Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“Oh,” Chiamh didn’t bother to apologize—he ply started to pry with the hilt of his at the stubborn metal catch, which his blow had bent sadly out of shape. “Just as well, really,” he added, as the clasp finally gave way, “because it seems the Ghosts have found us . . .”

“What?” As the other wrist came free, Parric shot bolt upright, groping frantically at his manacled ankles with fingers that were too numb to work.

“Out of the way.” Chiamh pushed his hands aside and quickly freed the remaining chains. “Stay you quiet, my friend—they’re right behind you.”

His skin prickling with dread, the Cavalrymaster turned to follow the Windeye’s gaze. Not a man’s length away from the stones were two of the Ghosts—not spectral beings at all, Parric discovered, but great cats of an awesome size. He swallowed hard, seeing the size of their claws, like scimitars of steel, and their great white fangs as they snarled in a low and menacing duet. The gleaming pelt of one was stark black against the snow, the other was black with patterned dapples of gold. The blazing lamps of their watchful yellow eyes filled with a weird and arcane intelligence. Parric’s breath froze in his throat.

“You know,” Chiamh said in a soft, conversational tone, “I believe these cats to be more than simple animals—and for all our sakes, let us hope I’m right.” Then, to the Cavalrymaster’s horror, he appeared to go utterly mad. Advancing on the Ghosts, he seemed, to Parric’s fear-glazed vision, to be twisting his hands, as though tying an invisible knot in the air. Both cats started, their golden eyes widening as they stared, with hackles rising—then, with bloodcurdling yowls, they shot away as though Death himself were hot on their heels,

“I was right” Chiamh laughed. “It takes imagination to be scared by an illusion!”

Parric stared at him, amazed. “Why did you save me?” he whispered. “What do you want from me?”

“You had best ask the Goddess,” Chiamh replied shortly, “for I’m sure I don’t know. But our Lady of the Beasts has a task for you, and it was her Vision that sent me to you,” His sternness vanished, as he put a shoulder under Parric’s arm to help him rise. “Come, let us free your companions.”

“About bloody time!” Sangra’s voice came faintly from the direction of her stone, and Parric and Chiamh shared a grin.

“Here ...” The young man shrugged the bundle from his shoulders and unwrapped it, handing the Cavalrymaster a flask that, to his delight, contained something very close to raw spirits that went searing down his throat like a bolt of lightning.

“Aah! Good!” Parric gasped. Seeing that Chiamh was already loosening Sangra’s chains, he threw one of the young man’s blankets around his shoulders, and went quickly across to help Elewin.

The old man did not move as he approached, Elewin’s face was sunken; his skin was a sickly bluish-gray. As he loosed the shackles, Parric found no signs of breathing. “Ah Gods, no,” he muttered. “Poor old beggar ... All this way he came, and only to die—”

“Let me see!” Chiamh pushed him aside. Lowering his shaggy brown head to the old man’s chest, he listened for what seemed an endless time, then put his face close to Elewin’s own. “Not quite gone, but close,” he muttered. “Too close for my liking, but . . .

Chiamh laid his hands on the old man’s chest, then on his face—then he lifted and moved them in a series of fluent gestures, seeming, as he had done when he banished the great cats, to be writing invisible figures in the air. Sangra, wrapped in her blanket, approached with tears in her eyes, and the Cavalrymaster put an arm around her. They looked on, entranced, as Ghiamn’s hands moved fluidly across the old man’s body, seeming—so distinct were his actions—to cocoon it in some invisible weave from head to toe.

After a time, Chiamh looked up, and Parric saw that, despite the dreadful cold on the mountain, the young man’s face was glistening with the sweat of exertion. Chiamh mopped his brow, and reached out wordlessly for the flask that still held, “It may hold long enough,” he said, and took a long, gasping pull at the liquor, “Your friend is old and tired and very ill, and this cold was almost enough to finish him. But I have done . . . something that will keep the air moving in and out of his lungs for the present. If I can keep him breathing until we can carry him down the mountain and back to my home—well, my Grandam taught me much about herb lore and healing. It may be that we can save him after all. It is a hard thing to ask of you, but if you could spare him your blankets ...”

Parric looked doubtfully at Sangra. She was shivering, white-faced, and bedraggled, and leaned wearily against the stone as if her strength were scarcely sufficient to keep her upright. Frankly, he felt little better himself.

“Pox rot it!” Sangra muttered. She sighed, shrugged off her blanket and handed it to Chiamh. “Come on, then,” she said briskly. “Let’s get off this blasted mountain before we all freeze to death!”

While they were wrapping the unconscious Elewin for his journey, Chiamh suddenly looked up, frowning. “What became of your other companion, the madwoman?”

Parric scowled, and shrugged. “Forget her,” he said.

Chiamh soon realized that getting the sick old man down the mountain was going to be appallingly difficult. His companions were incapacitated by their own weariness, and they were almost stupefied with the cold besides. Time and again, as they crossed the slanting track across the snowfield, the Windeye’s heart was in his mouth as one of the Outlanders slipped, almost sending themselves or their unconscious companion hurtling down the precipitous slope to their deaths.

Time stretched into eternity as they crawled like flies across the endless white expanse, two of them struggling along with the motionless body of the old man slung between them, while the other took a turn to rest. It was as well that their route was chiefly downhill. As it was, Chiamh found before too long that he was forced to take constant charge of Elewin, while the others rested for longer and longer periods, trudging behind. They had no idea how to move safely on a mountain, and their carelessness gave the Windeye some moments of alarm, but at least they had the sense to know that they must keep going, though Parric’s face was creased with fatigue, and Sangra looked ready to drop. Nonetheless, she still had the strength to fetch Chiamh a telling clout that almost sent all four of them over the edge, when he saw that the tip of her nose had turned pink with impending frostbite, and without thinking to warn her, he clapped a handful of snow to her face.

By the time they had reached the branching trail that continued down the gorge, a thick cap of dark storm clouds was rolling down the face or the mountain, portending another bout of evil weather. When Chiamh paused, it was as though the others had been puppets, and some playful God had finally cut their strings. Setting the old man down in the snow, they leaned against one another, sagging.

Chiamh could see that both of the Outlanders were completely fordone. How could they carry the old man through the rougher going of the defile? And what about the approaching storm? If they could not get down before the blizzard hit, they stood little chance of getting down at all.

Sangra, shivering, her hair straggling around her face, gave the Windeye an accusing look, and cursed bitterly. “Is it very much farther?” she whispered.

Chiamh nodded, and the three of them looked at one another in silence. It was Parric who finally voiced what everyone was thinking. He looked at Elewin, and bit his lip. “Are you sure you can keep him alive until we get him back?”