Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Matters finally came to a head between the two men on a wild and bitter night, while the latest in a long succession of vicious blizzards was venting its spleen on the surrounding mountains. Schiannath lay sleeping near his beloved mare, but Yazour was tossing in the grip of a grim and stubborn wakefulness that refused to yield and let him rest. All his thoughts were of his lost companions; he was tormented by bloodcurdling visions of his friends being tortured and broken within the tower, of Aurian being used and manhandled by the Prince.

All at once, it was too much for the warrior’s guilty spirit to bear. “Reaper take me—I can lie here no longer!” he muttered. “I must overcome this weakness, and make myself strong enough to rise!” The timing was ideal—Schiannath was sleeping deeply. If Yazour was quiet, he could get himself up and moving before the Xandim became aware of what he was doing and tried to stop him.

Yazour sat up, catching his breath against the stab of pain from the arrow wound in his shoulder. But it was better, he promised himself—a mere few days ago, he would not have been able to move that arm at all! As he waited for the pain to subside to a background throbbing, Yazour looked around the cave, seeking something to support the weight of his injured leg. His sword had been his original thought—but Schiannath had prudently hidden all the weapons away beyond his reach. His plan seemed doomed to failure—but the young warrior had no intentions of giving up so easily. The wall of the cave was sufficiently rough and broken to provide him with handholds . . . Yazour reached out with his unwounded arm, took a firm grip on a solid-looking projection—and began to pull himself slowly up.

Reaper’s mercy! I had no idea it would hurt like this! Yazour clung to the stone as the chamber whirled dizzily around him. Sweat flooded his face and dripped stinging into his eyes. The weak muscles of his wounded thigh were a knot of screaming agony. “Curse you for a whining weakling,” he goaded himself. “Call yourself a warrior? You, the only hope of your poor friends!.” Clenching his teeth, he let go his handhold, and tried to shuffle forward.

One step . . . Two . . . The wounded leg gave way as though the bones had turned to water. The world tilted crazily—turned upside down before Yazour could catch his balance. He was sprawling on the floor of the cave, one hand in the scattered embers of the fire. He snatched it back with a shriek of shock and pain, but his clothes were burning in a score of places. The horses screamed in panic, pulling at their tethers, then Schiannath was there, wild-eyed and furious, shouting profanities in the Xandim tongue. He pulled the warrior out of danger, and flung the contents of his waterskin over both Yazour and his smoldering bedding. The fire went out in a choking cloud of smoke and ash, and the cave was plunged into darkness.

The warrior heard the click of flint on iron. A tiny flame bloomed like a flower on the end of a torch, and blossomed to illuminate the smudged and waxen face of Schiannath. The Xandim wedged the torch in a crack in the rock and scrambled over to Yazour, slipping a little on the slick and muddy floor.

“Fool! You were not ready!” Schiannath propped the trembling warrior in his arms. “Are you much hurt?”

Yazour turned his head away from the Xandim, and sobbed as though his heart were breaking.

It took Schiannath a long time to restore order to the wreckage in the cavern. Yazour, wrapped in dry wolfskins, and sipping one of the Xandim’s pain-ease infusions, could do nothing to help him. The young warrior, burning with humiliation, had reached the depths of wretchedness. What use was he, crippled like this! He had even become a plague and a burden to the man who’d saved his life! He avoided Schiannath’s eyes, not knowing what to say. Eventually, he felt a gentle touch on his shoulder. Looking around, Yazour saw that the floor had been mopped clean, and the mended fire burned brightly. A new pot of snow was melting nearby, next to a bubbling pot of broth left over from their last meal. Schiannath, drawn and weary, sat beside him, holding out a cup of the savory, steaming liquid.

“Come,” the Xandim said softly. “Talk. What is this great need, that you must walk too soon?”

Yazour took a deep breath. “My friends in the tower,” he said. “They may be hurt, or even dead. I must know . . .”

Schiannath nodded gravely. “I understand your torment. I should have thought of this sooner—but why did you not speak before? Set your mind at rest, Yazour. I will go myself, tomorrow night, and bring you news of your friends.”

“Here now—let me take that,” said Jharav.

With relief, Nereni surrendered the heavy basket, woven from withies that this same man, who was now captain of the troops in Yazour’s place, had gathered for her from the outskirts of the coppice. Of all Harihn’s guards, Jharav had been the most kind and helpful, keeping herself and Aurian well supplied with firewood and melting bowl after bowl of snow to let them bathe. Nereni felt sure, now, that his conscience must be troubling him. At first, she had despised Jharav as deeply as she did the rest of Harihn’s men, but as the days of her imprisonment had passed, her resentment of the stocky, grizzled soldier had been wearing away until she no longer saw him in the same light as the rest of the prince’s troop. Jharav was a decent man—and Nereni suspected that he had thrown his weight behind Aurian’s persistent campaign to let her tend to Eliizar and the others. Some four days ago, Harihn had finally given in, and Nereni’s heart had been eased, a little, by the daily contact with her husband. She felt that she owed Jharav a debt of thanks. Jharav lifted the basket as though it were filled with feathers, and looked at her handiwork with an approving eye.

“This is a fine piece of work,” he told her. “Your husband must be most appreciative of your skills!”

“My husband will be more appreciative of the stew if he gets the chance to eat it hot!” Nereni snapped. Kindness was one thing, but this amounted to flirtation! The little woman was breathless with indignation. Why, this man had a wife at home!

Jharav chuckled. “Consider me chastened, Lady.” He sounded completely unrepentant. Taking her elbow, he helped her to descend the slick and narrow stairway that twisted down into the tower’s roots.

The iron-bound door creaked slowly open, and a pale, ragged figure burrowed out of the pile of furs in the corner like a sand rat emerging from its hole. “Eliizar!” Nereni flew across the filthy floor to embrace her husband. Her heart seemed to catch in her throat as she felt the bony ridges of his ribs beneath his tattered shirt. “But he’s recovering now,” she told herself firmly. “Each day, since they let me visit him, his wounds are getting better.”

“Nereni—are you well?” Eliizar held her out at arm’s length, peering anxiously into her face.

Though she really wanted to bury her head in his shoulder and weep, Nereni forced herself to be brave for him. “I am well, my dear.” From somewhere, she found a smile. “And Aurian is also well, and growing bigger by the day!”

She knew what he would ask next, and dreaded the question. Why must he torture himself so? she wondered

“Is there any news of Yazour?” the swordsman asked softly. Nereni shook her head, not trusting her voice at the sight of the hurt on his face. He had loved Yazour like a son. By the Reaper, it tore Nereni’s heart to see him so unmanned by grief !

“Come,” she said firmly. She took his arm and led him back to his nest of furs. “Come, Eliizar, eat some stew.”

As Nereni checked Eliizar’s wound, a long shallow slice across the muscles of his belly, and applied salve and fresh bandages, she thanked the Reaper for the furs. She reflected, as she pulled bowls and spoons and the covered pot of stew from her basket, that undoubtedly these pelts had saved the lives of the two men in the damp and freezing dungeon. The Winged Folk had brought them two or three days after the companions had been captured, when she had complained to the Prince that the tower room was too cold for Aurian. But when the dark, luxuriant furs had arrived, Nereni’s blood had turned to ice, and she wished, on the Reaper’s mercy, that she had never spoken. These were the pelts of great cats just like Shia! Quickly she tried to keep the Mage from seeing them, but she was too late. Aurian had flown into a rage so terrible that Nereni had expected her to go into early labor on the spot. She had flown at Harihn with such violence that though she had been armed with nothing but her bare hands, it had taken several of his guards to restrain her—and not before she had inflicted some telling injuries on them.