Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

“So, you see,” Schiannath was saying, “I trust you in the company of Yazour. I befriended him at first because I was told to, but later he earned my true respect. The rest of the Xandim, however, are another matter.”

At that, Iscalda switched her attention back to her brother’s words. “What have they to do with it?” she demanded.

“They will view me as another Outlander, and suspect me accordingly,” Yazour put in, his voice sharp with hostility. He was right, Iscalda realized.

“Exactly, Yazour,” Schiannath added. “They have no idea of what lies behind your inclusion in our party—and what reason have they to trust the word of my sister and myself, who have only lately been accepted on sufferance and through the most unusual circumstances, back into the Xandim?”

Iscalda looked at her brother through narrowed eyes. Clearly, he was not as drunk as she had thought. Despite the absence of light, he turned to look deep into her eyes. “There is, however, another complication, Iscalda—and one that you have not considered.”

“And what is that?” The Xandim maid felt the first true stirrings of alarm.

Schiannath sighed. “Your betrothal to Phalihas.”

“Nonsense!” Iscalda snapped. Her anger, however, was not directed at her beloved brother. It stemmed from a sudden, sinking fear. “The Herdlord is defeated now,” she protested. “Schiannath, you know I only agreed to the betrothal in the hope that I might have sufficient influence to protect you—and much good it did either of us, in the end. But Phalihas is defeated now. His reign and his power are ended. The Windeye would not permit him—”

“The Windeye cannot prevent him,” Schiannath said heavily. “I have just been talking to Chiamh. This is the heavy news that I had come to break. Iscalda, under Xandim Law you were betrothed to Phalihas. While you were exiled, the betrothal was void—but now that you have been accepted back into your tribe, the betrothal still stands. Should the Windeye ever allow Phalihas to revert to his human form—and how can Chiamh refuse?—you, of all people, should know the alternative—then you will belong to our former Herdlord, as you did before.”

“Will he never come?” Basileus muttered irritably. Restless within the great mountain peak that comprised his body, the Moldan kept his vigil, awaiting the return of Chiamh, the Xandim Windeye. For the first time in all the endless aeons of his existence, the giant Earth-Elemental was finding it difficult to resign himself to patience—for these were the most momentous times he had known in many centuries.

The world was changing: the course of history was turning relentlessly toward a newborn age. The ancient Artifacts of Power were waking, and three of the four Great Weapons had already been loosed upon the world. The Mageborn were at war once more, and the fate of the future hung trembling in the balance, awaiting the discovery of the final Artifact—the Sword of Flame, the great master-weapon designed long ago by the far-seeing and powerful Dragonfolk, to be their legacy of hope for the future. Into whose hands, the Moldan wondered, was the Sword destined to fall at last? The answer could spell either the hope of freedom for Basileus and all his Elemental kind—or it would herald the onset of slavery, annihilation, and the start of a new Age of Darkness.

Magefolk! Basileus felt the slow burn of anger deep within his core. Long ages ago, the ancient Wizards had imprisoned all his kind in these immobile shells of stone to prevent them from using their vast, arcane, and unpredictable powers of the Old Magic to influence the fate of the world. Any future hope of freedom for the Moldai and the other Elemental races, such as the Phaerie, depended upon the Artifacts of Power—or, more precisely, upon the intentions of those who wielded them.

High up on the slopes of the Wyndveil, rocks ground together and the flanks of the mountain trembled as the Moldan expressed his frustration. There was so much at stake, yet he could do so little to influence the outcome of the approaching conflict! It was scarcely surprising, Basileus reflected sourly, that he could find no rest.

The Moldan was not the only watcher on the Wyndveil. Had Basileus been paying less attention to his inner thoughts, and more to what was taking place upon his outer skin, he might have noticed the lurker on his peak. Night after night, while the moon went through its changes, the madwoman had lain in wait, spying upon the Xandim Fastness from her hiding place among the rocks above. She knew they would return, the ones she sought—and from this vantage point she would have early warning of their coming.

Wild-eyed, wasted with hunger, and pierced through and through with cold, Meiriel kept her lonely vigil, concealed in a hollow in the frost-cracked rocks well away from prying Xandim eyes, feeding on little more than the hatred and desire for revenge that had sustained her for so long. Soon, now, her wait would be over. She had found friends—new and powerful friends—who would help her wreak her vengeance. The one who had caused the death of her beloved soul mate, Finbarr, would soon be here, along with that accursed monster, the half-Mortal abomination that she had borne. Aurian was coming, and when she arrived… Meiriel ran her tongue across the sharp points of broken teeth. “I will rip out her heart and drink her blood,” she whispered.

Parric struggled with warring feelings as his tight-knit band of Xandim warriors picked their way through softly falling rain, across the final projecting ridge of the Wyndveil to strike the trail that led toward their Fastness. “What in the world is wrong with me?” the little cavalrymaster wondered. Why, he ought to feel happy and triumphant after his achievements! Had he not done what he’d set out to do? His journey to the sprawling, hostile Southern Kingdoms had been a nigh-impossible gamble, yet against all the odds he had succeeded in finding Aurian… “And what’s more, I will bring her home with me, to join our fight against the Archmage,” he muttered.

At the sound of the cavalrymaster’s voice, the powerful black stallion that he rode flattened his ears back and turned his head to roll a wicked, white-rimmed eye at his conqueror and foe. Resentment burned behind that gaze: hatred (not unjustified, Parric admitted) for the one who had consigned this once-proud king to the humiliation of captivity and servitude. The cavalrymaster must never forget for a moment that his mount was Phalihas, one of the shape-shifting Xandim, who had not only occupied a human form but had once been Herdlord—the Xandim leader—before Parric had challenged and defeated him, and Chiamh had trapped him in his equine shape.

Phalihas, sensing his rider’s distraction, tried to dislodge Parric with a series of jolting bucks. Swearing, the cavalrymaster tightened his seat in response and rashly urged the beast to a faster pace. While the horse was preoccupied with picking a footsure way through the treacherous terrain, the creature would have little opportunity to be causing trouble.

Trouble. It always came back to that. “Why must everything be so bloody complicated?” Parric fretted. Back in his old role as cavalrymaster of the Nexis Garrison, Parric had been equal to anything. When it came to soldiering, his skills could scarcely be bettered. But ever since Forral, his friend and commander, had been murdered by the corrupt Archmage, the foundations of Parric’s world had been slipping. Even Aurian, whom he had come so far to rescue, had seemed so altered…

The cavalrymaster shook his head in dismay, then chided himself for being unfair. You fool, he told himself. Of course she’s changed. After what that poor lass has been through… At this point, his imagination failed him. Treachery, battle, and death Parric could understand, but when it came to magic, he was utterly lost. Even now, he could scarcely bring himself to contemplate the fate of Aurian’s firstborn—Forral’s son. Cursed by the Archmage to take the form of the first beast his mother saw after bearing him, the child had been transformed into the shape of a wolf cub.