Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Shia leapt up with a snarl as the door burst open. The first two men had fallen to her claws before Yazour had drawn his sword, and then her companions were beside her, defending each other against the overwhelming numbers. From the corner of her eye, she saw Eliizar go down, and moved back to defend him—but Bohan was already there, fighting with the strength of three. Nereni, shrieking, darted in to help her husband, and in a moment Eliizar was up again, fighting one-handed with the other clasped to his bleeding side, while Nereni, veiling angry curses, was flinging burning brands from the fire into the knot of Harihn’s men who were still forcing their way in at the door. The great cat clawed out right and left, with a deadly economy of motion, inflicting dreadful injury on her foes—but there were so many of them! Despairing, she glanced back toward the stairs. Where were Aurian and Anvar? Why had the Mages not come to help? Linking with Aurian, she saw the scene upstairs through her friend’s eyes. Winged Folk, Aurian and Anvar captured! A bolt of fear streaked through Shia for the safety of her companions, She was already fighting her way toward the stairs when she heard Aurian’s voice in her mind, telling her to run.

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

“You must! If we lose the Staff, there will be no hope for any of us! Shia, please!”

Shia snarled with frustration. Abandoning the fight with reluctance, she leapt toward the shadowy corner by the chimney breast, where stood the Staff of Earth. The great cat tensed herself, to close her jaws on the hated magical object, then: “I have it! I go!” Although she was hampered by the long, unwieldy object that was clutched between her teeth, she was determined to wreak as much destruction as she could manage, on her way to the door.

When Shia, with the Staff clenched in her jaws, erupted into action, Yazour moved with the speed of pure instinct to take advantage of the confusion. They were badly outnumbered here—it made sense to have as many of the companions as possible free, and on the outside.

Swinging wildly, he hacked his way out behind the great cat, caring nothing, in his desperation to escape, that these men had once been his companions. The crowded room had erupted into chaos. Swords were flailing, and men were falling over one another to get away from the fearsome teeth and claws of the great cat. The floor was slippery with blood, but Yazour, fighting for his life, gained the door at last—and charged out into the freezing night.

Cold seared his lungs with every gasping breath, and the snow was thick and treacherous underfoot, Yazour knew he’d be finished if he fell, yet dared not risk slowing his pace. Behind him, he heard a call for bowmen. Reaper, no! Wasting a breath on a curse, he faltered briefly, until the jolt of terror gave new impetus to his flying feet. He began to zigzag like a hunted hare to confuse the archers’ aim, his feet slipping on the treacherous ground with every turn. Deadly shafts peppered the snow around him, as the skin between his shoulders cringed in dread anticipation, expecting at any moment to feel the impact of an arrow.

When it came, it blocked him from his feet. Fire in his left shoulder forced a shriek from his throat, and Yazour went tumbling, over and over in the snow.

Schiannath had listened, dismayed, to the sounds of fighting within the tower, and had wished with all his heart that he could go to the aid of the strangers against the accursed Khazalim raiders and filthy Skyfolk. Luckily, common sense had prevailed. He had no idea who the victims were—why risk himself? Yet if they were fugitives, did he not have something in common with them? Some fellow feeling?

Then the night erupted in a terrifying cacophony of snarls and roars, punctuated by screams of pain and fright. Iscalda reared in terror, pulling at her reins and trying to break away from him. Engaged in quieting the mare before they were discovered, he had failed to see Shia bolt out or the tower and vanish into the wood. What he did see, when he turned his attention back to the fight, was a man fleeing in a staggering, zigzag half-run, downhill toward the pass. Even as the outlaw watched, a Khazalim bowman appeared in the doorway of the tower. Afraid to call out a warning and draw attention to himself, the outlaw could only watch as the bolt flew—hitting the man in the left shoulder.

The victim stumbled, driven off balance by the force of the bolt, and fell on his face in the snow. Schiannath held his breath, willing the man to get back on his feet. The bowman took aim once more, his fallen prey an easy target. The man staggered upright—the bolt flew—and swerved wide of its target as the long shaft loosed by Schiannath entered the bowman’s eye with swift precision and pierced his brain.

Schiannath fell back with a curse, his hand slippery on the shaft of his bow. What had possessed him? This was not his fight! But only when the victim made for the pass and staggered almost within touching distance, did the outlaw realize the gravity of his error. The fugitive was Khazalim too! Schiannath let fall the hand he was extending to help the man and melted into the shadows, letting him pass. Let the storm and the wolves take care of the wretch. Let the accursed Southerners track their fugitive, and let him lead the bastards far away from himself!

Aurian heard the scuff of feet on stone steps, and one of Harihn’s men entered the upper chamber, bowing to the Prince who had Miathan’s burning eyes. “The tower is secured, Sire, and the Princess is in the hands of the Winged Priest. The others are in the dungeon, but the cat escaped, alas, as did the traitor Yazour. I could swear that one of our bowmen winged him as he fled, but we lost him in the storm.”

“No matter. He will not survive out there for long!” The Prince shrugged, dismissing the man with” a curt nod. Picking his careful way across the bodies of the fallen, he crossed the room to face Anvar, his face contorted once again with Miathan’s feral, pitiless expression. “Now, half-breed,” he snarled, “at last I have the chance to rid you of your miserable life! But we need not hurry—I want Aurian to appreciate every lingering moment of your agony!”

Miathan wrenched Harihn’s knife from its sheath and stooped to thrust it into embers of the fire until the tip glowed red. Removing the blade, he held it close to Anvar’s face. Anvar shrank back, white with horror, unable to take his eyes from the searing metal. Sweat streaked his face, catching the crimson glow as though his skin were already smeared with blood. With a swift, swooping movement, Miathan pressed the knife against his cheek, and Anvar screamed horribly, thrashing in the grip of his guards.

“Miathan, stop!” Aurian shrieked.

“Ah, so you recognize me!” With a triumphant smile, the Archmage removed the knife, and Anvar, limp in his captors’ grasp, raised his head to look at her.

A livid burn scarred his cheek, and his face was contorted with pain as he spoke to her through gritted teeth. “Don’t watch,” he grated. “Don’t . . . give him the satisfaction.”

“Oh Gods,” Aurian whispered, her grief a physical agony as though she shared the pain of Anvar’s burning. The Archmage put the knife back into the fire, watching her with a calculating expression, mocking her tears. He seized Anvar’s hair, pulling his head back, holding the knife a hairbreadth from his flinching face. “Now comes the first of many reckonings, Aurian. Do you remember burning out my eyes, so long ago? Did you enjoy your petty triumph? Now I intend to pay you back for that—an eye for an eye! But not your pretty eyes, my dear. Let Aiwar suffer in your stead!” His hand tightened on the knife hilt, poised to strike at Anvar’s unprotected face.