Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Schiannath was utterly spent, but there was no time to rest. In the dim light that slipped through between the boulder and the top of the entrance, he groped his way to the back of the cave. It was well provisioned—all of his hideouts were. In the long months of his exile, Schiannath had been occupied with little else but survival. The mountains were honeycombed with caves, and the outlaw had a chain of several hideouts reaching from the Wyndveil right across the range to the tower. Each was stocked with hay and wild grains for Iscalda, harvested from the valleys in a summer long gone; firewood brought up from those same vales; nuts and wrinkled berries, and smoke-dried flesh of wild mountain sheep. Their fleecy hides, together with shaggy wolfskins from his hunting, provided warmth.

Schiannath had toiled endlessly through summer and autumn to stock his havens. The labor had served to dull his loneliness, and fatigue had taken the edge off his despair. Now, in this fell winter, the caves were his key to survival—but only today had he found the true reason behind his persistence in such seemingly pointless work. It had been the will of the Goddess.

The outlaw could think of nothing else as he piled tinder in the ring of rocks that served as his fireplace, and lit a fire with the competence of long practice. He put hay down for the horses, then turned swiftly to the unconscious warrior. As he looked at that strong-boned Khazalim face, his wonder surged up anew.

The Goddess spoke! She spoke to me! The words sang in his head as Schiannath tended the stranger’s wounds. He stripped away the man’s wet clothes and wrapped him in dry sheepskins; he snapped off the end of the crossbow bolt and drew it forth point first. But when he seared the wound with the glowing tip of his knife, the man’s eyes flew open and he began to scream. The outlaw clapped his hand over the other’s mouth and got his fingers bitten for his pains, but still he held on until the screams subsided. He doubted that the noise would carry beyond the cave, but he was relieved when the man slipped back into unconsciousness. Making the most of the chance to work unhindered, Schiannath applied a wash of healing herbs to the wound, and did the same to the slice in the warrior’s thigh. “Any higher, my friend, and they’d have gelded you!” he muttered.

As Schiannath bound the wounds, he savored the clean aroma of the herbs, which dispelled the nauseating reek of scorched flesh. The scent brought back a memory of the day he had fled the lands of the Xandim with naught but his weapons and the clothes, on his back, clinging dazed to Iscalda’s neck and bruised and bleeding from the stones they had hurled to speed him on his way. As he passed the waystone on the Wyndveil ridge that marked the borders of his land, there had been a peculiar shimmer in the air, and Chiarnh, the hated Windeye, had stepped forth. Iscalda, her human memories still intact then, had reared, screaming with fury. Schiannath had reached for his bow and fired—but his arrow went straight through Chiamh’s body to embed itself in the snow beyond. “I deeply regret my deeds this day,” the Windeye whispered, shamefaced. He sketched a blessing in the air—and vanished. Apparition though Seer had been, there was nothing ethereal about the contents of the bundle that Schiannath found beside the stone. Clothing, blankets, food, and best of all, the pouches of Chiamh’s healing herbs, labeled with instructions in the blocky Xandim glyphs—some for fevers, others for infections or pain-ease. Though Schiannath had not been able to bring himself to forgive the Windeye, he had often had cause to be thankful for Chiamh’s gift. Coming back to the present with a jerk, Schiannath laid a cloth soaked in icy water across the livid bruise on the warrior’s temple. That could be a hurt more dangerous than the other wounds, but he could only keep his patient quiet and hope for the best. For the first time in his life, Schiannath was confident that his prayers would be answered. Had the Goddess not come to him, in the animal guise of a Black Ghost of the mountains? Had She not tested him? And had She, Herself, not spoken to him, telling him to save the life of this man, who should have been his enemy? Schiannath was overcome by a thrill of religious awe. Perhaps there was a reason for his exile, and that of poor Iscalda! Oh Goddess, was there a reason after all?

Yazour opened crusted eyes, to see the face of an enemy. His stomach clenched in panic. I’ve been captured by the Xandim!. Groping for his sword, he struggled to rise—and cried aloud in agony. It felt as though someone had thrust a flaming brand into his shoulder, and another into the muscle of his thigh. The Horselord pushed him gently down with an admonishing shake of his head. “No. Do not.”

Yazour recognized the words—all Khazalim warriors who raided the Xandim lands had learned the rudiments of their tongue. He squinted against the flicker of firelight that played across fanged stone—clearly, the roof of a cavern. A cavern that reeked of horses. Where am I? he thought. Who is this man? By his clothing and weapons he was plainly Xandim, yet the stranger seemed subtly different from those of his tribe that Yazour had seen before. His skin was fair beneath its weathering, and he had wary gray eyes, crinkled at the corners; a fine, high-cheekboned face with a curved and jutting nose; and a silver-threaded mane of black curls.

Yazour’s rescuer smiled, and offered him a cup filled to the brim with water. Yazour had already discovered that if he moved his arm, it hurt like perdition where the bolt had pierced his shoulder. He took the cup with his good hand and drank deeply, while the stranger supported his head with a gentle hand. The water was very welcome. When he had finished, the young warrior lay back in the nest of warm furs that had been wrapped around him, conscious of the terrible weakness that his wounds had caused. He wanted to ask the man a thousand questions—but before Yazour could get the first one out, he had slipped back into oblivion.

When he awakened again, a savory smell was tickling his nostrils. Yazour’s mouth watered. The stranger must have been watching him. He was there at the warrior’s side almost before he had time to open his eyes, offering a cup of broth. Once again he supported Yazour’s head while he drank, with such solicitous care that the warrior was reminded of his mother, who had cradled him with similar tenderness when he’d been ill as a child. His mother, who had taken her own life when Yazour was fifteen, after his warrior father had been killed in Xiang’s service, on a Xandim raid, by a Xandim lance.

With an oath, Yazour struggled away from the touch of the hated hand. Broth spilled down his chest as agony pierced his shoulder, and he muffled a whimper of pain with gritted teeth before falling back exhausted. He could feel a new flow of blood seeping stickily through the bandage on his shoulder. Bandage? Yazour had been too concerned with other matters to notice it before. His thigh was bound too, where a sword had caught him in his fight to escape from the tower. The warrior frowned. This enemy had rescued him, doctored his wounds, and was trying to feed him . . . Yazour’s enemy was shaking his head. “No,” he said firmly. “Do not ...” He said an unfamiliar word, and imitated Yazour’s struggle. “Not prisoner ...”

Ah, “prisoner.” That was a Xandim word the warrior understood, but he had never heard the word that followed it. The Xandim frowned, thinking, then reached out a hand to clasp Yazour’s own, smiling at him warmly. Friend? Could he mean friend? Yazour was not prepared to befriend one of the murdering Xandim who had killed his father! He pulled back with an oath, then froze, wondering, too late, if he had made a fatal error. But his rescuer simply sighed, and offered him the broth again, and this time, common sense prevailed. If Yazour wished to escape and help his companions, he must regain his strength. He snatched the cup, scowling at the stranger when he tried to offer assistance again.