Maggie Furey - Harp of Winds

“Coward!” Anvar goaded himself, and raised his arm once more. His hand, holding the Staff, began to shake. Into his mind’s eye came a vivid vision of Aurian, frowning and worried as she had been the day of the avalanche. She had begged him to be careful then, but he had refused to heed her warnings. Slowly, Anvar lowered his arm. This time, he must do better. He would be no good to her dead. He frowned, thinking hard. How would Aurian have proceeded? Well, first of all, she would find out more about the forces she was dealing with . . . Remembering the little that the Mage had taught him about healing, Anvar pushed his consciousness out a short distance beyond the confines of his body and probed into the rock with his healer’s extra sense, much as Aurian had done with the crystal doorway that had blocked their path beneath the Dragon city of Dhiammara.

Like a probing tendril, his will slipped between the interlinking lattices of the stone’s inner structure, like a serpent winding through the twining branches of a petrified forest. The stone was bonded in slanting layers that had cracked and slipped in places, leaving a weakness in the structure. Anvar took note of it all, then, drawing back into his body, he summoned the powers of the Staff.

Shadows sprang up around Anvar as the cavern blazed with blinding green light, The measureless force of the High Magic swept through him, like a great crashing wave, like the avalanche that had almost swept him to his death . . . Anvar gritted his teeth and strove to contain the power. A faint dew of sweat broke out on his brow. Releasing the Staff’s forces a little at a time, he directed a narrow beam of emerald radiance at the weak place in the cave’s rear wall where the layers of stone had slipped.

Smoke came curling up from the spot on the stone where the Staff’s light blazed. The rock began to glow and sizzle, and flakes of glowing stone split away with loud cracking reports. Trembling with the tension of keeping so much magic contained and controlled, Anvar pushed with his will at the crumbling wall, trying to widen and extend the newly forming fissures. Piece by piece, the rock began to fracture and fall away, the aperture widening even as Anvar watched. The interior of the cave began to darken with the twilight outside, but Anvar, burrowing like a mole deep into the stony heart of the mountain, was oblivious to everything but the tunnel he created, and the vibrant, glowing light of the Staff of Earth.

In the secret heart of the mountain, the Moldan was awake, tracing the path of the Staff of Earth as it came closer and closer. She had felt it like the irritation of a crawling fly upon her outer skin as Shia had climbed the mountain. She had felt it enter her, when the cat had reached the cave. She had waited, with excitement and not a little fear, to see what would happen next. Only when Anvar took up the Staff, did the Moldan become aware, for the first time, of the presence of a hated Wizard! “NO!” The mountain shook with the Moldan’s rage, Anvar, preoccupied as he was with controlling and guiding the power of the Staff, paid no heed, except to believe that he was the cause of the disturbance, and to proceed with a little more care. Shia and Khanu, cowering beneath the backlash of the magic, had other troubles to concern them. High in the city of Aerillia, startled Skyfolk took wing like a flock of hunted birds, as buildings cracked and shuddered, and boulders and snow were dislodged from the face of the peak. But earthquakes were not unusual in this range. The mountains had turned in their sleep before, and no doubt would again. Raven and Cygnus clung together in terror, briefly forgetting their animosity as they comforted each other. Elster, imprisoned in the cells below the temple, hoped that the walls would crack and free her, but to no avail. Even her prayer that death would cheat the High Priest of her sacrifice remained unanswered. Blacktalon, preparing for Elster’s sacrifice in the sacred precincts, took the tremors as a sign of Yinze’s favor.

The Moldan writhed in agony. The penetration of the Staff into her body was like a blade driven deep within her. Fighting for control, she at last took hold of herself, using her innate powers of the Old Magic to isolate and suppress the pain. Rage flashed through the ancient creature. What was that Wizard doing? How dared he? She traced the slanting path, marked by a sliver of residual pain, that reached far within her now. If he kept on in this line, the monster seemed bent on gnawing his way right to the top of her peak.

“We shall see about that!” The Moldan was unconcerned with the fate of the Skyfolk, uncaring about anything save this invasion by her ancient foe. And she wanted the Staff of Earth, had wanted it since the fall of Ghabal—but never had she dreamed that it would fall into her grasp.

The Moldan of Aerillia Peak tensed herself. After all these endless centuries, perhaps she would be the one to free the Dwelven, and release her people from the bondage of the Wizards. She only needed the Staff . . . But she could not escape the fetters of her stony form without it—and in this shape, how could she accomplish her desires? The powers of the Old Magic held the answer. The Wizard might, at present, be more than she could handle, but a lesser creature could be molded and manipulated . . . Narrowing her vision down to the observation of the tiniest beings, the Moldan searched within herself for a creature that might suit her ends . . .

With growing confidence, Anvar clove his way into the heart of the mountain. Occasionally he would pause, and with an effort, contain the power of the Staff while he stretched forth his will to probe ahead into the wall of rock, seeking the path that encompassed the natural weak spots, and would do the least damage to the structure of the peak. He conserved his energy, only making the tunnel tall enough for him to stand comfortably upright, though it tended to turn out wider due to the lateral bonding of the rock. Due to some trick of the Staffs power, he remained aware of his position as he went, and could feel himself climbing up and up, gradually homing in on the peaktop temple. This cramped tunnel was a far cry both from the dark labyrinthine catacombs that housed the Academy’s archives, and the wide, well-lit spiraling tunnels beneath the Dragon city of Dhiammara. Both of those, at least, had been safe and well finished, their safety and solidity proven by the test of time. For the first time in a long while, Anvar thought of Finbarr. By the gods, he wished the archivist could be beside him now! Finbarr’s delightful wit and boundless curiosity would have given him courage, and distracted him from the perils that pressed so close; for here the tortured stone creaked and complained around the Mage, the rough-hewn floor was uneven and the walls askew. Stones and dust continually spattered from the stressed and sagging ceiling. Water dripped down from pockets within the cliffs, and the air was dead and heavy with the dank scent of age and decay. The only illumination was the disconcerting and disorienting emerald light that emanated from the Staff of Earth, and thick, dark shadows thronged close in the gloom. At first, Anvar heard nothing above the hum of the Staffs power, and the sizzle and crack of disintegrating rock. The rustling patter of a multitude of feet and the sibilant scrape of scales against raw stone escaped his notice. Only Shia and Khanu,. following the Mage at a wary distance, saw the massive shadow that fell between themselves and the green light of the Staff of Earth.

Luckily for Anvar, the Moldan had never thought to take the cats into account—such mere creatures were beneath her notice. The Mage was unaware of any danger, before Shia’s warning cry ripped through his mind: “Anvar! Behind you!”