Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

Parric gritted his teeth against a surge of anger and wished that he could have Miathan at his sword point, to make him pay for the atrocity that he had committed upon a helpless child—especially since the boy was all that was left of Forral. In his secret heart, the cavalrymaster had been hatching a plan to care for Aurian. It would have been a pleasure, not a duty, to raise the son of his friend and commander—and though he could never really hope to take Forral’s place as a father to the lad, he was determined to do his best. The boy would have taken the place of the son that Parric had never (knowingly, at least) fathered. But how, in the name of all the gods, could a man be a father to a wolf cub? Besides, one look at Aurian had disabused the cavalrymaster of such unrealistic notions.

Parric sighed. It was his own fault, he acknowledged ruefully. He had always thought of Aurian as an untried young girl when she was in the presence of Forral. The swordsman had always been so confident and capable that those around him seemed diminished by comparison. But the steel-eyed, grimly resolute Aurian that Parric had found in the Tower of Incondor had stunned the cavalrymaster, and shaken him to the core. She had matured, true, but that was only to be expected. What Parric had not anticipated was the aura of power that surrounded her, wrapping her about in a cloak of numinous force. He had not expected the hardness in her eyes, the chiseling of bitter experience on her face, and the flat practicality that led her to leave her newborn son in the care of others while she went off in pursuit of more urgent goals. It wasn’t right, somehow—though he acknowledged that her actions had been necessary.

Parric cursed himself for entertaining such unjust thoughts. Had he not served and fought with pragmatic female warriors such as Sangra and Maya? Was Aurian not a better swordswoman than either of them—and a Mage besides? So why was he swamped by this irrational protectiveness toward her? It was almost as though the shade of Forral haunted him. But that was ridiculous, Parric told himself, as he tried to shake himself free of his doubts. Soon he would be back at the Xandim Fastness, and would have more urgent matters to consider. There, too, he would see Aurian again—and surely, once they had spent more time together, he would recover his former sense of ease with her.

Aurian and Anvar arrived at the Xandim Fastness with their escort of Winged Folk and landed, damp and shivering in their nets, in a mist of fine spring drizzle that was becoming heavier by the moment.

“Ugh!” Aurian stepped carefully from the tangle of meshes and tried to pull the clinging folds of her wet cloak more closely around her shoulders with her free hand. The attempt was made awkward by the fact that Wolf was cradled in the other arm, snugly asleep against the warmth of his mother’s body. Above the Mage, more Skyfolk circled, waiting their turn to land, bearing the net that contained the cub’s lupine foster parents within its enclosing meshes. They looked a bedraggled sight, with their wet fur clinging spikily to their bodies, and Aurian could sense from their thoughts that both of them would be infinitely relieved to get their feet back onto good, solid earth once more. The Mage never ceased to be amazed and humbled by the extent of their forbearance and their loyalty to herself and her child. Which made it all the worse that they were out here being soaked and chilled, along with Aurian’s other companions. Already the Skyfolk, who hated the discomfort of wet plumage, were growing restive. With an impatient sigh the Mage turned back toward the Xandim Fastness, anxious to get her party into shelter quickly, and out of the damp, inhospitable night.

Anvar, aware of the restless mutterings of his winged escort, was squinting through the drifting veils of rain. “Where the bloody blazes is everybody?” he muttered irritably. “Even if they haven’t posted guards, they should at least be keeping some sort of watch. According to our winged scouts, Parric and his lot should certainly have arrived by now.”

“What useless humans,” rumbled Shia, shaking a spray of moisture from her fur. “Anvar, will you help us, please?” The cat sounded thoroughly disgruntled. She and Khanu had been landed quickly—due, Anvar suspected, to a good deal of nervousness on the part of their winged porters. The Skyfolk had dropped the net all in a tangle and retreated to a safe distance, and Shia and Khanu, without hands to unwind the mare’s nest of knotted rope, were securely enmeshed. Anvar, wiping rain out of his eyes, went to disentangle his friends.

“I’ve just spoken to Chiamh,” Aurian reassured them. “He was asleep—they all were. They didn’t expect us so soon. He says that the last part of the journey over the Wyndveil was grueling—they were exhausted by the time they reached the fastness. He’s rousing them now and they’re sending out an escort.”

“About time,” Shia muttered. “Lazy two-legged—” Her head swung sharply. “What was that?”

“What?” Anvar frowned. All his concentration had been centered on unraveling the snarled net.

“I thought I heard somethi—”

None of them had any more warning than that, as a black shape streaked out of the darkness toward Aurian. Hampered by the child in her arms, the Mage had neither the time nor the opportunity to react. Even as he leapt to his feet, Anvar saw the dark form close upon her, saw her crumple, heard a terrified squeal from the cub. Then the shape was gone.

“Follow it!” Anvar bellowed at the Skyfolk, who were still standing nearby, paralyzed with shock. Two of them took off in pursuit. Shia and Khanu burst free of the tangled net and went bounding after them, with the two wolves—who had been landed too late to help the Mage—close upon the heels of the great cats.

“Aurian!” Anvar bent over the limp form of the Mage, who lay motionless, facedown on the waterlogged turf. Sliding his arms beneath her, he turned her gently but was unable to make out any details in the gloom. Her skin was dreadfully cold. Somewhere in the background, he heard the sound of running feet. Then he was surrounded by Xandim who milled uselessly about him, unable to keep their torches alight in the rain, and blocking what little light was available even to Anvar’s night-vision. Frantic, Anvar gathered all his rage and fear and threw the energy into a brief, bright flare of Magelight that sent the Xandim reeling backward, covering their eyes and screaming in panic.

“What in Chathak’s name is happening here? Get out of the way, you fools! Let me through!” To his relief, Anvar recognized the voice of the cavalrymaster.

“Aurian was attacked,” the Mage cried. “Quick, Parric—help me get her inside.” He heard the cavalrymaster curse, and then the little man was at his side. “Is she badly hurt, Anvar?”

“I think so.” He lifted Aurian from the rain-soaked ground and followed Parric quickly as the little man cleared a path through the milling crowd. How badly she was hurt he didn’t dare think—but in that brief flare of Magelight, Anvar had seen that her tunic was soaked through with dark blood that was welling around the blade of a jagged knife, sunk deep into her chest.

Aurian was drifting, somewhere out beyond her body. From above, she could see the pale, still form that was laid out on a bed of cloaks in the great entrance hall of the Xandim Fastness. Is that me? she wondered. Can it be—really? She felt dreamlike—oddly detached. She knew that she had been badly hurt; she knew her son had been stolen. Curiously, none of that mattered now. She viewed everything from outside, from above, from beyond…

From her high vantage point the Mage could see Parric, one of her oldest Mortal friends, kneeling over her body, his face contorted with grief. She could see Chiamh, the Xandim Seer, propped against the wall in a nearby corner, his face blank and expressionless as he rode the winds to track her lost child. His whole attention was not given to his task, she knew. Always, a shred of his consciousness remained with her, in the Great Hall, worrying about her recovery. And there—even in this soothing limbo she felt a stab of wrenching pain—was Anvar. Her lover had wasted no time in weeping. Instead he was hunched over her lifeless form, trying with every shred of his power and love to pull her fleeing spirit back into her body.