Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Shia was on him in a flash, the hot ecstasy of enemy blood filling her mouth as her teeth sank deep into his throat. Then she was among the horses and mules, snarling and lashing out with her claws. The frantic creatures screamed and reared, panic lending them the strength to pull their tethers from the ground. They scattered, some heading back down the valley, but most of them, Shia noticed, fleeing straight through the pass. She’d feed on horseflesh yet! The other guard was running, yelling for help. An uproar broke out within the Tower, and the snow on the hill was washed with a gleam of dirty yellow light as the door swung open. Dashing back to seize the Staff, Shia sped down the pass like an arrow, congratulating herself as she went. She had let them unload most of the food, for she had no wish to starve her friends, but her attack had effectively trapped the enemy in the tower! Had Shia been human, she would have been grinning from ear to ear. The Prince and his men were stuck in this bleak, hostile spot—and when Shia returned with Anvar, she would know exactly where to find them!

For all his determination to leave, Schiannath had lingered near the tower, unable to let go of this mystery. Why were the Khazalim fighting their own? And what, in the name of the Goddess, had the misbegotten Winged Folk to do with it? Since it was obvious by now that the fleeing man was not going to be pursued, the outlaw continued to lurk behind his boulders, his eyes fixed on the tower. The sound of fighting had ceased, and after a time, he saw Winged Folk leave, bearing a long bundle between them supported in nets. They headed northwest, toward Aerillia. So—they were taking a prisoner with them! Schiannath shook his head. Fugitives from the Khazalim? Fugitives from the Skyfolk? Just what was going on here?

“Forget it, Schiannath,” he murmured to himself. “You have more important things to think about. Like survival—and the provisions the Khazalim have left on those mules!”

The commotion in the horselines took Schiannath by surprise. He had been biding his time, waiting until the last of the Skyfolk departed, and the tower settled down to an uneasy peace. He suspected that the Khazalim—curse their name—would need some time to restore order within, before someone remembered to unload the horses. He had been just about to make his move, when the wretched guards appeared, jabbering in their uncouth tongue, and began to unload the horses. Schiannath swore bitterly. The chance of a lifetime, and he had ruined it! What was wrong with him? All that food—and it had almost been his!

The outlaw’s mouth watered. Damned if he would let it go so easily! The guards moved apart as they worked, the nearer coming closer to Schiannath’s hiding place—and the scrubby thicket at the foot of the hill. If he could cross the intervening space and get under cover while the man was distracted by the horses, who seemed strangely uneasy . . . Schiannath awaited his moment. Leaving Iscalda, he darted forward, keeping low, and dived into the bushes. The thicket exploded. Branches sprang back into his face as a huge black shape burst from beneath them. Roars and snarls mixed with the screams of horses assaulted his ears. The outlaw picked himself up, his heart hammering. Whatever it was, it had gone—out there. Schiannath groped feverishly for his bow, and discovered that it had been lost in the snow. Goddess! How could he survive without it in the wilderness? But his immediate survival was at stake now. Drawing his’ sword, he crept to the edge of the thicket—and stopped, transfixed in horror.

The guard lay dead in a spreading pool of blood, his throat and half his face torn away. Among the horses, wreaking havoc with teeth and claws, was the flame eyed shape of a demon! Schiannath sucked breath through his teeth in a hoarse whistle. One of the fearsome Black Ghosts from the northern mountains! And he’d lost his bow! Even as Schiannath watched, the cat leapt toward him. He flung himself backward, knowing he was already dead—but the creature ignored him, pounced on something that lay nearby, and fled toward the pass, Schiannath’s blood congealed, Iscalda! He scrambled to his feet, hardly daring to look—but the mare had gone. Unable to face the monster, she had fled down the pass—in the same direction as the cat was heading. Oh Goddess, save her! Now that the dread beast had gone, men were venturing out of the tower—but would they dare the pass while the cat might still be there? Schiannath doubted it. He didn’t relish the idea himself, but he had no choice. Some of the horses still milled in the lines, crazed with fear but unable to break free. The outlaw dashed to the nearest animals—a horse and a mule that still bore its pack. He leapt astride the horse, severing its tether and that of the mule with a sweep of his knife. The horse plunged wildly, but no ordinary horse could throw one of the Xandim. Clouting the maddened animal with the end of the rope, he sent it racing towards the mouth of the pass, praying that he would be in time to save Iscalda from the deadly cat.

Schiannath bent low over the horse’s neck, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to find tracks in the trampled snow. The sky was thick with curdled gray clouds, and though dawn was brightening the sky above, the cliffs on either side blocked out the early light. The floor of the pass was still in darkness, and shadows defeated his anxious sight. The outlaw strained his ears for any sounds of pursuit above the double set of hoofbeats and their bewildering echoes that reverberated from the surrounding stone. There was nothing. Fear of the cat had kept the Khazalim from following—for a time. With the frightened mule dragging behind him, Schiannath urged his mount to a faster pace, following the tortuous curves of the stony pass—until he heard a sound that turned him chill with dread. Somewhere ahead, a horse was screaming, raw and shrill, in an agony of terror.

Following the choked, despairing sounds, the outlaw found Iscalda in a narrow defile that branched off from the pass. The shrieks of the mare echoed between the high walls; her flanks were streaked dark with the sweat of terror; her eyes rolled, white-rimmed, as she reared and backed away from the snarling terror that stalked her.

Controlling his own plunging mount with difficulty, Schiannath fumbled for his bow. Gone! Too late, he remembered losing it when the cat had scattered the horses. The feline’s ears flicked back—it was aware of him! Schiannath lashed his mount, trying to force it onward against its will, steeling himself to take the terrible risk of riding this awesome creature down. The horse reared and wrenched itself away, afraid to approach the cat but goaded to a frenzy by his blows. The mule went into hysterics, bucking and spinning on the end of its rope until the two creatures were tightly tangled. the outlaw barely had time to free his legs, before the world flipped over as his horse went thudding down. He rolled clear, and landed on hands and knees, looking into the blazing eyes of the great cat.

“Festering ordure!” The curse was a whisper in his dry throat. The outlaw inched a shaking hand toward his sword, as the cat gave a low warning growl. With a gasp, Schiannath froze. The cat growled again, more softly this time, and began to paw at something—a limp, dark shape that had lain, unnoticed, in the shadow of the rock. So the beast had other prey! Remembering the warrior who had fled the tower, Schiannath felt a shameful surge of relief. If the cat had enough to eat, perhaps it would let him go ... Was there a chance that he could sacrifice his fallen Khazalim mount and find a way to get Iscalda out of here?

The gigantic feline, still standing over the fallen warrior, gave a shrill yowl that sounded, to Schiannath’s tight-strung senses, almost like impatience. Reaching down into the snow, it picked up something in its jaws—a stick, or some kind of twisted root, that glowed with a dazzling, pulsating emerald light, Once more, the flaming eyes seared into his own. Emerald and gold combined in a dizzying whirl, and Schiannath was falling, falling into the light ...