Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

The Cavalrymaster was brought back to the present by a crawling sensation between his shoulder blades, as though he were the focus of unfriendly eyes. He looked across to the foot of the other stone, where Phalihas and his companions were keeping their vigil. In the firelight, he caught the Herdlord’s eye, and scowled. Phalihas held the look, his own eyes glinting with anger—and already, it seemed, the battle had begun.

The brazen cry of a horn cut through the thick wall of mist like a shaft of sunlight—but it was the only indication that dawn had come. Parric stretched stiff limbs and rubbed his gritty eyes. By the balls of Chathak, he thought, that was the longest night of my life!. Until this solid mist had hidden the camp of his opponent, the Cavalrymaster had spent the night in staring contests with Phalihas-—and so far, the honors had come out about even, Chiamh handed him a waterskin and he took a sip—it was the only sustenance allowed him before the fight, though the Windeye had told him that a victory feast was in preparation down in the fastness. Well, Parric thought, I have every intention of enjoying that feast—and that will mean I’ve won! Heartened by the thought, he tipped the remains of the waterskin over his balding head, in the hope that it might wake him a little, and wiped his face on his cloak, Chiamh nudged him.

“It is time to begin’ he whispered.

Parric was puzzled—he had expected speeches, or some kind of ritual, “What do I do?” he hissed,

“Walk out onto the plateau. When the horn sounds, combat will commence—so be ready.”

“What? The horn sounds and I fight him? Is that it? Shouldn’t somebody say something, at least?”

Chiamh grinned. “I did that for you yesterday. Today you fight. Now hurry—and may fortune go with you!”

Parric had barely walked a dozen paces, cursing the fog, when the harsh cry of the horn pierced the grayness once more. “Damnation!” The Cavalrymaster reached with frantic haste for his sword, but before the blast had time to die away, there was a drumming of hooves on turf and a huge black shape came swerving out of the mist to his right. It was on top of him before he could complete the draw. Parric glimpsed the flash of a white-rimmed eye as he dodged and rolled, expecting at any second to be smashed by the pounding hooves. He heard the harsh rasp of tearing cloth, and felt a hot and bruising agony in his shoulder where the great slablike teeth had torn out a mouthful of flesh. Something dug into his side—Great Chathak, he’d rolled on his sword—and where was that blasted demon horse? Parric completed the roll and sprang to his feet, tottering on knees gone strangely shaky. His foe had vanished into the mist again, playing cat and mouse, Parric thought bitterly—and it had the advantage. He couldn’t see it, but with its sharper senses, it could hear him—and smell the blood that streamed down his arm from his bitten shoulder. The Cavalrymaster allowed himself a sour chuckle. His enemy had come at him from the right, to disable his sword arm—but the creature had not noticed that Parric was left-handed. Quickly, he reached to draw his sword—and his blood turned to ice. In rolling on it he had bent the ill-crafted blade—and the bloody thing was jammed in its scabbard! There was no time to think as hoofbeats welled up through the fog. The sound was deceptive—he had no idea from which direction it was coming, Parric barely had time to dodge as the black stallion hurtled past, carving up clods of turf with its feet. A flying hoof smashed into his knee, wringing a curse from the Cavalrymaster, but even as he swore, Parric was groping in his sleeve for a knife, flicking it swiftly after the retreating figure in the fog. A scream told him it had hit its target, and a grin split Parric’s face. The hours spent reshaping and balancing the blades with Chiamh’s grindstone had been well spent. “Take that, you black brute!.” he muttered gleefully.

Before the beast could come at him again, Parric reached down and slid another of the knives from his boot. The spilling of his enemy’s blood had buoyed him; once again, as it had always done, the battle urge overwhelmed him, singing in his veins, loosening his muscles and sharpening his senses. He no longer noticed his bruised and rapidly swelling knee, or the pain of his torn shoulder that dripped ribbons of blood onto the grass. Knife in hand, the Cavalrymaster stood peering tensely into the blind gray murk, awaiting the next onslaught of his enemy.

“Oh Gods, what’s happening now?” Sangra pulled at Chiamh’s sleeve.

Absently, the Windeye plucked her hand away and held it in his own, “I can see no more than you,” he told her, “but I imagine the Herdlord is using the mist to screen his attacks. From that scream, I’d guess that Parric has wounded him, at least. But whether our friend has also been hurt . , .” He shrugged, “Who can say?”

Sangra growled a bloodcurdling oath, and fell to loosening her sword in its scabbard with her free hand. “I hate this helpless feeling,” she muttered, “If only we could see . . .”

“Even if we could, we could do nothing,” Chiamh reminded her, “but I too would feel better if I knew what was happening. Besides, Phalihas is using this fog to his own advantage ...” His words were cut off by another rumble of hooves, and beside him, Sangra tensed, her strong, callused warrior’s hand nearly breaking the bones of his own, so hard did she grip it. The hoofbeats faltered; the thud of an impact came clearly through the mist. A man’s voice cried out in pain and on the heels of the cry came another enraged squeal of agony from the stallion. Sangra scrambled to her feet, taking Chiamh with her. From the Herdlord’s camp by the other standing stone there came the slithering ring of drawn steel as the shadowy figures of his companions leapt up in answer to her sudden movement.

“Sit down!” Chiamh hissed, and pulled the frantic warrior back to the ground beside him.

“A pox on this festering mist!” Sangra muttered. She turned to the Windeye with wide-eyed appeal. “Chiamh—you do some kind of peculiar magic with the wind, don’t you? Can’t you get this wretched stuff to blow away?”

The Windeye was as shocked as if she had hit him with a stone. “Me?” he gasped. “Sangra, you don’t understand—I can work with the wind, but I cannot make the wind work!”

“You’re right, I don’t understand!” Sangra glared at him. “But by Chathak’s britches, Chiamh—can’t you even try?”

Once more, the Windeye heard the sound of hooves, stepping warily now, with a faltering rhythm. Through the mist came the sound of Parric’s breathing, harsh, ragged gasps that caught in his throat, as though the warrior were in pain, and reaching the end of his endurance, The Herdlord is hurt, Chiamh thought—but so is Parric, Phalihas is circling, stalking, waiting, his moment... Oh blessed Iriana, help me... Help me bring a wind…

Without some kind of breeze to work with, even Chiamh’s Othersight would not function. He closed his eyes, trying to reach out with his other senses. . . The moist, turgid air resisted him, thick and gelid, heavy and dead. Using his mind, the Windeye pushed at it with all his strength. It was like trying to push the Wyndveil mountain. Chiamh felt his heart beginning to labor, felt himself trembling with exhaustion. Sweat poured down his face and trickled, tickling, along his ribs. Oh Iriana, he thought, Goddess, help me. I need a miracle . . . And the Goddess heard him.

There was the faintest of sighs, like a distant woman’s voice that whispered his name. Chiamh felt the gentle touch of a breeze, like cool fingers laid against his cheek. His heart leapt within him like a river salmon in the spring. More, it needed more . . . With all his strength, the Windeye pushed . . . And opened his eyes to see the mist dissolving, unraveling before his eyes in curling strands.