Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

Parric frowned. “It’s not a fight to the death, then?” The Windeye shook his head. “Not necessarily—but in your case, it will be! As you are an outlander, the Herdlord will certainly try to kill you. Be warned. But to win the leadership, you need not slay Phalihas—only force him to concede defeat.”

“Oh, fine.” Parric sighed. This is the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, he was thinking to himself. Tomorrow morning, the young idiot will have sobered up and forgotten all about it ...

Chiamh had done nothing of the kind.

The Cavalry master was jolted out of his drunken memories by the sight of Chiamh and Sangra, walking toward him through the snow. The Windeye looked cheerful as usual, but the warrior had a certain hard look in her eye that she had been reserving for Parric ever since he had taken up serious drinking. Didn’t the woman understand that this endless waiting was enough to drive any man into a flask? Parric turned to face her, determined to be friendly nonetheless. “How’s Elewin?” he asked her. Sangra’s expression softened a little. “Sitting up in bed, eating stew, and complaining bitterly about the accommodation,” she said, grinning. “Gods save us, he’s a tough old beggar! How Chiamh managed to pull him back from the brink of death like that I’ll never know!” She smiled fondly at the Windeye, and Chiamh grinned back at her through the flopping fringe of his hair, then turned his attention back to Parric.

“Come.” With unexpected firmness, he prised the flask from the Cavalrymaster’s clutching fingers. “It’s time to sober up, my friend. The dark of the moon is only three days away!”

Meiriel, shivering in her hiding place among the broken rocks at the head of the valley, was awakened from a doze by the Cavalrymaster’s whoop of joy. Snarling like a beast and muttering vile curses, she peered out to see what was afoot, and cursed again in disgust. Nothing. As usual. The three of them, Parric, the warrior girl, and the little Xandim man, were standing together in a group, waving their arms and talking excitedly. Talk, talk, talk—that was all they ever did! Imbeciles! Meiriel spat upon the freezing rocks. What was the point of following these useless Mortals all the way down the accursed mountain, if they did nothing! She needed them to lead her to Aurian—and Miathan’s blighted monster that lurked in Aurian’s womb . . .

The Healer roused herself, and blinked. By all the Gods, it was almost nightfall—what had happened? Her limbs had stiffened with cold and the expanse of trampled snow below her hiding place was bare. A burst of panic forced the heat back into her veins. Had she lost them? Had they gone without her? But no. In the mouth of the Xandim’s shelter in the base of the spire, she could see a slip of flickering gold where the firelight was reflected on the snow. Meiriel felt giddy with relief. As usual, they had done nothing. But this time, it was just as well.

Crawling on her hands and knees until she was well out of sight, Meiriel slunk back to her own cheerless shelter among the broken rocks. Thanks to the Xandim’s habit of burying his supplies in caches, so that the frozen earth could keep them fresh, she had found food and furs enough to ensure her survival. She could wait those wretched Mortals out, she told herself, if it took them forever! Sooner or later they would set off again in pursuit of Aurian—and when they did, she would be close behind. Someone had to do what must be done. In the fetid darkness of her lair, Meiriel chewed on a sliver of raw meat and smiled to herself. Tomorrow would be soon enough to watch again.

“So what do we do now?” Parric knew he was chattering to keep his nervousness at bay, and despised himself—but he couldn’t help it. The windsong keened across the shadowy vastness of the Wyndveil plateau like a soul in torment; the snapping tongues of the bonfires seemed to be reaching out for him; the hostility of the crowds of Xandim that surrounded him was a palpable wall of hatred and rage that combined with the dark and watchful presence of the standing stone that loomed above him . . . Parric was not an imaginative man, but this place made his flesh creep!

“We keep vigil,” Chiamh replied, to the question the Cavalrymaster had forgotten he’d asked. “Make good your questions now, Parric, for once the sun vanishes behind the shoulder of Wyndveil, silence must be kept until dawn, or the challenge is forfeit. And when dawn comes—you fight!”

Parric shivered. “How will you know when the sun sets?” he asked. “You can’t see it behind the cloud.”

The Windeye shrugged. “We are the Xandim—we simply know,” he replied,

Parric snorted. “Lot of nonsense, if you ask me,” he muttered, under his breath. Elewin had heard him, though, and chuckled. The old steward, despite Sangra’s protests, had insisted on coming, and was seated, a shapeless bundle wrapped in layers of furs, close to the fire. No doubt Elewin was feeling light-headed, Parric thought, from the medicines with which Chiamh had dosed him to keep his cough from breaking the silence of the vigil. Stupid old coot, the Cavalrymaster thought. I should never have let him come. If he messes everything up with his wheezing ... Instantly, he was ashamed of himself Parric knew that his nerves were making him irritable, but he couldn’t help it. This was not the way he would normally spend a night before a battle—no sleep, no food, no talk, and most important of all, no drink! He thought back to the good old days, when he and Maya and Forral would find a tavern before a battle, or sit around a campfire just like this one with a shared wineskin—several skins, if they could get them. Parric sighed at the memory of his

Commander. Oh Forral, he thought. Wherever you are, wherever warriors go when they die, I hope you’re watching tonight. Help me tomorrow if you can, because I’ll need au the help I can get, and I’m doing this for Aurian . . . The shimmering sound of a horn rang out across the plateau. The Windeye, casting an eye toward the heavens, nudged Parric and laid a finger to his lips, to signal that the silent vigil had begun. The Cavalrymaster sighed, and tried to turn his thoughts to more positive subjects. So far, everything had gone as planned. Yesterday, the Windeye had come down here to deliver his challenge to the Herdlord, who had accepted, as by law he must.

“It was not a popular decision,” Chiamh had confided on his return. “No Outlander has ever challenged before, and the people were outraged. Had the Herdlord not encouraged his folk to mock, rather than protest, I would have been lucky to escape with my life. Folk are already calling me Chiamh the Traitor,” He had shaken his head sadly, Parric, looking at him, had thought that the Windeye had been lucky to escape in any case. He had come back covered in bruises and cuts from hurled stones, and caked from head to foot with pelted dung, Sangra, on seeing him, had almost wept with indignant rage—a rage that echoed Parric’s own.

Chiamh had brought back a surprise from the fastness that had lightened Parric’s heart a little. He’d come staggering back up the valley, long after nightfall, carrying a long, leather-wrapped bundle. Ignoring Sangra’s protestations over his bruised and dung-spattered state, he had dumped his burden into Parric’s arms,

“I wish I could have found your own weapons,” the Windeye apologized, “but they were too well guarded. Still, at least you will not be forced to fight the Herdlord with your bare hands.”

When the Cavalrymaster had unwrapped the bundle he had found two swords, one for Sangra and one for himself. They were nothing like the quality of his own lost blade, for the pastoral Xandim possessed little skill at forging. Nonetheless, he was glad to have even this sharpened length of brittle, badly tempered iron between himself and the Herdlord’s hooves and teeth. If only the Xandim hadn’t found his hidden knives—but perhaps he could manage. Turning to the Windeye with a grin, Parric said, “Do you by chance have a grindstone—and any blades I could turn into throwing knives?”