Maggie Furey - Sword of Flames

Crossing the Dragon’s Tail was a nightmare. Meiriel was forced to creep across inch by painful inch on hands and knees, her palms and shins lacerated by the razor edges of broken rock and leaving smears of blood behind them to be washed away by the merciless downpour. The storm shrieked its derision at her, buffeting her frozen body on the exposed ridge and clutching at her with powerful fingers, threatening at every moment to pluck her from her precarious perch and hurl her into the dark depths that plunged down on either side. Because of the energy and concentration needed, she had been forced to abandon her magical shield—but that was of no consequence now.

Meiriel gritted her teeth and pressed doggedly onward, though her mind still reeled from the mysterious message that she had received upon the Wyndveil Peak. Whence had come that voice? Was it some kind of trick, and if so, from whom? What did it mean? Could it really be true, that Aurian was still alive? Meiriel cried aloud in pain and rage, and spat upon the rain-slick stones of the ridge. Supposing it was true? Did she dare take the risk? The voice had been right about one thing. If Aurian was truly still alive, Meiriel would need that babe—one way or the other.

By the time she had reached the far side of the ridge, the Magewoman had managed to gather her wits once more. Even if Aurian should come here, Meiriel still had a trick or two to fall back on, not the least of which was her newfound friendship with the savage denizens of this shattered peak. When that fool Parric had left for the south with his makeshift army, Meiriel had headed for the sanctuary of Steelclaw, to be well out of the way of the Xandim and their keen-eyed scouts as they crossed the Wyndveil.

The Magewoman had had no idea of the Xandim legend that the Dragon’s Tail was impassable and, besides, the unstable ridge was always shifting and being resculpted by wind and weather. She had, with difficulty, succeeded in making the crossing, and during her wanderings on the other side had met with the Black Ghosts of the mountain. There had been so many that she had been forced to use her powers to defend herself—and in the course of her magic had discovered the possibility of communication. On meeting their First Female, Meiriel had discovered that she and Gristheena were of a like mind. The great cat had been wounded, and was still smarting from a recent defeat by some outlaw. Her position as leader was currently very tenuous, and she had been glad of the Magewoman’s powers to back her authority. And Meiriel? She had needs of her own.

Tonight, the Magewoman could not have managed without Gristheena’s assistance. Meiriel glanced across at the two great cats who were pacing her—one a guard, the other with a dangling cloth-wrapped bundle held delicately in its massive jaws. Meiriel smiled grimly at the sight. Thank all the gods that she had not been forced to bear that burden across the broken ridge! Without the use of her hands as well as her feet, she would most certainly have fallen.

Calling to the cat to stop, the Magewoman approached it and poked the bundle with a bloodstained finger. A thin, protesting whine came muffled from within. Meiriel nodded to herself in satisfaction and started tramping again, down the rough trail toward the broken core of Steelclaw. She must return to Gristheena as soon as possible, and then—well, she would see.

“Curse this blasted rain—I can’t see a thing!” Anvar muttered.

“Neither can we,” one of his winged bearers retorted bitterly, “and we are the ones who must do the flying and risk life, wing, and limb among these treacherous peaks.”

“Oh, stop whining!” Anvar muttered, made ungracious by worry—but quicker and louder, Chiamh said: “Most courageous are the warriors of the Skyfolk who volunteered for this perilous mission. You have earned unending gratitude from us, the allies of your Queen.”

Anvar felt the Windeye’s elbow dig him sharply in the ribs, and he hastily added his thanks to Chiamh’s own. It had been a nice touch, he thought gratefully, for Chiamh to obliquely remind the Winged Folk that the Mages had rescued their monarch. He only wished the Windeye could have done something about this wretched storm. “Have you any idea where we are?” he whispered.

There was a glimmer of silver from Chiamh’s eyes as the Windeye turned to scan the darkened landscape with his Othersight. “We are perched on one of the shattered peaks overlooking the heart of Steelclaw,” he replied in mind-speech. “The core is guarded, but not this high, for our winged friends have placed us where the great cats cannot climb. The noise of the storm will shield us from scent and sound, but keep silence, in any case, as much as possible. And have a care for your footing in the dark. This will be a good vantage point—our foe, when last I looked, was headed this way. She must certainly come here if the cats are her allies. Once she arrives, the Skyfolk will take us down quickly—and our trap is sprung”

“Then Gristheena is mine.” Even in mindspeech, Shia’s voice was a savage growl.

“And mine!” Khanu echoed.

Anvar caught the odd little thought symbol that was Shia’s equivalent to upcast eyes, and smiled to himself in the darkness.

“I would not smile if I were you,” Shia told him gruffly. “Aurian is going to murder the pair of you when she wakes and discovers that Chiamh slipped that sleeping draft into her wine.”

“I don’t care,” the Windeye protested. “She would insist on coming with us, and she was in no condition to do it. Besides,” he added, “if we bring Wolf back safely, she will be too glad to slaughter us.”

“You’re right,” Anvar told him. “Probably, she’ll just damage us severely.” Though he was scarcely in the mood to jest, he welcomed the good-natured chaffing. It helped ease his nerves, which were strung tighter than a crossbow.

“Hush!” Khanu interrupted. “I hear something!”

If Anvar could see nothing in the thick brew of storm and darkness, Chiamh, with his Othersight, saw it all. The dark, shelved, broken crater at Steelclaw’s heart; the great projecting ridge of obsidian that glimmered here and there with clusters of firefly light as the life-forces of the cats gathered and shifted, moving here and there. And across from the blackly glittering tongue of the ridge, he saw the dark, featureless mouth of a tunnel. From its maw a faint ghostlight emerged, red and roiling, half-veiled and shot through with spars of lurid darkness. The Mad One! Chiamh held his breath, watching as the sickly gleam of her unlight emerged from the tunnel and began to cross to the ridge, coming right out into the open. Then:

“Now!” he whispered. The nets, on which the companions were still standing, were whipped up around them and pulled tight. The Skyfolk took wing and swept down into the crater.

Hreeza, shivering in the pouring rain, was beginning to wish that she had never come. This was no fit task for one old cat! She must have been thinking out loud, however, for a voice spoke scoldingly from nearby: “For one old cat, perhaps—but we are many. You wanted this, Hreeza. This was your great vision, and you have given us life and purpose again. Have courage in the miracle that you have wrought!”

Hreeza chuckled dryly. “Some miracle—a bunch of skinny-ribbed, patch-coated old vagabonds!” she snorted. But warm courage flooded back into her veins, and her old heart soared with pride. “Sentimental fool!” she told herself—but it felt good, nonetheless. Now, if only they could put their plans into action.

Back in Aerillia, Hreeza had thought the most difficult part of her mission would be persuading that little snippet of a Queen to provide winged bearers, and to let her go in secret. Once that part of the plan had been accomplished, however, and Hreeza had found herself dangling above the clouds in a swinging net, she had abruptly changed her mind. Surviving this, the old cat was convinced, would be the really tricky part. She had been wrong, though. After several days spent sneaking about in the rain and cold—always hungry and living in constant terror of being caught—Hreeza would gladly have climbed right back into that net—so long as there was the promise of a warm fire and a lavish meal at the end of the journey. Her convalescence in the Skyfolk citadel, the old cat thought disgustedly, had made her soft.