Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

After what seemed to be a lifetime, the track, climbing steeply, curved sharply to the left and rounded an outcrop of broken black rock. Chiamh noted thankfully that rocks had begun to appear on his other side too, cutting off the drop to his right. As the way began to narrow, he heard voices, borne to him on the wind from the Field of Stone. Thank the Goddess! Though he’d been forced to go slowly and carefully, testing his footing with each step as he blundered up the slippery track, Chiamh had reached the Field of Stones before the guards escorting the prisoners were ready to depart. The last thing he’d needed was to meet them coming back, and have to explain what he was doing up here! Blessing the shortcut that had bought him the extra time, the Windeye slipped into the midst of a cluster of boulders at the side of the trail. Praying that the wretched guards would hurry, he settled down to wait. Luckily, the escort had no wish to linger until the Ghosts appeared. The snow had begun to fall again, whipped into swirling flurries by the howling wind. Within a short time, Chiamh heard the squeaking crunch of footsteps in the snow as the guards passed his hiding place, cursing as they slithered down the treacherous trail and grumbling in the typical manner of soldiers. Their complaints came to the Windeye on the voice of the gale: “Because of the Herdlord and his accursed Law, we risk our necks in this storm ...”

“Aye, and for what? The stinking Outlanders will likely freeze to death before the Ghosts come ...”

“Why we couldn’t simply have run a sword through them down on the plateau, I’ll never know ...”

“It would be a waste to run that wench through—not with a sword, at any rate! We could have had some fun with her, had it not been so cold! ...”

Hearing the hectoring tones of Galdras, the Windeye fought to suppress the hope that the fools would fall over a cliff on the way down. Once they had safely gone, he left his hiding place and made his way along the rocky track to the Field of Stone—until a spate of curses and shrieks, coming from ahead, made him stop in his tracks. O

Goddess—surely the ghosts could not have come already? Quaking with more than the deathly cold, Chiamh waited until the sounds had ceased. Then he crept forward, more slowly now, afraid of what he might find upon the Field of Stones.

Parric lay spread-eagle and helpless on the flat-topped Deathstone. The icy cold of the shackles burned into his wrists and ankles. By all the Gods, he thought, I didn’t know it could be so cold! Already the snow on the rock beneath him, which had melted in its initial contact with his body, had frozen again, sealing him to the stone. Already, as the lethal cold claimed his body, his anger against the Xandim was giving way to despair. Anger had been better. At least with anger, you could fight—but how could he fight in any case, shackled and frozen as he was?

Nearby, the others were chained down on great boulders of their own. Sangra was somewhere behind him, out of sight. Meiriel he could see from the corner of his eye; now here, now gone behind the drifting gray curtains of snow. The Cavalrymaster bit down on a flash of rage. Due to some strange effect from the spell of tongues that the Mage was using on the Xandim, he had been able to understand her words at their trial, and it was likely that she had brought them to this end. If she had only let him speak to the ruler and explain that they were only passing through his lands, and wanted nothing, and would soon be gone! Parric had worked it all out—but instead of translating his words, Meiriel had flown into a typical Magefolk tirade—just like the one that had got them thrown off the Nightrunner ship and into this mess in the first place! Her arrogance had killed them all.

Elewin, to his left, lay gray-faced and unmoving, not even coughing now. Parric was afraid that the grueling journey up the mountain might have finished the old man.

“As this cold will soon finish us all . . .” The Cavalrymaster was unaware that he had spoken aloud, until he heard Meiriel’s shrill cackle from her nearby rock.

“Oh, no, you stupid Mortal—it won’t be the cold that will finish you! That was not the reason you were brought here! The guards were talking, I heard them . . . There are Demons up here, Parric—Black Ghosts that haunt this place. A sacrifice, that’s what you are—you and your pathetic Mortal friends—but they won’t get me.”

As the Magewoman spoke, the chains that shackled her wrists and ankles flared into painful brilliance and crumbled to dust. She scrambled, crowing, to her feet—and Parric’s glad cry died in his throat as she turned her back on her erstwhile companions and scuttled, with her tattered skirts flapping scarecrow-fashion in the wind, away down the broken ridge toward the other mountain. In no time, she was lost to sight among the drifting snow. “May you rot, you accursed Mortals . . . They won’t get me!” Her mocking cry floated back to Parric on the wind, and he struggled furiously against his bonds, cursing bitterly.

“Come back, you bloody bitch!” Sangra was shrieking.

Then, once again, there was silence, except for the whistling moan of the wind across the stones.

May Chathak curse her! the Cavalrymaster thought, I should have expected something like that from Meiriel—she’s a Mage after all, and mad besides. Elewin warned me from the start ... But her betrayal pierced him like a sword to the heart, somehow setting the final seal on his fear and misery, What a fool he’d been to come south! Now he would never find Aurian—and still worse, he’d dragged Sangra and Elewin along with him to their deaths. Alone and wretched, Parric closed his eyes and wept—until, with horror, he discovered that the tears had frozen, sealing his eyelids shut and blinding him. At least I won’t see the Ghosts when they come, he thought wryly, remembering Meiriel’s words—and that was a mistake. Now that his eyes were sealed, his imagination took over.

Parric began to hear noises coming nearer and nearer—the hoarse huff of breath through fanged jaws; the blundering, scraping sound of a massive body moving among the rocks, as it came to rend his helpless body ... It was coming—it was coming! Parric gave a whimper of terror. “Dear Gods,” he gasped, “no!” Then something touched him. “No!” he howled, thrashing against his chains . . .

“It’s all right,” a voice said hastily, in a tongue that was, and was not, his own. “I am Chiamh. I came to rescue you.”

“You festering idiot!” Parric screamed, on the knife-edge of hysteria. “I thought you were the bloody Ghosts!”

“Sorry,” the voice said cheerfully. Warm air, moist and smelling faintly of herbs, tickled Parric’s face as Chiamh breathed on his eyelids to melt the ice. By the time he could open his eyes, his heart had stopped trying to claw its way into his throat and he had recovered sufficiently to reel embarrassed by his outburst. Then all such thoughts were driven out of his mind by the sight of the round-faced, brown-haired young man who stood before him. It was the apparition—quite real and solid now—that had visited him in the Xandim dungeons!

After all that had happened, the Cavalrymaster was feeling dangerously overwrought. The “ghost” was groping shortsightedly on the ground, and somehow the sight of that amiable, foolish face only fueled Parric’s anger. “What do you want with us anyway?” he snarled, unwisely, Chiamh stood up abruptly, his grin vanishing like the sun behind a cloud—and Parric saw the rock in his hand. For a moment, the Cavalrymaster ceased to breathe.

With a quick jerk of his wrist Chiamh brought the rock smashing down on Parric’s manacle, Parric yelled, is the of the manacle bit into his Though he was too numbed by cold to feel the pain, he felt the flow of hot blood across his hand, and knew it would hurt like perdition on, “They aren’t locked, you jackass!”