle in his face, as he tried to form his next words. “Or that she had left me, because of my cowardice,” the swordmaster finished softly.

Anvar laid a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not a coward, Eliizar,” he reassured the older man. “It takes a great deal of courage to face up to your fears as you did. And, unfortunately, I’m convinced that you’ll still have a part to play in the struggle to come.” At the earliest opportunity he had taken Eliizar aside and told the swordmaster his fears of an attack by the vengeful Khazalim King.

Now Eliizar nodded gravely—but there was a twinkle in his one good eye, and Anvar was certain that the aging warrior was looking forward to the prospect of a battle. “Your warning has been well taken,” he assured the Mage. “In coming from the desert Xiang must bring his army through our valley—a narrow place, indeed.” He bared his teeth in a mirthless grin. “We may be outnumbered, but our forest is the ideal place for an ambush—indeed, for any number of them! When Xiang comes, he will find a welcome he will not forget.”

“Good man, Eliizar!” Anvar clapped him on the back. “Remember, though, that two winged messengers are going with you, now that Aurian has worked the same spell on them that she did with Raven, so that they can speak the Khazalim tongue. If you do find yourself in difficulties, send for help to Aerillia.”

“We will need no assistance from those winged traitors,” the swordmaster snapped. Like Anvar, he was finding Raven’s treachery very hard to forgive—but the Mage did not want Eliizar’s antagonism to cost him his life.

“Now, listen,” Anvar began firmly. “You will be very badly outnumbered, Eliizar. Don’t let pride deceive you into—” He broke off abruptly as Aurian approached. The last thing he wanted was to start worrying her with this business. Luckily, Nereni was issuing a stream of last-minute instructions that had drowned out his words.

“And don’t let the little mite get wet,” she was saying, “and remember to keep him warm, Aurian—tell that Bohan to make sure to keep him out of drafts—and—”

“Don’t worry, Nereni,” Aurian protested with a smile. “He’s a wolf, remember—a tough little thing! But never fear, we’ll take the best possible care of him.” She turned to Eliizar. “All ready to go?”

The swordmaster nodded. The farewell was brief and awkward, with Nereni, weeping bitter tears, hugging first Anvar, then Aurian, as if she would never let them go. Then she tore herself away with the first curse that Anvar had ever heard her utter and ran off toward the waiting group of riders, followed closely by Eliizar.

Anvar turned to Aurian. “Poor Nereni. I’m going to miss her—and she’ll be worrying herself to a shadow, wondering how we’ll manage without her.” He grinned wryly. “I don’t hold out much hope of a quiet life for Eliizar in the next few months.”

The Mage’s eyes twinkled. “Don’t you?” she said brightly. “Well, I wouldn’t count on that, my love. With luck I may have arranged a little surprise for Nereni—and within the next few months she could have other matters to occupy her than the fate of two stray Magefolk.”

“What do you mean?” Anvar demanded—but Aurian, looking annoyingly smug and secretive, refused to say another word on the subject.

As Eliizar and Nereni reached their horses, Anvar saw a lean figure, still with the slightest trace of a limp, detach himself from the knot of onlookers and put his hands on the swordmaster’s shoulders in a warrior’s embrace. At his side the Mage heard Aurian sigh with relief. “Yazour unbent, then, in the end,” she murmured. “I’m so glad.”

Anvar, too, was pleased. Yazour had been appalled by what he had seen as Eliizar’s defection from their group. He had always held the older warrior in the greatest esteem; the swordmaster’s weakness, therefore, had disappointed him all the more. As the group of Khazalim made their way down the hillside, the young warrior came over to join the Mages. “That’s that, then,” he muttered.

“Yazour, are you sure you won’t be too lonely without them?” Aurian asked. “Now that Eliizar and Nereni have gone, you’ve lost all your countrymen save Bohan. If you want to change your mind and go with them—well, Anvar and I would hate to lose you, but we’d understand.”

“Lady, do you take me for a skulking coward?” Yazour looked affronted. “You are my companions—where you go, I go!” With that he walked stiffly away.

Aurian sighed, and laid her head on Anvar’s shoulder. “I had to go and say it, didn’t I?”

“Actually,” Anvar comforted her, “I think you did.” He tightened his arms around her, enjoying the feeling of closeness. “Yazour is only feeling prickly because Eliizar has gone. He’ll get over it.” Suddenly troubled by a vague sense of unease, he looked up, over Aurian’s shoulder. A short distance away, at the edge of the thicket, Parric stood watching them. The little cavalrymaster’s expression was cold and bleak as stone. Meeting Anvar’s eyes, he turned away sharply and melted into the undergrowth. A shiver, like a finger of ice, ran down the Mage’s spine.

Three days after her miraculous rescue, Hreeza demanded, much to the surprise of Aurian and Shia, to see the child who had saved her life.

“Are you sure?” the Mage asked doubtfully as she sat with Shia beside the old cat’s bed. Hreeza’s words had captured her attention with a jolt, for Aurian had been paying scant attention to the mental murmur of conversation between the two cats. She had been brooding over the events of the previous day, when she and Anvar had returned with Nereni by net, courtesy of Raven’s winged bearers, to the Tower of Incondor.

A great many matters had been arranged among the companions in a very short time. The Mage had returned Chiamh and Yazour, both protesting bitterly, to Parric’s forces—for the little cavalrymaster was desperately in need of translators for the widely assorted group who would be under his care during the ride back to the Xandim Fastness. Aurian chuckled wryly. Trust Parric. Only he could find himself suddenly ruling a race whose language he couldn’t even speak!