Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Anvar shook his head. “I don’t expect you to forget him, my love, and neither will I. Forral was a true friend to me, and I honor his memory. Things have happened so quickly since he died, and I’d rather you came to me heart-whole, than plagued by doubts ...”

Aurian reached out to touch his face. “I’ve had enough of doubts.” She ran her palms across the breadth of his shoulders, leaning into his embrace—and stiffened, as a scraping noise from above her head shattered the web of love and longing within which she and Anvar had sheltered.

“Anvar—did you hear that?”

Anvar’s eyes were wide with alarm, “It’s on the roof ...”

The trapdoor in the ceiling burst open, its burden of snow dropping to the floor with a slither and thump as a blast of wintry air ripped through the faint warmth of the room. With a curse, Aurian scrambled to her feet as a pair of legs appeared on the frail ladder, Reaching for the sword that was always at her side, she swung with all her strength in a wide sideways swipe, her wrists taking the impact as her sword bit through flesh and wood alike, and into bone. The ladder splintered as the man fell screaming, one leg severed at the knee, the other spraying blood, Aurian jumped back clumsily, cursing the hampering bulk of her child, and Anvar steadied her as she fought for balance.

“Winged Folk! Anvar cried, as he pulled her away from the flailing wings of her writhing victim. Another figure dropped through the opening, wings folded to fit the cramped space. Aurian tried to engage the new foe before he could recover himself, but his sword was already in his hand, and he drove her back easily, knowing she was disadvantaged by the need to protect her unborn child. Inexorably he pressed forward, clearing space for more of the enemy to enter.

From the corner of her eye, Aurian saw Anvar dive under their flashing swords to snatch the weapon of the first, fallen warrior, but she was forced to concentrate on her own opponent—until a shriek of agony turned her cold. She tore her eyes from her assailant to glimpse Anvar pulling his bloody blade out of the chest of the next man through the trapdoor, but another followed, kicking the corpse aside. Another, behind him, dropped lightly through the opening. Sensing her distraction, her opponent lunged, almost breaking through her guard. Oddly, Aurian felt no fear—just a surge of anger that he was blocking her from going to Anvar’s aid. She twisted her blade in Forral’s deft, circling flick, and as her enemy’s sword went flying, she snicked his throat on the follow-through, regretting it as his blood sprayed into her face. Freeing a hand to wipe her eyes and gagging on the metallic reek, she leapt across his body—and jerked to a halt as his hand closed in a dying spasm around her ankle, trapping her foot in an iron grip.

Anvar had two opponents now—they were attacking him mercilessly, backing him into the lethal trap of the corner between the chimney breast and the wall. Unable to free herself and with no time to waste, Aurian flipped a knife left-handed from her sleeve with the deadly accuracy she had learned from Parric, and heard a grunt of pain as it sank hilt-deep into the back of its target, between the great wings. The other warrior glanced around as his comrade toppled—a fatal mistake. He doubled over screaming, clutching at the slithering loops of his gut, which had been ripped out by Anvar’s blade.

Aurian severed the limb that held her with one stroke of her blade. As the hand fell away she shot across the room, pulling Anvar toward the door as more foes dropped through the trapdoor above. Someone was hacking at the hole with a sword, enlarging the opening. The chamber was becoming impossibly cramped, and the Mages were forced to scramble backward over the bodies of the fallen, fighting a desperate rearguard action. But when they reached the door, Aurian’s relief turned to horror as she heard the sound of fighting in the room below. They were surrounded! Then the Mage remembered Shia, and a wild hope rose in her heart—only to be dashed as she touched her friend’s mind. The reply came brief and stilted, as the cat fought for her life downstairs, even as Aurian was fighting for her own. “Bohan fights—Eliizar hurt—can’t reach you ...”

“Run, Shia!” Aurian told her. “Take the Staff and run!”

“Have you lost your mind? I’m not leaving you!”

“You must!. If we lose the Staff, we’re finished!”

For a moment there was silence, then: “I have it! I go!”

Aurian caught a blurred impression of claws and blood as the great cat fought her way to freedom—then she was gone, into the storm. Someone grabbed the Mage from behind, jerking her backward, as unseen assailants came pouring up the stairs. A handful of her hair was seized and yanked, and she felt the chill bite of steel at her throat.

“Drop your weapons!”

Aurian recognized the voice that came from behind her. Harihn! In league with Winged Folk? She stiffened with rage—and the blade bit into the taut-stretched skin of her neck, drawing a trickle of warm blood. Fuming helplessly, she let her weapon drop, and saw rage mingling with dismay on Anvar’s face. His sword fell clattering to the floor as he was surrounded by winged warriors and dragged away, struggling, to be held against the opposite wall. Aurian saw his eyes flare bright with icy rage as he gathered his powers and . . .

“Don’t try it, Anvar,” Harihn snapped. “At the first hint of magic from you, my warriors will slit her throat.”

Aurian saw the fire in Anvar’s eyes die away, his anger fading into a look of bitter defeat. Then her hands were seized from behind, jerked back, and bound, while Anvar’s winged captors dealt with him in a similar fashion.

“How good of you to join me.” Smiling sardonically, Harihn stepped out to confront the Mage. “Thanks to the treachery of little Raven, you are now my prisoners.” Ordering the knife to be removed from Aurian’s throat, he hit her across the face. Unbalanced by the blow, she fell, but her guards caught her, forcing her to her knees. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard a scuffle.

“Leave her alone—” Anvar’s yell was cut short by the sick thud of a blow, then the Prince’s hand lashed across the other side of Aurian’s face. Her head jolted sideways, and she tasted blood where her teeth had cut into her lip. “I warn you, Anvar,” Harihn said menacingly. “One more move from you, and she will be the one to suffer!”

His voice was not the voice of the Prince. Aurian looked up through tears of pain—and her heart turned to ashes within her. Those handsome, familiar features were those of Harihn—but the grim malevolence that burned behind his eyes could only belong to the Archmagel

Ihe snow-laden wind hurtled through the narrow mountain like a river in spate, powerful, inexorable—and deadly. The pass, a strait corridor between cliffs of incredible height, was the gateway to the kingdom of the Skyfolk. At the end of the pass, a tower had been built high on a spur of rock, where in the past the Winged Folk kept a guard, A dark and tangled wood of pines below the spur provided fuel.

The wind keened shrilly around the Tower of Incondor, prying with chill claws at the solid stack of man-piled stones like a living beast, seeking to reach the puny human wawiors who had taken sanctuary within. Beyond the tower, the way opened out into a broad sweep of valley, its stark, snow-choked whiteness alleviated here and there by dark, skeletal clumps of trees bent over like worn old men by their wintry burden. Above the vale, oppressive with their looming weight, great peaks like jagged fangs shouldered one another as if jostling for the privilege of attacking the squat and sturdy building that stood bravely at their feet.